#and that his flashbacks are fragmented memories

[lastmurianwarrior]

💭 !!

((HOo boy, I had fun - settling on a scene was tough though. With this blog's Solo pulling from the games and anime most, it's an interesting dance to incorporate as much lore from either media as possible, while fleshing out the details and making sense of it. I want to do Laplace too, but this ended up long enough, that I think I'll save that for a new post. This is a window into a particularly pivotal day for Solo, from long long ago.))

FLASHBACK: Aching eyes from bright sunlight that poured in through the pale-green air shuttle's sliding door, was the first greeting from this ground-dwelling destination to meet the passengers from Mu as they arrived for a diplomatic meeting that would inevitably unravel into unamusing discourse.

Solo followed from behind as the small crew of Mu officials ambled out onto a wide dusty circle. At 13 he was deemed mature and expected to take on the responsibilities of his noble position. Getting to know the world and involving himself in geopolitical discussions would be a start. But Mu’s tactician always wanted him to play along and read from a script; becoming furious if Solo changed any of the details.

It was too embarrassing to admit he hadn’t paid enough attention to what was happening between Mu and the tribes on the ground. But some of the things he’d had to say, never set well with him, and he at least knew from faces in the crowds that it didn’t set well with the tribes either. Mulling over that fact, Solo didn’t feel like involving himself this time, and the spectacle of this foreign town was enough to tempt him into skipping the day’s meeting altogether to go explore on his own; to get to know the people and sniff out some local treats.

The tactician; Mu’s master-planner, a tall old man, dressed darkly and with a hat like a tower on his head, flattened at the top, marched in front, expecting everyone to keep up with his long stride. He threw a few indignant sneers back at Solo for lagging behind, but didn’t waste any time waiting around.

Jagged megaliths with the visages of important people and revered animals; as though guarding the walkways, guided the visitors to a stone brick roadway populated by village-folk; merchants, carvers, toolmakers, and farmers all with their fare and animals to offer.

There was little hope of convincing the locals that Mu technology wasn’t all powered by some magic or divine force; even many of Mu’s people themselves still believed this. A small portion of the village dawned their most elaborate garb to dance, while musicians of woodwind and bone instruments played tunes almost magical in their own way. Such flamboyance was motivated by hopes of earning favor from their sky visitors, of course.

Each of the Mu officials strolled on, paying no heed to the garish ensemble, stopping only briefly to look back with steely eyes as they entered the tallest building for miles; a relic of stone architecture from a time when the floating continent of Mu was still rooted firmly in the ground; a mere hundred years prior. Newer construction surrounding it seemed oddly more primitive; distinguished by a framework of wood, mastodon tusks, and painted animal hides.

Rather than join his party inside, Solo took a turn on his own to walk further down the street. Breaking the sunlight induced glare, his eyes filled with wonder at the rocky scrublands, patched with temperate foliage and exotic flowers, then shifted to soaking in the sight of all the people; many of them thoroughly tanned, wrapped in lightweight yellow, green, orange, or red textiles, and leather garb. Camelids and barely tame village-dogs moseyed about the street, which narrowed, then broke off into a dead end marked by spiny overgrowth that trailed off in the direction of a distantly roaring waterfall from glacial melt.

As he kept his pace along the bustling street, the thought of moving aside for others hadn’t so much as cross his mind. In spite of the open airspace, the walkway was claustrophobic compared to the vast halls within the upper floors of Mu that he’d grown up in. Roughly brushing shoulders with folk disinterested in showing the noble Murian respect, however, struck Solo with the gut-wrenching sense that something had changed in the atmosphere; there was a rising tension distinctly in opposition to the affection, wonder, intrigue, and most importantly; respect, that his presence once garnered.

Suspicious and apprehensive eyes began to track his white-haired, ruby-eyed presence from all sides, and seemed to grow in number with every step. He had no choice but to stand out. Even the sheen of his perfectly angular earrings set him apart from the largely stone-age folk occupying this territory. Attempting to pay no mind to them, he chose a collection of produce to fixate on; legumes, wild grains, and various medicinal herbs sorted into piles atop mats, or stuffed into laboriously hand-woven baskets. The merchant’s most prized however, were dainty yellow-orange squash whose flowers had been hand pollinated to ensure a pure, sweeter new strain; a dozen of them to the side, clean and neatly ordered.

While small-scale efforts were made to farm on the floating continent, ground dwelling villages such as this one were agriculturally vital to Mu’s food line. Few peoples in the world had proven so dedicated to cultivating new resilient and appetizing crop varieties as here. It was both a necessity and a luxury Mu couldn’t afford to loose by getting into a war with.

“Give me your best one.”

Solo stiffly ordered, absentminded of his entitled tone; after all, why shouldn’t he want the best, when the best is what his people always seemed to expect of him? He was taken aback when the seller chided him for his complex, and refused to give him one unless he had something of value to offer, like his earrings, which was a definite no.

Unsettled, he made a silent turn, landing him unexpectedly in front of a much taller man, that suddenly reprimanded the young noble for his poor manners, sparking a whole onset of village-folk spitting their dissatisfaction with Mu in Solo’s general direction. Before anyone had even said a negative word, his innocent curiosity had already given way, replaced by a confused panic, that he fought to entirely conceal. Up to that point, he’d never personally encountered a crowd that would so readily turn on him; that would band together like this.

“You always get more than we could ever dream to ask for! Yet you have the nerve to want the best that we have!”

“You claim Mu is our security!? You threaten us with the very same power and weapons you claim to protect us with!”

“Do you even remember the villages that were burned for the sake of cooperation with Mu!? Or is that just another necessary sacrifice to you!?”

“The powers of Mu are unnatural! - This world would be better off without your kind, you monsters!”

Mu’s very recent exercise of dominance through displays of great destructive power across the world was likely to blame for igniting the sudden hostility. Offerings made to Mu that were once given out of love and hope of blessing, were now bribes for mere survival or an advantage over other tribes.

None took too kindly to being viewed as tools by much of the higher Murian caste. Some were bursting at the seams to make those feelings clear; viewing this moment as an opportunity to do so; to make a demonstration of one of Mu’s supposedly treasured individuals.

The now quite unpopular noble, snapped a reply,

“Isn’t that how the world works? - Those with power, get to make the rules! They can take what they want!”

Yet somehow, speaking only made him look more foolish to the crowd.

The fuss continued, yet fell into the background of Solo’s mind as an almost sly-looking young man, came within arm’s reach of the lone Murian, and with him, a few others trickled in to form a feisty-looking circle around their flustered visitor. Solo’s first instinct was to tuck his chin into the high teal turtleneck of his uniform, wishing he could just hide within an impenetrable shell, like some kind of turtle. Goading him on, the other young man questioned,

“So you think you can just do what you want huh?”

Without a second thought, Solo snapped back,

“Yes, I’ll do as I please.”

The other young man, keeping his smug cool, continued as though setting up some kind of hostile joke,

“Oh yeah, and what makes you so special?”

The Mu noble spewed whatever came to mind first, everything he said was going to be used against him at this point; but loosing his temper made it impossible to keep his mouth shut.

“The blood of Mu that courses through my veins!”

Swiftly came the interrogator's searing punchline,

“Mhm, and if that’s so valuable, maybe spilling it on the streets will finally pay for all the food and labor you’ve taken from my people!”

“Now tell me Mu child - If you really can see more than us with those unearthly eyes. Can you see this?”

Solo indignantly glanced around with puzzled frustration. But a mere second later the young man’s fist made a hard landing across the noble kid’s face. Enraged shock filled every ounce of Solo’s being, as he finally let out a sharp shout; though almost swallowing his own breath in the process,

“GAAAHH, I-I could take any of you on!”

The prompt response of the crowd was by no means reassuring for the loner in its middle. Someone interjected from behind,

“Shut up! Maybe you could. But not all of us together!”

With that, Solo felt his legs kicked out from behind. Others worked to keep him on the ground. As a soft faced wiry kid, Solo was tough, but against the gang surrounding him, he seemed more akin to a small bird surrounded by lions. They were rugged and strong, they knew they were always lifting more than their share of weight in this world.

The young Murian wasn’t ready for this; he wasn’t ready to just EM Wave change on a whim. Let alone, in the midst of such confusion. But enraged by the insults of the crowd, he used all his strength to prop himself back up with his arms, just to look them in the eyes.

“I’ll hunt you down! …I’ll-I’ll make you know what it really means to suffer!”

At that, they only beat him harder. Face to the bricks, Solo froze up completely, and by the time three thunderous shouts from the other Mu officials broke up the crowd, their child of Mu was already in a limp haze.

Solo hadn’t known true fear or suffering before this. It was his first taste; his first bite, and it made his stomach sick. No one had so much as asked him to think over the fate of the peoples that might’ve opposed Mu. The mere thought of opposing Mu was a pill so foreign, nothing could make him swallow it; they must have been enemies…

As the first of multiple incidents following a similar theme, Solo grew to immensely despise crowds.

Though word spread of decimated villages who opposed Mu’s total reign, many continued to view those of Mu as auspicious, brushing other tribe’s grievances off as rumors, or unconcerning to those that remained loyal to their empire.

However, Solo never got over the feeling that others could turn on him at any moment should Mu fail to ensure they felt blessed with fortunate harvests or secure infrastructure; or for that matter, any reason they wanted. Trusting others became an only barely surpassable obstacle for him.

… The reign of his people lasted only a mere three years after.

[starcurtain]

Detangling Mydei's Backstories Backstory?

My last post, casting doubt on 3.2's revelation that Mydei's immortality is deliberate on his part, led to some interesting discussion in the comments that definitely reinforced my earlier thoughts that the inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory are too numerous to be accidental. Star Rail is not known for its flawless continuity (Robin and Sunday's backstory, I'm looking at you lol), but usually the inconsistencies are not so overt, and repeated so many times, that they become central to the entire plot of a character.

So I wanted to refine my earlier theory a bit: I'm cautiously optimistic that there are enough signs that the inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory are deliberate, and that the Mydei of the current cycle in Amphoreus is actively experiencing an entanglement between two different timelines, without (yet) consciously recognizing the incompatibility of his own "memories."

When we work from the standpoint that the events of Mydei's backstory can be separated into two distinct timelines, the inconsistencies vanish:

The "Sea of Souls" Timeline

This is the most prominent timeline, and the one that appears most accurate for "our" Mydei. In this timeline, Mydei was thrown into the Sea of Souls as a tiny infant and spent the first nine years of his life there. This is confirmed both in the flashback we're provided early in 3.1, as well as in Mydei's voicelines and character stories.

After nine years, he crawled out of the sea (possibly motivated by witnessing Tribbie's "star" in the sky). On the same day (or very near it), he met with a band of Kremnoan exiles.

Whether this was a larger group already, constituting a small "detachment" army of exiles, or just started with the five exiled friends and Mydei then grew into a small army by picking up other exiles over time, is still unclear. However, at this point, Mydei makes no mention of returning to Kremnos and instead goes straight from "leaving the sea" to "living ten years in exile:"

This is the key point of inconsistency between the two "halves" of Mydei's story--either he lived in Kremnos or he didn't. We can handwave here and say "Yes, he returned to Kremnos with his friends and they just hid their identities, leaving Kremnos years later in a self-imposed exile," but the story gives us absolutely no indication that this realistically could have happened. Mydei never once mentions hiding his identity, changing his appearance, or living a double life in the city, and never explains how he would have had access to the inner city of Kremnos ("as befitting a crown prince") and the royal library, yet still go totally unnoticed by his father or anyone loyal to Eurypon, including Krateros. (There's also no explanation at all for why he would have wanted to return to a city ruled by someone who tried to murder him and where he would have had to live life under a fake identity just to get by, but you know...)

Instead, the game does give us several pieces of information indicating that the five Kremnoan exiles did not return to Kremnos after meeting Mydei:

First, Mydei's character stories confirm that Mydei deliberately hid his name while traveling in exile across Amphoreus, indicating that he knew he would be recognized by Eurypon/Eurypon's loyalists if he didn't hide his identity. This awareness suggests it is extremely unlikely that Mydei could have returned to Kremnos without being identified:

This also suggests that, at this point in this timeline, no one in Castrum Kremnos knew for sure that Mydeimos had survived being thrown into the Sea of Souls and returned. This is further confirmed by a memory fragment where Krateros says there has been a "rumor" that the leader of the exiled Kremnoan army is one who "defied death." Krateros alone makes the assumption that this could be Mydei and decides to defect to aid him:

This memory suggests two things clearly: Mydei was not living in Kremnos at the time Krateros defected, and the exile of all of Mydei's friends must have taken place before they met Mydei, years in the past, as there is no way an entire small army could have been exiled from Kremnos, with Mydei in toe, and not at all attract Krateros's attention until after they were gone.

The idea that Mydei never returned to Kremnos is further enforced by Eurypon, who did not recognize Mydei when he confronted him, to the point that he didn't believe Mydei was even Kremnoan. This suggests that Eurypon not only didn't know Mydei's true identity--he'd never seen him before at all, making it extremely unlikely that Mydei was walking around Castrum Kremnos, talking to Chryseus Leo, and reading in the royal library all under some false identity for years. Eurypon certainly wouldn't have been capable of exiling someone he'd never seen before from Kremnos, in any case!

Therefore, we can assume the series of events in this timeline is pretty straightforward: Mydei entered the Sea of Souls as a baby, came out nine years later, went straight into a life of exile with his five friends, amassed power and support for ten years, and then returned to seek vengeance on his father.

The only remaining question in this timeline becomes "When did Mydei join up with Okhema?"

I think, in this timeline, it makes the most sense for Mydei to have only joined up with Okhema after killing his father. In 3.1, Mydei confirms to Phainon that all his friends died before he was able to kill his father, and that none of them ever made it to Okhema:

Therefore, the final order of events for the more prominent timeline is:

Dumped into the sea as an infant, nine years in the Sea of Souls

Ten years in exile with his friends amassing strength and support

Returns to Kremnos, kills his father, and the last of his friends dies that day

Then he defects to Okhema, leading any of the Kremnoans willing to follow him there.

By itself, this story makes perfect sense. If this was all the information we'd been given, there wouldn't have been any gaps.

Unfortunately, we also have a whole other set of information that massively conflicts with these events, which can only really be explained two ways: Either Hoyo messed up (again) and really dropped the consistency ball when it comes to writing Mydei's backstory... Or there's an entire separate timeline going on. Personally, I'm leaning toward the latter, because there are just too many seemingly deliberate fingers in the story pointing toward the inconsistencies for them to feel entirely unintentional to me.

Therefore, I propose that Mydei's memories are actually getting infiltrated by a second, entirely different timeline:

The "Gorgo Lives" Timeline

From 3.0 all the way to 3.2, we're given numerous pieces of information that point to a wholly different order to the events of Mydei's life, contrasting the story that Mydei tells Phainon in the Garden. At first, these events seem scattered and nonsensical, contradicting the "main" timeline in too many ways to be anything but errors... But when taken as a whole, we can build a second coherent timeline out of these events if we make one assumption: There is a timeline where Gorgo lived longer.

In the second timeline which is intruding on Mydei's memories, there appears to be one key point of divergence: Gorgo did not die dueling Eurypon. Either she never challenged him to the duel, or (more likely) she was never successfully poisoned, and therefore it's possible she won the duel, allowing her to rescue Mydei from the sea.

Working from that possibility, a second complete timeline emerges:

Mydei was thrown into the Sea of Souls as an infant but did not drift there for nine years. Instead, he was rescued and brought back to Kremnos, where he was allowed to grow up in the inner city, with access to both Chryseus Leo, who served as his teacher, and access to the royal library, which he is proud enough of to call "his" library. He is able to lead Phainon and the Trailblazer around Castrum Kremnos even in its ruined state because he grew up there, spending enough time there to know the city like the back of his hand:

This is where we can slot in the inconsistent memories Mydei has of Gorgo:

(By the way, although Mydei writes this scene off as a dream, you can actually hear Oronyx's whisper play in the black screen seconds before this "dream" occurs...)

But okay, let's say this is just a wishful dream. Maybe this scene never happened. If all we got of Gorgo supposedly raising Mydei was this moment in 3.1, I might agree that it was just a dream (other than there being no reason to play Oronyx's sound effect there, but you know). However, in 3.2 they then hit us with this:

That's multiple moments now pointing to a timeline where Gorgo raised Mydei. Once is handwave-able--twice? That's deliberate.

In this secondary timeline, Mydei appears to have grown up as Kremnos's beloved crown prince, being warmly embraced by his people (at least until Kremnos fell into calamity). Apparently his days consisted of eating pomegranates, training for combat, playing with Kremnos's kids, and hanging out with his five friends. We see snippets of this idyllic life (along with his five friends appearing to be roughly the same age as him--something that likely wouldn't be true in the "main" timeline, by the way) on Mydei's long march back into Castrum Kremnos:

I know some people took this to be Mydei hallucinating or just wishfully imagining a life where he was able to be happy with his friends, possibly even some metaphorical "encountering the souls of the departed in a paradise," but I don't think this is true. Every single time Mydei phases in and out of this "hallucination," the visual effect and the sound effect of Oronyx are distinctly played--the exact same sound and visuals that play when Trailblazer activates Oronyx's prayer to jump between timelines.

Mydei himself doesn't seem to quite understand what is happening to him in this moment, as you can hear him stumble and pant as he repeatedly goes through flashes of Oronyx's power. You can listen to comparison video clips on the prior post I made about Mydei's backstory.

Furthermore, if we work from the assumption that these moments actually represent a rupture between timelines, then the rest of the inconsistencies can finally be cleared up:

In 3.0, Mydei says that his choice to leave Castrum Kremnos was not a forced exile but a "self-imposed" one:

And this aligns with what he stated in the Garden of Life to Phainon, that he and his friends "left Castrum Kremnos" to go into this self-imposed exile, rather than having never returned to Kremnos from the sea:

Furthermore, this also aligns with the angry NPCs in the past version of Castrum Kremnos that Trailblazer and Castorice travel back to:

Remember that this version of Castrum Kremnos was supposed to be occurring while Eurypon was still alive, so there is absolutely no way this line makes sense in the same universe where Eurypon didn't even know Mydei had survived. There isn't any way, in "our" timeline, that Mydei could have been both the "crown prince" of Kremnos for these NPCs and completely unknown to his father, the king.

These NPCs, furthermore, directly accuse Mydei of "deserting Kremnos," suggesting that Mydei was living in Castrum Kremnos as their prince, and then abandoned them to join Aglaea in Okhema, getting himself and everyone who went with him labelled as "traitors to Kremnos" in the process. None of this makes sense in the context of a timeline where no one in Kremnos knew he had even survived.

Instead, all of these elements point to a different sequence of events:

Gorgo lived, likely winning her duel and thereby (likely) giving her the right to save Mydei from the Sea of Souls and bring him back to Kremnos. He was raised by his mother as the beloved crown prince of Kremnos. Then, years later, as his father and Nikador both descended into full madness, Mydei and the Kremnoan detachment defected.

But what would have triggered this sudden need to defect after years of leading Kremnos as a well-liked prince?

The flashback between Mydei and Eurypon actually suggests a possible reason:

Apparently, at some point, in some timeline, Mydei knew about Eurypon's plan to break Nikador's divinity into separate parts and seal him away, harnessing the power of their titan for himself.

Yet the Mydei of 3.0 seems to have no idea about any of this, never able to give any explanation for how Nikador has degraded so much nor why Nikador is seemingly unkillable. Castorice, Mem, and the Trailblazer have to come up with the idea to go back in time to the past Kremnos by themselves, because Mydei never makes any mention of there ever having been a plot to break up and seal away Nikador's divinity, even when they walk past the very blades that did the sealing.

Finally, there's one last piece of conflicting information: While talking to Phainon in the Garden of Life, Mydei states that all of his friends died before the detachment could ever join up with Okhema and that all of their deaths occurred by the time he went to kill his father. But this conflicts with the NPCs above, who state that Mydei had already defected to Okhema and joined the Flame Chase Journey as a Chrysos Heir while his father was still alive.

This inconsistency is further reinforced by a memory fragment with Krateros, who confirms that Mydei had joined up with Okhema already before killing his father:

Putting all of this together, the complete series of events for this second timeline becomes:

Infant Mydei is quickly rescued from the Sea of Souls, is instead raised by his mother, and grows up as the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos with his five friends.

At some point, years later, he discovers Eurypon's plot to break up and imprison Nikador's divinity, and he and his friends and supporters defect from Kremnos as a result.

Either they go straight to Okhema (I'm inclined to say that "ten years of wandering" doesn't fit, chronologically speaking, into this secondary timeline) or they do wander a bit, but ultimately, Mydei reaches Okhema and aligns with Aglaea before killing his father.

After aligning the Kremnoan Detachment with Okhema, Mydei returns to Castrum Kremnos to kill his father, possibly to halt Eurypon's evil plan to harness Nikador's power.

At some point in this timeline, presumably before Mydei returns to kill his father, Gorgo likely still dies (possibly killed by Eurypon and/or Nikador), which explains why the Gorgo in the Sea of Souls seems to be the one convinced that she raised Mydei.

And this is just pure personal speculation, because there isn't enough evidence to really confirm it, but I almost feel like we can even pinpoint how/when the whole decision to defect to Okhema took place. At the end of Mydei's flashbacks to the "peaceful" Kremnos, Peucesta says that Mydei has been away from Kremnos for a while.

Leonnius assumes that Mydei was away on some apparently extended training trip, but this moment specifically ends with Gorgo welcoming Mydei home and asking him one very important question:

Obviously these lines are doing double duty, symbolically welcoming the present Mydei back to the ruins of Castrum Kremnos and asking him whether he's finally ready to take on his role as the "Guardian of Amphoreus." But as the wiki notes, this takes place in a flashback to the past, and for the "Mydei of the past" (aka the Mydei of the alternate timeline), this could very well have been Mydei disappearing from Kremnos to make contact with Aglaea in Okhema, and Gorgo questioning him about his decision to commit himself to the Flame Chase Journey, leading up to an ultimate and permanent defection from Kremnos. (This is just speculation though, trying to tie the last few loose ends together.)

Anyway, when taken from this perspective, that there are two separate backstories here, one from a world where Gorgo lived and the more prominent one where she died, we can sort all the seeming inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory into two surprisingly tidy and complete timelines.

I haven't yet found anything in any Mydei scene that doesn't fit one of these two scenarios, so I'm starting to definitely feel optimistic here that this writing was intentional, and that the "contradictory" backstory we're seeing for Mydei isn't "the worst continuity Star Rail has served up to date," but instead an actual deliberate choice to present us with a character whose memories are a hodge-podge of two divergent timelines, snippets of one timeline constantly erupting and "filling in the blanks" of the other.

I think this would be a fascinating way to lead up to the idea that Amphoreus's world isn't real, that it's a cobbled together story or set of memories that someone is barely holding together, and that it's constantly cyclical in nature, with events repeating with slight variations across times. The idea that Mydei is actually experiencing two different sets of memories crushed together into a tangled jumble and that he's only just now starting to become aware of the discrepancies would be such an excellent way to reinforce the "unreality" of Amphoreus's plot as a whole.

I really hope this is the direction that they take the story... Or at least that I won't one day be looking at all my Mydei posts and sadly thinking to myself that I put a lot more thought into the character's backstory than his own writers did, RIPPPPP. 😂😂😂

Cope with me, people!

[satoshy12]

The Titan's Second Life Clockwork is Kronos

What many people don’t know is that Kronos had always known most of the Time-lines. He played with Time, since he learned he had that power. 

The moment he first laid eyes on his newborn daughter, Hestia, he knew what would come next. The visions came to him just as he was about to eat her and seal her in his stomach. 

They showed him all the futures in fragments. Like the hands of a clock moving forward, he saw his life as Kronos - from that moment on, his other 5 children, his downfall, Rhea's betrayal, the war, and how he ended up in Tartarus with his body cut into thousands of pieces.

It was an inevitability written into the fabric of time and time itself. And as Titan of Time, he would know best.

Once he tried to fight his fate. In his paranoia, he had devoured his children in the desperate hope of stopping the cycle and the prophecy. But now he remembered.

Not just glimpses of the future, but memories of an entirely different existence - one he had had long after his fall on Grace, one that was beyond even the immortality of a Titan.

He also remembers his future, of being, Clockwork. An Ancient of Time, in his new home, the Ghost Zone. His Titan soul and body had been destroyed and rebuilt in this place, so that he hardly looked the same. He wasn't even sure if he was still the son of Earth and Sky as Clockwork.

And he remembered the young Halfa, the young Daniel Fenton/Phantom. 

Kronos allowed a small smile to creep across his face, remembering how he had reacted when he had learned who he really was while still alive.

Flashback

Danny hovered in front of Clockwork, staring at the Ancient Ghost with wide, skeptical eyes. "Huh? You're the King of Titans Kronos!" His voice was incredulous.  

Clockwork's ever-shifting form barely responded, the red glow of his eyes steady. "Yes, young Daniel. I was the Titan you read about in school."  

Danny gave a low whistle. "Wow... So you really were crazy!" He laughed and shook his head. "Wait-hold on. How much meat is on a baby god?"  

Clockwork tilted his head slightly, anticipating the question. "Why do you ask?"  

Danny shrugged. "I mean... if you really were the Titan, and Kronos ate his children and a stone, how come you never tried to eat me?"  

Clockwork's expression remained unreadable. "You have no flesh."  

Danny frowned. "And a baby god does?"  

Clockwork's grin was almost imperceptible. "Have you ever seen one?"  

Danny blinked. "No...?"  

"Trust me. They have more."  

Danny opened his mouth, then promptly closed it, clearly not sure what to say, but he knew he had lost. In the end, he decided to let the whole baby-god-snacking thing go. "You know what? Never mind. I even had an idea for a new adventure!" He grinned and floated closer. "I was thinking... Maybe you could take me back in time? You know, help me out with my history class?"  

Clockwork chuckled, his staff shifting in his grasp. "Ah, history. You may find it more complicated than your textbooks suggest, young Daniel."  

Danny grinned. "Yes, but that only makes it more fun."  

Clockwork sighed and shook his head in amusement. "Very well. Let's see where time takes us now."

Flashback End

Yes, as he found out. He just made some new jokes and that was it. Still saw him as the same mentor as before.

Kronos was still looking at baby Hestia when he left the room. He would not eat her or any of the others. He shouldn't change the timeline that much. He needs them for destiny. 

Instead, he ignored them. He did still his old hobby or well future hobby of looking into Timelines. 

His siblings did notice, him doing that much more. Rhea after a time gave up to pull him away from doing that or being in his laboratory. While he didn't treat her like before, she is happy he didn't tried something like their father on their children. With that prophecy... But this way.

Hestia grew up in the shadow of his disregard and her mother's care, learning to keep herself. Demeter was left to flourish with the plants and crops, fairly untouched by her father's coldness, she learned quickly to ignore it. Hera felt the sting of his lack of interest, but she was strong-willed and sought comfort more from her mother, Rhea. 

Hades, the brooder in his last life, took it with stride and retreated to the underworld to build his own kingdom with the help of his uncle Iapetus. And Poseidon, the youngest of them at the moment, found solace in the vast oceans and swam in Ocaenus' kingdom.

Zeus then was born last, and by then all his children, long accepted their father and king's indifference to them. He barely glanced at the baby, his gaze lingering only briefly on the tiny fingers and toes that would one day wield thunderbolts. He knew what was to come, and he let it happen without a fight. 

He was to be Clockwork, the keeper of time, not a player in the game. And he was able to notice, his titan body too did took the changed. The titans noticed how his Golden Eyes turned Red, and his hair turned white. Same with his skin to change color to Blue.

Years passed, and the children grew into their power. 

After talking to others about their father. They saw their father's lack of concern as a lack of fear, a sign that they were not important enough to be considered a threat. Little did they know the truth behind those unblinking clockwork eyes.

As Zeus approached the teenage years for a god, Kronos said it was time. He knew it was time for his children to challenge him. 

Kronos did not plan to stand in the way. He had seen his end, and it was not at the hands of his own children.

One quiet evening, King Cronus called his children to him for the first time since their birth. 

They came, curious and wary. "I have decided to abdicate my throne," he announced, his voice echoing through the halls of the throne room.

Their eyes widened in shock. Hestia stepped back, her hand to her mouth. Demeter clutched the arm of her brother Hades. Poseidon looked out to sea, his mind racing. And Zeus, always the strategist, felt the first spark of hope in his chest.

"You are all strong in your own right," Kronos continued, his gaze sweeping over them. "I trust you to rule when I am gone."

The children and Rhea, like his siblings, didn't know what to say or had time to say anything. 

For Kronos had disappeared, leaving them all to fend for themselves again. 

Zeus had stepped forward, his blue eyes blazing as he looked at his siblings. "Let us show him what we are truly made of," he said, his voice resonating with newfound power. "We will not be ignored."

Time moved on, 

Iapetus would stay to help, moving to the underworld with Hades to serve as an advisor to the younger immortal.

In time, a new kingdom was built as they left behind their father's kingdom. And they built their own, now called Gods, as the Titans retired and moved on with their lives.

For thousands of years, no one was sure what happened to Kronos, for they could never find him. And most of his brothers searched for him. 

They talked about how Kronos must have done something with his experiments with time. They were never sure if he was still Kronos, or if he had messed up his time control too badly.

For Kronos, his body had changed, the familiar gears of time reappeared within him, and soon he was Clockwork again.

It was what he had chosen. The freedom of the Ghost Zone, his lair, had already appeared.

Clockwork smiled to himself. Here, in the Ghost Zone, he would watch time and move with his life.

Clockwork stood before a time portal, watching the swirling flow of moments. His past as Kronos seemed distant now, at least to him. 

Danny Phantom entered the room and Clockwork's face lit up with joy. "Ah, Daniel. It's good to see you again."

Danny smiled. "You didn't think I'd be back so soon! You did! I surprised you!"

Clockwork chuckled quietly. "Time has a way. I knew you would come, but not right now, maybe 1 or 3 minutes later or earlier..." He watched as Danny settled down nearby.

As the portal flickered again, Clockwork looked at him as he whispered, "All is as it should be.

[humaling]

You're Still The One I Run To.

pt 2 of Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have

pairings: hijacked!finnick x reader

summary: in district 13, survival is routine—but when finnick’s quiet apology breaks through the silence, you begin to wonder if something lost can still be found.

contents: mentions of capitol's torture on finnick, slow burn

word count: 7.4k

author's notes: i'm sorry it took a while! i had a writer's block on this one hehe. next chapter will be the last and might take a while again.

Finnick shifts uncomfortably in bed, the thin mattress doing little to cushion the hard metal frame beneath him. Every time he moves, it creaks and groans, pressing into his back like a cruel reminder of how far he is from comfort. Honestly, the floor might be better than this.

The dim glow from the lampshade beside him casts long, soft shadows across the room, the only source of light in the bunker’s stale gloom. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels dull, empty, lifeless—much like how his body feels during these godforsaken hours of the night. He lies there, restless, like his bones are aching for something he can’t name. Something missing. Something lost. He tells himself it’s just District 13—cold, gray, and not at all like District 4. Not home.

Beside him, Gale Hawthorne sleeps soundly. A low snore rattles from his chest, breaking the silence in an oddly grounding way. Finnick figures it’s better than nothing. Better than lying awake in silence and letting the darkness creeping in the back of his mind swallow him whole.

It’s been a few weeks since he was cleared. He’d been assigned to share this room with Gale, who hadn’t exactly seemed thrilled about it. Not that Finnick was either, but at least he didn’t throw a fit. Katniss told him not to take it personally—that Gale’s just been sensitive lately, with everything that’s happened. Finnick tried to take her word for it. But after Gale locked him out of the room one night, Finnick stopped caring altogether.

Stopped caring. Grew indifferent.

His mind weaves back to you when he first got here; the heartbroken look plastered on your face when he pushed you away, the way your eyes glossed as you plead with him. And then:

A soft laugh flits through his memory like a breeze—gentle, teasing, familiar. He sees you again: running down the shoreline, your laughter carried by the wind. Just for a moment.

He squeezes his eyes shut. A dull ache presses into his skull, pulsing behind his temple. The memory slips back into the darkness, but not before leaving behind its echo. That’s been happening more and more. The flashbacks, the headaches, the wave of nausea that always follows. Ever since the emergency drill in the safety vault, it’s like his mind’s been splitting open, one blurred memory at a time. A voice. A touch. An object that looks a little too familiar—they all bring something back.

The doctor said it’s the Capitol’s hijacking wearing off. Told him it was expected. Gave him pills to ease the side effects. Finnick tried taking them at first, but he’s always been terrible with medication. He gave up after a couple days. He remembers how his mother used to chase him around the house just to get him to take flu drops. Now, the pills are tucked away in the drawer beneath his bed, buried under bits and pieces he’s collected since he got here—things that don’t mean anything to anyone but him.

The doctors, and the few friends he has here, keep telling him the same thing—that the memories resurfacing now are real, and the ones the Capitol etched into his mind are nothing but lies. And he wants to believe them, he truly does. But it’s hard. Damn near impossible. Because how can something real feel so distant and fragmented, while the false ones remain vivid, sharp, and devastating?

He tries to reason with himself. Maybe this is exactly how the Capitol intended to break him. Twist his thoughts. Turn him against someone he once loved. Because what better way to destroy a man than to erase the love he once knew? To make him forget how it felt to be held by someone who saw his darkest parts and didn’t flinch—who cradled his brokenness like it was fragile glass and still chose to stay.

But on most nights, he isn’t reasonable. Most nights, he wonders if this is how Snow wanted him to unravel. Not with violence. Not with blood. But with quiet betrayal. With the slow realization that the person he held closest—who he thought cherished him most—might have been nothing more than a well-crafted lie. A backstabber wrapped in warmth. A performance masked as affection. And for what? What was he even used for?

There are cracks in those memories, though. Little gaps. Inconsistencies. And sometimes, that alone is enough to soothe the sharp ache behind his ribs. Annie tells him those might be planted memories, stitched together by the Capitol to manipulate him. He holds onto that thought like a lifeline.

That it wasn’t real. That it was all fake. That it was designed to hurt him. Designed to turn him inside out.

God, get out of his head.

Finnick sits up in bed, the frame groaning under the shift of his weight. He leans back until his spine hits the cold wall, and a shiver races down his back. His thoughts drift again. To you.

He hasn’t seen you much lately. He never asked why, didn’t think he should. But a part of him aches to know. And he hates himself for that. He’s supposed to hate you, isn’t he?

But instead, he finds himself lying awake night after night, staring at the ceiling and thinking of you.

~

Finnick threads through the sterile halls of District 13, his pace steady, his mind fixated on one thing: berries. One of the soldiers had let it slip that there’d be berries served with the oatmeal today, and honestly, that was enough to light a spark in his otherwise dreary morning. He never thought he’d get this excited over something so small. Mango had always been his favorite. But after spending weeks underground without a single glimpse of sunlight, even the faint promise of berries felt like a damn miracle.

Because those godawful oatmeals? They tasted like regret. Like wet sand. Like someone thought flavor was a war crime.

He weaves through the crowd with ease, tossing a few practiced smiles here and there—charming, effortless, Capitol-polished. Just enough to slip past the line of tired faces and into the cafeteria before the berry stash is gone.

Even though he’s so caught up in his berry-fueled daydream, he catches a glimpse of a familiar face sitting at the corner of the cafeteria. You.

There you are, sitting in the far corner, a few unfamiliar soldiers scattered around you. Finnick figures they’re from your unit—he’s heard you joined the front lines. Johanna said it’s how you cope. Annie thinks it’s something darker, something rooted in self-destruction. She’d nudged him the other night, whispering that you’re not doing well, like she expected him to fix it. But Finnick isn’t sure what to believe anymore. About you. About himself. About anything.

You look… different. And not in a way that sits right with him.

You’re thinner—sharper around the edges. Your shoulders slumped, expression blank, eyes staring somewhere far away. Hollow. Faded. Like something vital in you had been drained and never quite filled back in. Those weren’t the eyes he remembered. The last time he really saw you—back in the bunker—they were bright, even through the pain. You’d looked at him like you still believed there was something worth salvaging.

Now? You look like someone who stopped waiting.

It’s hard, seeing you like this. Because he’s supposed to hate you. That’s what he told himself. That’s what the Capitol etched into his mind—memories painted in betrayal, twisted in ways that still make his stomach turn. And yet, his heart doesn’t play by the same rules. Because despite everything, despite the mess, it still beats a little faster when you’re near. Still aches when you’re not. And that hate he clings to so tightly? It doesn't live in his chest. It’s in his head. Planted. Manufactured.

His heart never forgot you.

That might be the cruelest part.

The tray in his hands trembles slightly. He doesn’t notice until someone bumps into him, muttering an apology as they pass. He realizes, too late, that he’s stopped walking. Just standing there in the middle of the cafeteria, staring at you like some haunted fool. A few people glance his way. He doesn’t care.

All he can see is you.

And right now, you look like you’re about to fall apart.

He tears his eyes away with effort, forcing his feet to move, to carry him toward the other end of the cafeteria where Katniss, Johanna, Annie, Gale, and Prim are already gathered at one of the long metal tables. Their conversation is quiet, tired. The kind of talk that hums under the surface of war—just enough to feel normal, even if no one really believes in normal anymore.

Finnick slides into the seat beside Annie, dropping his tray onto the table with less grace than usual. No one comments. Katniss glances at him briefly, then turns back to whatever Gale is muttering under his breath. Johanna’s poking at her food like it insulted her, while Prim gently nudges a bowl toward him with a small smile. Strawberries. A few, nestled beside the oatmeal like some precious, rare gem.

He nods in silent thanks, though he’s lost his appetite. That dull twist in his stomach has nothing to do with hunger.

Annie leans close. “You saw her, didn’t you?”

Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t answer, just stares at the berries, mind still wrapped around the ghost of your expression. That faraway look. That hollow shell. He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth and forces a swallow.

“She looks worse,” Johanna mutters, eyes still on her food. “Should’ve known she’d run herself straight into the ground.”

Katniss gives her a sharp look, but Johanna shrugs. “What? I’m not wrong.”

Prim stays quiet, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her napkin.

Finnick doesn’t say anything. He can’t. The words are there, burning behind his teeth, but none of them make it out. Because part of him wants to cross that room and reach out. Ask if you’ve eaten. If you’re sleeping. If the shadows under your eyes are from nightmares or from living wide awake in one.

But he doesn’t.

He picks up a strawberry instead, stares at it like it might give him answers. It doesn’t.

He stays quiet, even as the conversation picks back up around him. Laughter in the background. War in the foreground. And in between it all, the echo of something he once held close slipping further out of reach.

~

The corridors of District 13 hum with the low thrum of machinery and distant footfalls, sterile and cold as always. Finnick walks beside Katniss, steps matching hers as Boggs leads them down a narrow hallway lined with reinforced glass. It’s part of the upper training sector—recently refurbished, apparently. Or so Boggs says, though everything still looks the same shade of lifeless gray.

“From here on out,” Boggs says, tapping something on a clipboard as he walks, “you’ll be expected to report to training units daily—combat drills, endurance conditioning, field strategy. Nothing too advanced yet, just enough to prep your bodies for real fieldwork.”

Katniss gives a quiet nod, her expression unreadable. Finnick doesn’t respond. He’s listening, mostly, but his mind drifts in and out, clinging to details and letting others slide. The talk of drills, the bark of instructors echoing from far-off rooms, the repetitive slap of boots against the ground—it all blends together.

They round a corner and come upon a wide observation dome. The floor here curves into a glass overlook, where rows of seats face down into a sunken arena—a simulation room for live training. Finnick almost keeps walking—the place reminds him a little too much of the hunger games. But something pulls at the corner of his vision. A flicker of movement. A flash of a face he knows too well.

You.

You're down below, dressed in training blacks, moving through a timed obstacle drill with calculated speed. Dodging, pivoting, sweeping your arm in clean arcs as you strike the dummy in front of you, reset, strike again. Your body moves with trained precision—quick, sharp, disciplined.

But he sees it. In the way your left leg slightly drags after each leap. The moment your fingers twitch around the training staff like they’ve gone numb. How your jaw clenches after every third hit. Movements smooth, but not flawless. Not anymore.

Finnick slows, falling a step behind Boggs and Katniss, gaze fixed on the glass.

“She’s been here every morning,” Boggs says without looking, as if he’s already guessed what—or who—Finnick’s watching. “Won’t take breaks. Won’t talk to the medics. She’s burning herself out.”

Katniss glances back at him, a flicker of concern in her eyes. “They said she passed out during drills last week.”

Finnick doesn’t say anything. He watches as you stumble for the briefest moment, catching yourself before anyone can notice—anyone but him. You reset again. Keep going. Determined. Desperate.

Something inside him pulls tight.

“She doesn’t want help,” Katniss says gently. “Not even from Haymitch.”

That doesn’t surprise him. You always preferred to fight your demons head-on, even if it meant losing the battle with yourself.

Boggs keeps walking, motioning for them to follow toward another corridor lined with equipment and holo-maps. Katniss gives him a small nudge, and Finnick finally turns away, the image of you lingering behind his eyes like an afterimage burned into his vision.

But as they leave the dome, all he can think about is the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was watching.

It becomes a routine before he even realizes it.

After drills with Katniss and Gale, after the tactical briefings with Boggs, after the debriefs and silent lunches where conversation feels like another mission in itself—Finnick finds himself back in the upper levels of the training dome, tucked into the shadowed corners above the observation glass.

You’re always there.

Sometimes early, sometimes late, but always training like your life depends on it. Maybe it does. Maybe you think it does.

He sits with his elbows propped on his knees, shoulders hunched forward, eyes fixed on the figure moving below. You run the same combat sequences he’s seen a dozen times—standard disarm techniques, pressure point strikes, simulated close-quarters combat. He could close his eyes and still know how your feet land, how you pivot, how your hand flexes just a second too long after each blow.

At first, he told himself he was only watching out of concern. That’s what Annie would say. That he’s just worried. That he’s just looking after someone who’s clearly slipping.

But deep down, he knows that’s not the whole truth.

It’s the ache. The invisible thread that still pulls when he sees your shoulders sag a little lower than they used to. The way your breathing hitches when you think no one can hear. The way you fight like you’re punishing yourself for something no one else seems to understand.

He wants to say something. Every time, he tells himself he will. He’ll wait for the end of the session, trail down the stairs, walk across the floor and say—

What?

I’m sorry?

I miss you?

I don’t know what’s real but I think it’s you?

But the moment never comes. Not really. He watches as you finish the last round of drills, your body trembling slightly as you lean against the mat wall, sweat clinging to your skin, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You rest there for a beat. Then straighten. Then leave.

Just like always.

You never look up.

And maybe he tells himself it’s because you don’t know he’s watching. Maybe he tells himself that’s what makes it easier.

But it’s not. Not really.

Because the truth is, part of him hopes you do know.

Finnick sits there, his thoughts swirling, his mind still caught in the mess of lies and truths. His fingers twitch slightly, the familiar itch of wanting to move closer to you, to speak to you, but he doesn’t. Not yet. Not while he’s still unsure of what he feels. Not while the Capitol’s poison still lingers in his mind, clouding everything.

The sound of footsteps makes him glance up, and before he can look away, you’re sitting beside him. He blinks, caught off guard by how easily you slipped into the space beside him, how you don’t even seem to mind that he’s been watching you for weeks now.

At first, you don’t say anything. You just sit there, cross-legged, twisting the cap off a bottle of water in your hands. He can feel the tension between you, thick like a fog. He wonders if it’s because of the distance he’s put between you two or because he’s been too damn silent, too afraid to approach.

Finally, you break the silence, your voice low, steady. "You’ve been watching me."

Finnick’s chest tightens at the way your voice holds no judgment, just a quiet knowing. He shifts uncomfortably, fingers flexing against his knees.

“I—yeah," he admits, his voice hoarse. "I couldn’t help it."

You nod, like you’ve been waiting for that. You take a deep breath, eyes fixed on the bottle in your hands, not looking at him.

"I thought maybe, just maybe, the Finnick I loved was still there," you say softly. "At first, I thought if I just gave you space, you'd come back to me. But you didn’t. You never did."

Finnick's heart tightens, the words cutting deeper than he expected. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"But you know," you continue, "I can only put up with so much distance. I can only wait for you to find your way back for so long. It’s not that I stopped caring... I just—" You break off, your gaze dropping to the ground. "I miss you."

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix what’s been broken for so long. All he knows is that hearing those words from you feels like a weight lifting off his chest. He’s afraid to look at you, afraid to see the hope in your eyes that he might be able to fix this, but he does anyway.

And when he does, when his eyes meet yours, the rawness in your expression takes him by surprise. There’s hurt there, but also something more—a spark of the love you once shared. It’s not gone. It’s still there, flickering in the dark.

"I didn’t mean to hurt you," he says, his voice barely a whisper.

You glance at him, your lips curling slightly into a small, sad smile. "I know you didn’t. But you did anyway."

He bites back a sigh. "I don’t know how to fix this."

You shake your head, eyes softening. "You don’t have to. Just stop pushing me away."

The words hang between you for a long moment. Neither of you moves, neither of you speaks. But the silence feels different now, heavier. It’s not an absence of words—it’s the space where the two of you are finally, maybe, finding your way back to each other.

Finally, you stand up, dusting off your pants. Finnick watches you, heart aching with every step you take away from him. But before you leave, you stop and glance over your shoulder, a quiet challenge in your eyes.

"I’ll be here. When you’re ready."

And with that, you walk away, leaving Finnick alone with his thoughts, with the lingering weight of your words.

~

The day starts on schedule, like it always does here. In District 13, time is a currency you’re expected to spend wisely. There’s no room for distraction. No softness. Just wake, work, train, repeat.

You lace up your boots with steady fingers, standing in your shared quarters under the flickering light. The air feels sterile, too clean. Too sharp. As if even the walls are trying to scrub the humanity out of you. You can still feel the rough edge of the bench beneath you from this morning—can still hear Finnick’s voice, broken and raw, circling like smoke in the back of your mind.

You don’t speak during training. You can’t. Your body moves on command, lunging and dodging through combat drills, sparring with people who don’t know you well enough to ask questions. That helps. You can lose yourself in the burn of your muscles, in the precision of every strike. But even then, there’s a hollowness that follows you. You duck a punch and see the look in his eyes again—tired, aching, like he was already halfway gone and trying to crawl his way back to you.

You scrub in for your assigned unit shift in the war room—tasked with logistics today—and sit at your assigned desk, eyes fixed on the columns of data cycling across the screen. Numbers. Supplies. Deployment routes. It’s important. It should matter. But none of it can drown out the echo of what he said.

I didn’t mean to hurt you.

He meant it. That’s what shakes you most. It wasn’t performative. Not like the Capitol, where every word is curated, every gesture designed to be consumed. No, Finnick looked at you like he couldn’t stand what he’d done. Like he’d been watching the fracture grow and hadn’t known how to stop it.

The silence between assignments in 13 is usually a relief. A breath. But today, it just gives your thoughts too much space. You spend your ten-minute break sitting on the lower level of the dormitory hall, hunched over with your elbows on your knees, staring at the scuffed floor. You know someone’s watching—they always are—but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when all you can think about is the way he looked like he was trying not to shatter.

After curfew, you shower under low-pressure water that smells faintly of metal. You let it run down your back until your skin pricks with cold. You don’t cry. You won’t. You already gave him your honesty—you won’t let him have your grief.

But later, lying in the dark of your bunk with the lights dimmed and the rigid mattress pressed against your spine, you can’t stop the memory from playing again. The way his voice cracked when he said he didn’t know how to fix this. The way he looked at you like maybe he didn’t deserve to.

You don’t know if you want him to try or if it would only hurt more if he did.

But gods, you miss him. You miss you—the version of yourself that felt whole with him.

You turn your face into the pillow, as if the act of hiding could quiet everything inside you.

It doesn’t.

The night went out just as fast as it came. There’s no softness to mornings here—just the buzz of the overhead lights flickering on like a switch has been flipped inside your head. You sit up before the alarm sounds, already awake. Already tired. The sheets are stiff against your skin, the air dry in your throat. Everything feels muted, like the color’s been drained from the world.

You move through the motions. Dress. Report to duty. There’s a rhythm to it, cold and clean, and you follow it because it’s easier than stopping to think. You sit through morning briefing with your spine straight, eyes forward, nodding at schedules and supply counts. You’re praised for efficiency. You always are.

But even as the room echoes with clipped orders and footsteps on polished floors, your mind isn’t really here. It’s still in that quiet space between you and Finnick. Still circling around the way he looked at you, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

You try not to let it show. You focus on the data in front of you, let your pen move across the page with practiced precision. You memorize updates that don’t mean anything to your heart, only to your role. Your identity here has no room for vulnerability.

By the time lunch rolls around, your stomach isn’t exactly hungry, but your legs still carry you out of habit, moving you through the labyrinth of white-walled corridors toward the cafeteria. The halls are half-filled with people walking in clusters, speaking in low voices or nodding silently to each other. You keep your head down. You don’t expect anything. Not here.

But then—his voice.

“Hey.”

You stop.

The word cuts clean through the haze, too familiar, too fragile. You don’t even have to turn around to know it’s him. That voice has lived in your chest long enough.

You turn anyway. Finnick stands there a few steps behind you, hands at his sides, his expression unreadable but open in a way that makes it harder to breathe. He looks steadier than he did yesterday. But not by much. Just enough to show up. Just enough to speak.

You’re not sure what to say. You’re not even sure if you want to. But something in his eyes keeps you there, rooted in place, heart suspended in your chest like it’s waiting to see what he’ll do next.

He doesn't speak right away, just shifts on his feet like he's working up the nerve. His hands are twitchy, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, like they’re searching for something to hold onto.

You tilt your head, watching him with quiet curiosity. Finnick Odair has always been fluid and confident, a creature of effortless charm. But now? He looks like he’s standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying.

His lips part, close, then part again.

“I—uh…” He glances over his shoulder, like maybe he's reconsidering. Like maybe he thinks this was a mistake. But then he looks back at you, eyes soft and uncertain. “We're... we’re all sitting together for lunch. Katniss, Johanna, Gale, the others. Annie too.” He swallows, trying to play it casual, but you see right through it.

The pause stretches. He runs a hand through his hair. “You can sit with us. If you want.”

You blink, caught off guard by how tentative he sounds. He’s not asking you like a man who's used to being told yes. He’s asking you like he doesn’t believe he deserves it. Like the offer is fragile, like he’s fragile.

And suddenly, you remember—twelve years old, in the glow of summer light back home in 4. Salt on your skin, sand in your shoes, and Finnick looking at you like you held every star in the sky. He was nervous then, too. Fingers fidgeting with a fraying bracelet, voice cracking as he asked if maybe you wanted to go to the harbor with him sometime. He’d smiled too fast, too big, trying to mask the tremble in his voice.

He looks like that now. That same unsure, wide-eyed boy, just with more scars. Just with a world that’s tried to break him in every way.

And even if you’re still hurting, even if the ache in your chest hasn’t faded, some small part of you—that soft, quiet part that never stopped loving him—leans forward.

You nod.

“Okay.”

It’s all you say. But his shoulders loosen, just slightly. A breath he didn’t realize he was holding escapes his chest.

He doesn’t smile. Not really. But there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Relief. Maybe even hope.

The cafeteria hums with the same low buzz it always does, voices blending into the clatter of trays and cutlery. Fluorescent lights cast everything in a pale, sterile glow, but the table Finnick leads you to feels strangely warm despite it. Familiar.

Annie’s the first to smile. It's soft and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she makes space beside her, nudging a tray out of the way with a quiet sort of grace.

“You haven’t changed,” she says, tilting her head toward you as you sit. “Still like to lurk in corridors until someone drags you to lunch.”

You let out a breath, the sound almost a laugh. “And you still think you’re so charming for pointing it out.”

She grins wider, and for a moment, it’s like the war hasn’t touched either of you. Like the years haven’t passed. You talk, low and easy, about nothing and everything—how awful the rations are, how the uniforms never quite fit right, how District 13 seems allergic to any form of joy. You feel something shift in your chest. Something loosen.

Across the table, Katniss meets your gaze, her expression unreadable as always. But there’s a flicker there. A silent nod. An understanding passed like a note between soldiers—you’ve been through it too. You return the nod, and that’s enough.

Prim beams at you like you’ve made her whole week. “Thank you,” she says, too earnestly. “Now I don’t have to sit with them for one day, then you and your friends the next—it was starting to feel like I had divorced parents.”

That earns a quiet laugh around the table. Even Finnick huffs out something like amusement, eyes trained on his tray.

You glance down the table at Gale. He hasn’t said a word. He just gives you a look—cool, curious, unreadable. Like he’s trying to decide what kind of Capitol creature you are.

You meet it evenly. You don’t know him either. Don’t trust him. He carries himself like he’s always one breath away from starting a revolution, and maybe that’s true. But there’s something about his conviction that rubs you wrong. You grew up around people who wore masks; Gale doesn’t. Maybe that’s why you don’t know what to make of him.

Still, for Katniss’s sake, you nod politely. He doesn’t return it. Just goes back to eating.

Johanna flops down across from you halfway through a story about Annie smuggling sugar packets. Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“Look who finally crawled out of her Capitol shell,” she mutters, reaching for a roll she probably didn’t wait in line for. “Did Finnick threaten to cry or something?”

You raise a brow. “I just missed the privilege of being insulted mid-meal. Thought I’d treat myself.”

She smirks. “There she is.”

And maybe most people wouldn’t catch it, but you do—beneath the sarcasm, there's a glint of approval. Maybe even affection. It’s all Johanna knows how to offer.

The conversation ebbs and flows, warm and awkward and strangely easy. It’s not perfect. But it’s something. And as you sit there, tray untouched, laughter slowly folding itself around you, you realize how long it’s been since you felt like you belonged anywhere at all.

Lunch ends slowly, the table thinning one by one. Johanna slinks off first, muttering something about needing to spar before she “goes soft from all the sap.” Gale disappears not long after, barely sparing you a glance. Prim and Katniss leave together, Prim bubbling with chatter, Katniss trailing beside her in her usual brooding silence. Annie lingers, brushing a hand over Finnick’s arm as she stands—something gentle, something old and familiar—and then she’s gone too.

It leaves just you and Finnick.

Neither of you speaks right away. He’s fidgeting again, thumb brushing the rim of his tray, shoulders too tense for someone who used to command every room he walked into without even trying. It’s strange to see him like this—uncertain, too careful with you. The last time you saw him look this nervous, you were thirteen, and he had a daisy in one hand and sweaty palms in the other, stammering through his first try at asking you to the District 4’s spring banquet.

You were both still whole then.

He glances at you now, that same look flickering behind his eyes—like he’s on the edge of a sentence he can’t quite say.

“You didn’t have to sit with me,” he murmurs, almost a question.

“I know,” you say softly. “I wanted to.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, green and wide and uncertain. There’s a pause, then he exhales, like that admission untied something in him. He stands first, grabbing both trays without asking. You follow quietly.

The walk to the drop-off station is short, but he doesn’t leave you after. He hesitates, lingers just beside you in the corridor outside the cafeteria, shoulders brushing once—by accident or on purpose, you’re not sure. The hallway is quiet, colder now without the warmth of others.

“I…” He stops, starts again. “I didn’t think you would. Sit with me, I mean.”

You shrug, though it feels heavy. “You asked.”

He lets out a breath, a quiet huff of almost-laughter. “Yeah. I did.”

There’s a pause that stretches too long. You know he’s searching for words. You know because you are too.

“I meant it,” he says finally, quieter than before. “What I said. About not wanting to hurt you.”

You nod, because you know. But knowing doesn’t erase the ache. Still, something about hearing it again, here in the hush of this empty hallway, feels like balm to a wound you stopped looking at weeks ago.

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “Do you remember that night—back in Four—when we snuck out during the storm?”

You blink, surprised by the shift in tone. He’s looking at you now, not nervous anymore, just gentle. “The hurricane?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah. We were what… fourteen? Maybe fifteen. We got caught in it trying to race to the docks. I’ve been thinking about it lately. I remember the rain hitting so hard it stung. And we ended up hiding under that overturned canoe.”

You let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “You told me you’d protect me from the wind if I gave you half my chocolate bar.”

His mouth twitches. “You still gave it to me even after I told you I forgot mine on purpose.”

“I remember,” you say softly, looking down. “You looked so proud of that plan.”

He chuckles, a low sound, soft and fond. Then his voice quiets again. “I don’t know why that memory’s been stuck in my head lately. I just… I needed to know if it was real. If I didn’t just make it up.”

You meet his gaze, and in it, you see something achingly vulnerable. Not a man trying to make amends with grand gestures. Just someone trying to hold on to something true in a world that keeps taking.

“It was real,” you say. “That was real.”

Finnick nods slowly, and it looks like relief. Like something inside him finally exhales.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Good.”

And it’s not a confession. It’s not a plea. It’s something simpler, more fragile—a thread being carefully, hopefully tied back between you.

He doesn’t ask anything else. And you don’t press.

You walk in different directions at the end of the hall, but the air feels lighter now. Less like absence. More like beginning.

~

It’s been three days since that hallway conversation. Three days since Finnick brought up the storm in District 4, since he looked at you like he was remembering how to breathe.

You haven’t talked since. Not properly. There were nods, the occasional flicker of eye contact, and once—just once—he passed by you in the training center and murmured your name like a quiet promise before disappearing into the next room.

You’ve been patient. Careful. Letting him come to you in his own time, if he ever does.

And then, that evening, just after the last strategy meeting lets out, you step out into the corridor—and he’s already there.

He’s leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting. Not with the sharp confidence the Capitol taught him, but with something softer. Familiar. Like he’s trying to be brave again.

“Hey,” he says, straightening a little. “You free?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Right now?”

Finnick hesitates, then nods. “There’s something I want to show you.”

The corridors of District 13 are quiet this late in the evening, lit only by the sterile, humming lights overhead. You follow Finnick through a series of winding turns, deeper into the underground. He doesn’t say much, only glances back now and then to make sure you’re still there. His pace is steady, but there’s a nervousness in the way his hands twitch at his sides—like he’s unsure if this is too much, too soon.

Eventually, he leads you to a small maintenance room at the end of a lesser-used hallway. He punches in a code and the door hisses open. Inside, it’s dim and cold, just metal walls and a few crates pushed into corners. But when he gestures you forward, you realize what he’s really brought you to see.

There’s a narrow crawlspace tucked into the wall—a vent path maybe, or a space cleared for storage. Finnick slips inside first and helps you follow. At the other end is a grate that opens into a hidden view of one of the District’s water filtration reservoirs. It’s quiet. Still. And the pale reflection of the underground lights in the water gives it a silvery, moonlit sheen.

Finnick sits with his back against the wall, knees drawn up. It’s cramped, but not uncomfortable. You take your place beside him, careful not to let your shoulder brush his, even though part of you aches to.

“It’s not much,” he says, voice low, “but sometimes I come here when I can’t take all the walls.”

You nod slowly, letting your eyes trace the ripple of light on the water. “It kind of reminds me of home.”

He glances at you then. “Yeah. I was hoping you’d think that too.”

The silence between you isn’t heavy this time. It stretches out gently, like waves lapping at the shore. And then Finnick’s voice breaks through, hesitant.

“Do you remember that cove just past the harbor in Four? The one we had to swim out to?”

You turn to look at him, and there’s something soft in his expression—uncertain, almost boyish.

“I remember,” you say.

“You got stung by a jellyfish and told me I’d better marry you one day or you’d haunt me for eternity.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “Did that really happen, or did I just make it up to survive Snow’s parties?”

You smile, warmth blooming behind your ribs. “No, it happened. You cried more than I did.”

His face shifts, the tension in his jaw loosening just enough. “I was scared,” he says. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

You look at him. Really look. The tired set of his shoulders, the faint tremble in his fingers, the way his eyes hold on to you like he’s still trying to memorize this moment before it slips away.

“I never left,” you say quietly. “Even when you tried to make me.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just nods. And when he does speak, it’s barely a whisper.

“I know.”

The silence settles again, comfortable in its stillness but laced with things too fragile to name. Finnick shifts slightly beside you, drawing his knees closer to his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together. His thumb rubs over the edge of a seam in his pants—slow, rhythmic, grounding. You can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, but he’s too careful, too practiced now, to let them slip freely.

“You know,” he murmurs after a beat, “sometimes I remember things that didn’t happen. Or maybe they did. It’s like… pieces of a puzzle that don’t belong to the same picture.”

You nod, quietly. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be sure right now.”

He looks at you, grateful but pained. “But I want to be. Especially with you.”

There’s something in his voice that cracks. Not loudly, not dramatically—but in the quiet way that feels like the soft crumble of stone, worn down by years of pressure. He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“I think I remember your laugh,” he says after a long moment. “Not the one they made you wear in front of cameras. The real one. From when you’d chase me down the beach because I stole your towel. You always caught me. Always.”

A laugh does escape you now—quiet, surprised. “You were terrible at hiding. You’d always leave a trail of seashells behind you.”

His eyes open. They meet yours with something like wonder, as though he wasn’t sure if that memory was his or just another echo the Capitol forced into his head. But hearing it from you makes it real.

“I needed that,” he says. “I needed to know I didn’t make it all up.”

You don’t reach for him—he still flinches sometimes, and you won’t take that from him—but your voice is steady when you speak again.

“You didn’t. We were real. You and me. Before all of this.”

He nods. Slowly. Like it takes effort to believe it, but he’s trying.

“I’m still trying to find my way back to that,” he admits. “Back to the boy who thought a handful of seashells was enough to win you over.”

“You didn’t need seashells,” you whisper. “You already had me.”

The words hang between you, fragile but steady. And for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t look away.

You can hear the faint hum of pipes in the walls, the steady trickle of the reservoir below. Finnick hasn’t moved, still sitting close, still watching you like your presence is the only thing keeping him tethered to the present moment.

Then, he shifts. Just barely. His voice is tentative, searching.

“Can I ask you something else?”

You glance over at him, nodding once.

“That game,” he says. “Real or not?”

At first, you don’t answer. Your breath catches, your mind reeling back—not to this cold, hollow bunker, but to another time entirely. The way you’d sat with your back pressed to a door in the Capitol, shivering and broken, unable to sleep, to eat, to speak. And Finnick, kneeling in front of you with a look in his eyes that said he understood too much. More than he should have.

He was the one who made you look at him. Who asked the first question. “Your favorite food is salt-crusted crab, real or not?” And you blinked at him, confused and exhausted, before whispering, real.

“It’s real,” you say softly, voice thick. “You made it up on the second night. When I couldn’t stop crying.”

Finnick exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. His shoulders relax, just slightly.

“I thought maybe I imagined that,” he murmurs. “I wanted it to be real so badly I started thinking it was.”

You reach out, just enough to let your hand rest lightly on the edge of the wall between you. Not touching him—but close. “It was real. That game saved me, Finnick. You saved me.”

He goes quiet again, but there’s something different about it now. A flicker of hope trying to find shape.

Then, barely above a whisper, he says, “Do you think… you’d want to play it again? With me. Now.”

Your heart tightens, not with fear, but with that bittersweet kind of warmth that comes with remembering who someone used to be—and seeing traces of them still alive in front of you. Still trying.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’d like that.”

He doesn’t smile, not quite. But his lips twitch, and his eyes flicker with something close to light. He nods slowly, almost like he’s afraid to break the moment.

And then he asks—quiet, careful, like the boy from District 4 who once handed you a seashell and promised the ocean would always bring him back to you:

“Real or not: you used to hum sea shanties under your breath when you thought no one was listening.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a second it’s like nothing ever changed.

“Real,” you say. “Only when I missed home.”

Finnick’s gaze softens. He leans his head back against the wall again, letting that answer settle inside him like a wave returning to shore.

“Your turn,” he murmurs.

The game continues on in the silence between you, questions lingering like whispers in the space you’ve carved out together. You take turns, each answer grounding you a little more in the reality of the present. The past is never far, but for once, it feels like something you can touch without fear.

As the minutes stretch into an hour, the world outside fades away. There are no more games, no more masks, no more Capitol pressures—just two people, sitting in the quiet glow of shared memories, leaning on the simple comfort of each other's company.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe in something real again.

[joelsgoldrush]

➽ summary: To love is to cherish, to endure, to fight. But to love is also to forget—at least, for you and Logan. Despite countless attempts to erase the part of yourselves that yearns to find completion in each other, you always end up back where it all began: the moment your eyes first met his—the moment everything changed.

➽ word count: 12.4k words

➽ warnings/tags: mdni smut 18+ angst. fluff. feels. enemies to lovers. petnames. multiple focalizors/POVs. memory loss. x1 logan. mutant!reader. flashbacks. dirty talk. oral (f and m receiving). fingering. thigh riding. unprotected p in v. missionary. doggy. creampie. cum swallowing.

➽ a/n: inspired by “eternal sunshine of the spotless mind”, one of the most hauntingly beautiful (and life-changing) films ever made. i took some creative liberties when it came to charles' powers, so just follow along. i’d love to know your thoughts on this one, hope you like it as much as i do! <3

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. Each prayer accepted and each wish resigned.

Alexander Pope.

Logan thinks Jean is speaking to him, but her words dissolve into fragments, lost before they reach him. Her reddish lips shape the vowels and consonants with precision, yet the meaning is drowned out by the pulse in his ears. She’s agitated, her long strides barely matching his pace, heels striking the wooden floor in a staccato rhythm.

A few children peek their heads out from their rooms, curiosity tugging at their expressions as the tension unravels in the hallway. Had it always stretched this far into eternity? It feels as though he’s been walking it for centuries now.

If Jean Grey is the embodiment of grace and intellect, then Logan carries the weight of all the world’s stubbornness. It clings to him like a birthright. Defying her beliefs—or anyone’s—is as instinctual as breathing. She’s trying to dissuade him, to talk him out of this reckless act: asking Charles to meddle in what she’s called his personal issues. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, focusing instead on the steady cadence of his steps toward the man’s office, each one heavier with purpose.

Jean’s voice grows sharper, her warnings echoing in his mind. This is a mistake. You’ll regret it. You’ll want to undo it. Don’t be stupid, Logan. Don’t do this to her—don’t do this to yourself.

But her protests are futile. The cards have already been laid out. Only meters from the door, he comes to a sudden halt. Jean, caught mid-stride, almost stumbles into his back. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers across her face. Maybe, just maybe, she’s convinced him to reconsider. A tentative smile begins to form on her lips, until he turns to her with a look so unyielding, it steals the breath from her lungs.

She has never seen him like this. This resolute, this… haunted. His jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed so tightly it seems etched in stone. There’s no trace of relief or satisfaction in his expression. Only the grim determination of a man about to pass a point of no return.

Why is he doing this? Soon, there will be hands prying into his thoughts, a marauder pulling apart his memories. Think about her. Now think about this moment. What do you remember? Each memory bearing your name, inked into his unconscious, will be inspected, cataloged, and then erased.

A mind already scarred will be stripped even further, the void swallowing everything. It has to come from a place of self-loathing, he thinks, because no reasonable explanation suffices. Perhaps he’s always been this broken, this damaged, and it was only a matter of time before he sought refuge in the very solution that had once been his calvary.

“I’ve made my choice,” he says with a tilt of his head which aims to deliver a tacit message: stay back. Don’t follow me. I have to do this. I need to.

So this is what it feels like, he thinks to himself, to willingly want to forget, to crave oblivion. To stop caring.

His fist hovers over the door, but he doesn’t have to knock. Charles’s been waiting for him. His voice resonates behind Logan’s eyelids, calm and inescapable. Come in.

“Coward.”

That’s the last thing he hears before he steps into the office, leaving her behind.

The first time you saw him, he was a contained storm, seconds away from coming undone in front of a rather small audience. Hardly the most convenient introduction.

You were in Charles’ office, attending one of his Physics lessons—not because you needed to. He’d already taught you these principles long ago, in a different time, under different circumstances. But lately, Charles had been trying to delegate some of his responsibilities, hoping to carve out time for the pressing matters that demanded his full attention. Ever the sweetheart, you’d offered to help, stepping in to take over this class.

Which is why you spent those past few weeks studying him—not just his teaching style, but the way he presented the topics: the analogies he drew, the subtle inflections in his tone. You’d promised yourself perfection, committed to live up to his standard, and that was exactly what you were working toward.

The sound of a door slamming shattered the flow of the lesson. A man burst into the room as though escaping from some unseen predator, shutting the door with a loud, final thud. He didn’t turn to face you. Instead, he lingered by the door, chest pressed against it, his ragged breathing filling the silence. The students abandoned whatever fragments of attention they had left for the class—this new stranger was far more compelling.

And, truthfully, he’d caught your attention, too.

You hesitated, fists clenching slightly at your sides, bracing for something you couldn’t name. A familiar voice cut through your thoughts, grounding you: This is the man I’ve been telling you about.

Apparently, this was Logan Howlett in the flesh. You certainly didn’t expect Charles’ newest recruit to look like this. 

“Good morning, Logan,” Charles greeted him when the man finally spun around. From this distance, you could see the tension carved into his features, the crease in his forehead betraying his distress. Charles, still composed, redirected his focus to the students. “I’d like your definitions of weak and strong anthropic principles on my desk on Wednesday, all right? That’ll be all.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, gathering their belongings in a flurry of notebooks and murmured goodbyes, barely sparing you a glance as they shuffled out. You offered them a tight-lipped smile, lifting a hand in acknowledgment, but your attention was drawn elsewhere. Logan was looking at you—or rather, through you—with a gaze that felt assessing. You never quite met his eye.

He stood there barefoot, dressed only in a sweater and sweatpants, his breath still uneven. Disoriented. His eyes swept across the room, his expression distant yet guarded, as though he was questioning the reality of it all. Considering the way he carried himself, it almost seemed like this was his first encounter with other mutants—but you knew better.

At some point, Charles decided to break the tension. “I’m Charles Xavier,” he began, his tone inviting. “Would you like some breakfast?”

But, of course, his cordiality and kindness were dismissed, being met with a gruff, “Where am I?”

“Westchester, New York,” Charles replied evenly, maneuvering his wheelchair closer. “You were attacked. My people brought you here for medical attention.”

You hadn’t been part of the mission that led to this moment; that had been Scott and Storm. In fact, you hadn’t even met Logan or the girl they’d brought with him—Rogue, as you later learned. Although at the time, rooted in the aftermath, you stepped forward, bridging the distance between yourself and Logan. You extended a hand toward him, offering your name with a cautious smile. “Nice to meet you.”

The gesture lingered awkwardly in the air, refusing even the pretense of acknowledgment. His eyes locked on yours, piercing and unrelenting, and for a brief moment, you wondered if this was his way of dissecting you. Then his gaze shifted back to Charles, impatience dripping from every word he uttered. “I don’t need medical attention. Where’s the girl?”

Oh. So that’s how he wants to play this. You withdrew your hand, doing your best to mask the sting of rejection as you pivoted on your heels and returned to your place beside Charles. “Jerk,” you muttered, low enough that it almost drowned beneath your breath, fussing with your sleeves in a vain effort to seem unaffected.

He didn’t miss it. His expression hardened, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Come again?”

To end the exchange right there, Charles cleared his throat, effectively steering the conversation into a different direction. Seizing the opportunity, he wheeled himself closer to the brown-haired man, his composure intact. What you admired about him was his self-control, something you’d tried to master in the years spent under his guidance without success. Yet, you couldn’t fathom how he managed not to tell Logan to just fuck off. “About Rogue, she’s doing fine.”

Logan arched a brow, his sneer cutting through the air like a blade. “Really?” You couldn’t grasp how he could hold so much bitterness toward a person he barely knew. His voice was thick with condescension, and a dozen sharp retorts swirled in your mind, each one eager to escape your lips. Your mouth parted to respond on Charles’ behalf, but he beat you to it.

“You’re in my school for the gifted. For mutants.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the dense air. Even the act of breathing felt strained, a soundless tug-of-war for the air around you. “You do know you’re not the only one with gifts, don’t you?”

“Is that what you tell those kids?” Logan’s scoff was a window into his beliefs. “That they have gifts?” 

“It’s no more than the truth.”

“Yeah? Truth my ass.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The words escaped you before you could stop them, fury flaring in your chest. You stepped forward, the crackling heat of frustration coursing through your veins, ending in your fingertips. His blank stare only fanned the flames. “We took you in. We saved your life. How about showing a little fucking gratitude?”

Logan advanced, and his eyes bored into yours with a stinging glint of smugness. “I don’t remember asking to be saved.”

Your jaw tightened. You could’ve cracked a tooth as well. “Well, the least you can do is not act like a complete prick.”

A hand encircled your wrist, its grip firm but soothing. Charles’ touch anchored you, grounding you back in the moment. Your breath faltered, tearing your gaze away from Logan’s eyes to meet Charles’ calm expression.

“Don’t be so hard on our guest, my dear,” he murmured, as if the hostility in the room didn’t exist. It could’ve also been that he was too practiced at disarming it. He didn’t bother to glance at Logan, speaking as though the man was just a shadow. “Give him some time. He needs it.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you bowed your head. You sidestepped Logan without another word, avoiding his presence like he was a flame that threatened to scorch. The tension clung to your skin, and you flung the room.

From that day on, Logan becomes the only subject you seem capable of discussing.

It’s everything about him—his walk, his voice, the sheer audacity of his existence—that drives you to the brink of madness. You tell yourself to let it go, to not let it eat away at you, but your mind refuses to cooperate. Each day, it does a stellar job of reminding you that you now share the same roof as a man with forks for hands.

Logan is, undeniably, the source of your every frustration.

“He’s an idiot,” you grumble around a bite of your lunch, settling into one of the chairs in the kitchen. Scott, Ororo, and Jean are gathered around the table with you, savoring a rare break before the afternoon classes pull them back into their routines. “I can confirm it.”

“Trust me, we know,” Ororo snaps, her tone more cutting than you expected. The words catch you off guard, and you pause, napkin halfway to your lips, to lift your eyebrows in surprise. “Look, I’m sorry,” she continues, her voice softening just a fraction, “but could you please talk about something else? It’s been Logan this, Logan that, for weeks now.”

“I think I understand what she means,” Scott chimes in, his tone lighter, nearly playful. You lift your hand for a high five, and he obliges with a grin, stealing a laugh from you.

“See? He gets it!”

Leaning back in his chair, your friend shakes his head. “I must admit I don't like the guy either. He’s—”

Jean’s elbow shoots out, jabbing Scott in the ribs just as Logan crosses the kitchen threshold. Scott’s indignant “Hey!” is muffled by your exaggerated cough, though it does little to mask the smirk threatening to break across your face.

How does the saying go? Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Logan’s eyes sweep across the room, his silence louder than the faint hum of the refrigerator. He strides toward the cupboard with methodical ease, and Storm bites her lip to stifle a laugh once she catches you watching him far longer than you should have. His back muscles tense and flex as he stretches his arms, the white tank clinging tighter with every movement.

“Please, don’t stop talking just because of me,” he remarks, his voice gravelly as he rummages through the cupboard, his focus presumably on some elusive snack. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

Your response comes out of instinct, words laced with irritation. “It’s hard not to,” you retort curtly, putting down your sandwich with a firm slap of your palms against your jeans.

That gets his attention. Logan turns around to confront you, a flicker of amusement twitching at the edges of his mouth. It’s that toothy smile of his that sets your blood simmering. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You jump to your feet, matching his intensity. “Such a pity I can’t say the same about you.” Without missing a beat, you step closer, snatching the bag of chips he’s holding. Hiding them behind your back, tilting your head in mock innocence, and then saying, “Oops.”

His brows draw upward, though his tone stays measured, as if speaking to a child. “C’mon,” he replies, making a half-hearted grab for the bag. “How old are you? Twelve?”

Unable to suppress the grin threatening to break free, you rest your back against the counter. “We both know you can do much better than that.”

Already preparing yourself for the lecture Ororo’s going to unload on you the moment he leaves, you watch as Logan exhales sharply. His irritation is palpable in the way he leans in, one hand planting itself on the counter behind you, his frame eclipsing yours. The proximity is electric, his scent, a mix of leather and something woodsy, fogging your senses. Hazel eyes, so deep you could drown in them, peer down at you, as he attempts to strip away every layer you’re desperately trying to hold together.

Safe to say, it’s working. Damn it. 

“Alright,” he finally says, tapping his fingers against the cool surface. “What do you want from me?”

Your galloping heartbeat is a major detail you choose to ignore, instead turning to the others for support. With an exaggerated motion, you point to each of your friends in turn. “Ororo and Scott were the ones who found you that day,” you start, trailing off, “and Jean ran a ton of tests on you to make sure you were okay. Have you even bothered to thank them for their hospitality?”

You believe you can joke with him—it’s how you usually bond with others, how most of your friendships have started. But you can’t help questioning if Logan can even get your sense of humor. The room falls silent, and his eyes flicker, just briefly, to your friends. 

“You’re right, you’re right. My bad, princess.” One of his big, manly lands on your shoulder, the pressure of it too casual, too familiar, working the muscle there. Your fingers slacken around the bag of chips, the feeling of his touch making it harder to maintain your grip. “Guys, I’m deeply sorry for my lack of amiability. Hope you can forgive me.” The sarcasm is thick in his voice, but it’s the sensation that clings to you, that doesn’t seem to fade—the warmth of it seeping through the layers of your clothes, pressing into your skin, stubbornly refusing to fade.

His hand leaves only when he yanks the bag from your grasp, and the warmth that had been just beside you evaporates with his retreat. In an instant, he’s already pulling away, his parting words a careless “See you around,” tossed over his shoulder.

No one dares to speak after that. Because to speak would be to acknowledge what has just happened. Your stomach has turned into a knot, that kind of knot sailors make that are impossible for beginners to undo. Logan’s fingers left a burn in your shoulder. Can you still smell him, the trail he left? Scott is the first to speak after a minute or so. “What… was that?”

“I have no clue,” Jean says between bites, staring reflectively at you. “Care to elaborate?”

Your tongue feels heavy, your throat parched. Even if you tried, a rational explanation wouldn’t come.

Ever since you were a child, you had yearned to grow up, to experience love as only adults could. In your young, unformed mind, it all seemed like a simple equation: adults dated; adults embraced love in the flesh; adults reveled in freedoms that children could only dream of, waiting patiently for their time to come.

And you did grow up. You did fall in love. But now he’s forgotten you, and nothing could have prepared you for that kind of ending. It wasn’t the closure you would have chosen, not the goodbye you imagined for you and Logan.

You find yourself caught in the in-between—not quite a child, yet not fully an adult either. Because surely, an adult would know how to handle this pain. An adult would find a way to cope. But you feel small. Weak. Hopeless.

It leaves you wondering just how much you are willing to forsake.

More weeks go by, and Logan remains in the mansion, defying the departure you’d expected. Part of you is relieved. He moves through the halls like a shadow, his eyes always on Rogue: checking on her, observing her interactions with the rest of the students at the mansion. She’s thriving, really. Blending in with her peers, forming bonds, especially with a boy named Billy. They are quite the pair.

Yet, despite Rogue’s happiness, Logan can’t seem to shake the grim air that surrounds him, an aura that emanates a quiet kind of disgust.

One night, you’re flipping through channels in the living room, stopping when an old love movie catches your attention. You place the remote down on a cushion, and pull your knees up to your chest, the murmur of the characters’ voices the only sound in the otherwise hushed room. You don’t think anyone else is awake at this hour.

 “Can’t sleep?”

There he is again. Always intruding, always finding his way back to you. The predator creeping into the vixen’s nest. He moves closer, slowly, and you lift your gaze to him, replying, “Actually, I’m a sleepwalker.”

Your comment earns a half-smile from Logan as he drops onto the couch beside you, his leg brushing against yours momentarily, worn denim against bare skin. His attention shifts to the TV, to the grainy images of the film playing out. You steal a glance at him, tracing the hard lines of his side profile.

“Feelin’ romantic tonight?” he asks.

“Not precisely,” you retort, fingers toying with the frayed edges of the blanket pooled at your feet. “There’s nothing else on. Sometimes you have to make do with what’s there.” Your gaze drifts back to him, lingering just a second too long before you add, “What about you? Any ghosts keeping you up?”

“You could call them that,” he says after a pause, his face still angled away. It must be easier to speak to you with this thin, invisible wall between you. “I have nightmares.”

“So you’re the one screaming at two in the morning?”

“Exactly. That’s me.” He ends up meeting your gaze, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, harboring an emotion he doesn’t voice. “M’sorry if I ever woke you up.”

“I’m usually awake at that time, too.” Your eyes flick to the screen. The couple in the movie bursts out of a building into the rain, their body language unmistakably revealing the heated argument unfolding between them. The man, clad in a raincoat, removes it to cover the woman, his supposed girlfriend. She’s visibly upset, but accepts the gesture nevertheless. “You can always knock on my door if you need anything. Unless I’m snoring—then I’ll be useless.”

Logan clicks his tongue, his focus shifting to the film as well. The man shouts, ‘Because I love you, for God’s sake!’ He casts a glimpse in your direction, his expression unreadable. “Same goes for you.” The woman in the film responds with a strangled, ‘Then prove it!’

“Anytime?”

“Anytime.”

The man cradles the woman’s face before kissing her. She throws her arms around his neck, and the music swells, evolving into a much more melodic song. A chorus of angelic voices replaces the earlier tense harmony. The camera lingers on every angle of their kiss, every desperate touch, as the world outside their embrace ceases to exist.

“This is cheesy,” Logan mutters, his heel bumping against the floor in repeated, short motions. Is he nervous?

“Yeah, so cheesy,” you reply quickly, pulling the blanket over your lap and curling into yourself. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking about kissing you, not even remotely, but you are.

A quiet yawn escapes you, and you rub your fist against your eyes, sleep beginning to take over your body. Logan catches it, his own yawn following like a reflex. “Looks like the movie’s workin’ wonders,” he quips.

You let out a drowsy giggle. “Shut up,” you murmur, but then he’s inching closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. His warmth seeps through, and after a few seconds of hesitation, you allow yourself to lean into his frame, resting your head on his arm. It’s awkward, your neck already protesting the angle, but you accept it. You’ll take the stiffness tomorrow without complaint, because this moment is worth it.

It won’t last long, though, this rare tenderness. These nights, the quiet ones, are when Logan opens up the most—when Jean and Storm aren’t around, when it’s just the two of you. That’s when he approaches you, like a wary black cat testing the waters. But he doesn’t need to tread carefully. Not with you.

“What if I were to fall asleep… hypothetically?” Your eyelids grow heavier with each blink, the pauses between each one stretching longer. Your cheek nuzzles against him, seeking warmth, and you feel the subtle tug of his hand as he pulls the blanket over his legs as well.

“Hypothetically,” he begins, rasping his words near your temple, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Within moments, sleep claims you. You never find out what happens after that, but he stays, trailing quietly behind. No nightmares or shadows from his past dare to haunt him that night.

It was inevitable that an encounter like that would spiral into something more. You weren’t naïve. You could connect the dots, and the picture was clear: Logan wanted you, too. Desire often walked a fine line, and from hatred to something else, it’s hardly a leap—just a small, barely perceptible step. It could change with the shift of light, from dawn to dusk. But you’d need the strength to cross that line, to be bold enough to make the first move.

And now, with the sun already dipped below the horizon, taking its long-awaited rest after a full day of burning up in the sky, you find yourself alone in the kitchen, though you hadn’t started that way. Scott had lingered for a while, insisting he didn’t mind keeping you company. You’d thanked him with a polite smile before subtly nudging him out. It hadn’t taken much—just a few hints. Simplicity at its finest.

At the table, a neat pile of student papers spreads before you. Your pen dances across the pages, leaving corrections and grades in its wake. It’s then that he appears. He doesn’t speak at first, but his presence saturates the room like a shadow stretching across the floor. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him; it must be the unspoken familiarity of how he fills a space. Or maybe it’s just how attuned you’ve become to his every movement.

Logan leans in behind you, close enough that you feel the heat he radiates at your back. His low hum sends a shiver down your spine as he peers over your shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be playin’ the teacher?”

Your grip on the pen tightens, a small tremor in your fingers giving away the tension pooling in your stomach. You exhale softly, blowing on the fresh ink. “Would you prefer to have me doing something else?”

Smugness prickles at the edges of your words, but the resolve in your chest is faltering.

“Now that you mention it…” His voice dips, grating next to the shell of your ear as his chest brushes your back. His presence is magnetic, the scrape of his beard scratching your skin while he tilts your head to one side. His fingers sweep your hair over your shoulder, lips mapping the nape of your neck, tasting your fevered skin. “I might have a few ideas in mind.”

Your breath hitches. You try for composure, but it wavers in your reply. “Really?” you ask, because playing dumb always has its merits, after all. “Want to show me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand moves deliberately, tracing a sensual, teasing path up your abdomen. His palm settles over one of your breasts, his thumb brushing the sensitive peak through your sweater. “I don’t think you’d want me to do it here,” he says, his voice thick with suggestion. “Too public for what I’ve got planned for you.”

You disentangle yourself from him, slipping off the chair with an unsteady grace, but Logan doesn’t give you time to find your feet. He smashes his lips with yours, the force of his kiss almost sending you reeling. His tongue presses insistently, seeking entry, as if the urgency in his touch could dissolve every barrier between you. He grabs your cheeks, holding you in place as though you might slip away, drawing you so close there’s barely space to breathe.

You’re caught off guard, not knowing where to put your hands, searching for purchase. The cold metal of the refrigerator handle digs into your lower back as he backs you against it, his groans reverberating through your mouth like a growled confession.

“My bedroom,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “Take me to my bedroom.”

Logan obliges, intertwining his fingers with yours. Together, you ascend the stairs, your laughter mingling in the noiseless night when he missteps and stumbles, momentarily breaking the spell. But he recovers quickly, finding your room in mere seconds. 

The door clicks shut behind you, and he presses you against the wood with a force you’d never experienced, his hands sliding down to grip your ass and knead the supple flesh with a possessive fervor. It all helps to feed the fire pooling in your core.

“Quiet, baby,” he whispers, slipping his fingers beneath the back of your sweatpants. His nails trace fiery lines along your skin, igniting your every nerve. “Don’t want anyone wakin’ up to those pretty sounds you make. They’re just for me, right?”

You nod frantically, longing for more, arching into his hands as your hips grind against his, your body moving with a will of its own. The friction is exquisite, a tantalizing promise. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his words laced with unfiltered hunger. “I’ve thought about havin’ you like this ever since I met you.”

His confession sends a surge of pride through your chest, an ache that feels equal parts affection and astonishment. Ever since the beginning? When he could barely look at you without scowling, his disdain practically tangible? “You hid it well,” you reply, breathless as you trace the outline of his erection over his jeans. The way it twitches under your undivided attention makes your pulse race. “I thought you hated me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter. “I thought the same about you,” he counters, before crushing his lips to yours once more. This time, you can’t help but smile into the kiss, your bodies moving as one, the pent-up tension between you unraveling in waves. “Guess we were both wrong.”

Your pants hit the floor in an unceremonious heap. It should embarrass you, how desperate and utterly needy you sound, the pleas spilling from your lips like the filthiest confessions. But the hunger in you is too vast, too insistent, drowning any possible flicker of shame. Decency was abandoned the moment you crossed that threshold. Logan nudges your legs apart with his knee, and the instant you feel him against your center, a contained sigh escapes you, half-resignation, half-surrender. Thought dissolves, leaving only instinct as you rock against him in slow circles, seeking relief.

“When was the last time someone took care of you?” He toys lazily with the waistband of your panties, like he has all the time in the world. You don’t give him an immediate answer, choosing instead to grind harder against his thigh, your breath hitching at the pressure. “Don’t go all shy on me now, sweetheart,” he says, dipping his head to mouth at your collarbone, the scent of his cologne heady and intoxicating. “Judging by the way you’re basically humpin’ me, I’d say it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t remember,” you blurt out, your head thudding against the door when his teeth nip at the delicate curve of your neck. Your pulse thrums beneath his lips, and you’re seconds from biting your tongue just to keep from crying out. “Stop teasing.”

Logan’s lips quirk up into a wicked smile against your skin, his knee retreating only to be replaced by his fingers, trailing them along the fabric covering your heat. “I like it when you get bossy. It reminds me why I like you so damn much.” He tugs the fabric of your underwear aside, the cool air hitting your wetness for only a moment before his fingers glide over your arousal, testing your patience. One digit slides into you, curling slightly as his palm presses over your mouth, muffling the whine that falls from your parted lips. “So wet for me, princess.”

Your legs shake under the weight of sensation, threatening to give out as you lean into the door for balance. His fingers move inside you with a sharp rhythm, hitting that spot with each furious thrust. The pressure builds, hot and insistent, and it’s overwhelming, but then he drops to his knees, and the sight alone sends a jolt through your core.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds is molten. He laps at you with long strokes, his pace never faltering, pumping his digits in sync with the flick of his tongue, coaxing every sound you’ve tried so hard to stifle. “Oh, fuck. Logan—” 

He groans against your core, his eyes remaining locked on your face, soaking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His focus is relentless, as though your reactions fuel him. You rake your hands through his hair, clutching at his dark locks with haste whenever his wet muscle lavishes extra attention on your clit, the intensity of his ministrations making your voice break, a choked gasp dying on your lips.

Your climax teeters on the edge, faster than you anticipated. “Close,” you manage to huff, the obscene noises he elicits driving you wild. “I’m gonna come. Please, come here—”

Logan detaches himself from you, standing tall with a fierce determination in his eyes. He’s set on pushing you over the edge with his fingers alone. His lips crash against yours, biting and licking, swallowing every desperate mewl that falls from your mouth, spit glistening down his chin. Three knuckles deep, coaxing your body to respond, your walls tighten around him, shuddering as he corners you against the door, the sharp edge of pleasure sending your knees buckling. Your orgasm washes over you, rendering you boneless in his hold. Limp and spent, you can barely return his kisses, panting harshly against his mouth, his arms the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

As you steady your breath, a satisfied smile tugs at your lips. Your eyes flicker down to his slick palm, and a rush of pride floods you. "That was amazing," you breathe, your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, reaching for his belt to tug at it. “My turn now.”

He ends up with his back pressed against the headboard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. You’re positioned between his legs, stimulating him over the fabric of his boxers. “It won’t take too long,” he says, and you feel the weight of his words more than hear them as you pull him free, revealing the hardness beneath. He’s already swollen, the tip wet with precum that coats your thumb as you stroke him once, feeling the heat pulse beneath your touch. A shiver runs through him, his legs stiffening as though on the edge of restraint. Bewitched by the size of him, you lean forward to slip the leaking head past your lips. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s difficult to take all of him at once, but you push through, your mouth stretching to accommodate his size. As you work him with your hand, your tongue traces the veins that snake along his length, feeling him throb. Logan’s body betrays him, his fists tightening around the sheets as if holding on to his last thread of control, desperately keeping his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck up into you.

“Honey, pull out,” he warns, stroking your back. “M’not jokin’. You’re gonna make me come.” But you don’t stop. Instead, you deepen your movements, cheeks hollowing as you take him with more enthusiasm, pushing him toward the back of your throat. When he realizes what you’re doing, a moan escapes him, laced with a dark laugh. “Filthy girl. So that’s what you want? To choke on my cum? Should’ve asked for it sooner.”

Not long afterwards, you feel the first splash of his release hitting your tastebuds. Ropes of his seed flood your mouth, some of it dribbling out to stain the corner of your lips. He watches, his thumb gently swiping over the edge, collecting what’s spilled, his eyes never leaving yours as he moves.

“Show me,” he asks, still breathless. You lean closer, your faces a whisper apart, and then you part your lips, revealing the evidence of your devotion like a masterpiece on display. His fingers find your chin, holding you there as he bites into his lower lip, the pressure turning the skin pale. “Now swallow,” he commands, and you obey, the motion deliberate, your satisfaction mirrored in the curve of his grin. He kisses you languidly, as if savoring the moment. “Where have you been all my life?”

The question invites countless answers, but you choose to murmur, “Down the hallway.”

“Logan, are you even listening?”

Charles’ voice slices through the playful moment, forcing Logan’s hands to still against your sides. The team sits around the table, embroiled in serious discussions that demand focus and discipline. Yet Logan’s fixation on you has rendered him deaf to anything beyond the sound of your laughter. Not a single word of the last hour and a half has stuck, his mind entirely preoccupied by the warmth of you perched on his lap.

He’d insisted he was much more comfortable than any chair, and you’d indulged him, leaning into his chest as his fingers danced teasingly along your ribs. “Of course I am,” Logan drawls, though the way his hand resumes tracing lazy circles on your stomach says otherwise, his entire attention remaining fixed on you.

“I don’t think you are,” Charles counters, leaning forward with both palms flat on his desk. His sharp gaze locks to you, narrowing faintly. “Do I need to seat you two on opposite ends of the room, or can you manage to behave?”

You stiffen in response, the easy comfort of moments ago evaporating. Sliding off Logan’s lap, you settle into the nearest chair, your departure catching him off guard. Your eyes meet his subtly, and you offer him an apologetic smile. Beneath the table, your fingers squeeze his knee, a silent reassurance. Finally, you direct your attention to Charles, straightening in your seat as if to demonstrate your newfound focus.

Logan, however, is less cooperative. His arms cross over his chest, and a crease forms between his brows, the picture of rebellion. Nothing that Charles says registers in his brain. All he can think about is how much better it felt to have you on his lap, where you weren’t bothering anyone. He contents himself with watching you now, contemplating your profile and the way your fingers absentmindedly tap against your notebook.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. It’s not the same. You’ve been dating for a month, much to the surprise of everyone in the mansion. It’s as if the idea of the two of you together had never even crossed their minds. Not even Rogue believed it when she came to ask Logan if the rumors were true. He hadn’t known how to respond to her, caught between mirth and disbelief himself.

It’s been decades since he’s felt this alive. He’s head over heels for you in a way that’s exhilarating. Seeing you, even across a crowded room, lights a fire in him, and he has to actively fight the urge to walk over, pull you close, and kiss you senseless right there in front of your friends.

As the meeting finally draws to a close, Charles asks him to stay for a while. “I just need to have a quick word with you,” he says, waiting until the others leave.

Once you’re out of earshot, Charles sighs, shaking his head like an exhausted parent addressing his wayward child. “Look, I’m glad you two worked through your differences,” he begins, a note of cautious joviality in his tone, “but this... well, this is the opposite of that.”

Logan exhales wearily, rolling his eyes before he can stop himself, and regretting it instantly. Don’t shrug him off, his inner voice scolds him. “C’mon, Charles. You’re overreactin’.”

The man arches a brow. “Am I? Watching the two of you cuddling during a meeting feels like chaperoning teenagers. Honestly, I must admit you’re even worse than them at times.”

That remark lands harder than Logan expects. He opens his not-so-smart-mouth, ready with a retort, but no words come out. For once, his quick wit fails him, leaving him standing there in uncharacteristic silence.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Charles’ eyes fall shut. “Just… try to be more present, alright? And don’t distract her, or yourself, too much. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Later, when he recounts the conversation to you, you start pacing nervously across his bedroom, your teeth worrying at your nails.

“Maybe he’s right,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Darlin’—”

“I just don’t want him to be angry with us,” you cut him off, arms dropping to your sides in defeat. Turning toward him, you sit down on the edge of his bed, your shoulder brushing his as your eyes bore into the carpet. “Do you think we should... give each other some space?”

Your suggestion feels like a punch to his gut. He sits up straighter, hands finding their way to your hips as he guides you onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. “I think we’re fine the way we are,” he says, tipping his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours in a loving gesture, coaxing a small smile from you. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Are you happy with me?”

You nod—once, twice, like it’s the only answer you could possibly give. “I love you,” you whisper, the words trembling, your lips curving into a smile that he feels against his own when he kisses you.

“God,” he grumbles against your mouth, long fingers tightening on your hips. “I never get tired of hearin’ that.” Logan cups your ass through your clothes, rocking you against him, and a groan escapes his throat as your center presses against his half-hard cock. “Say it again,” he rasps, his voice wanting.

“I love you,” you breathe, your head falling back when his hands move to unbutton your shirt, his touch reverent and greedy all at once. “I love you so much.”

Before you know it, he’s rolled you onto your back, hovering above you as he peels away the layers between you. He can’t comprehend how he got so lucky, how he gets to have you like this every day, so pliant and eager beneath his body. Your whimpers grow softer, more airy, but even then, you’re still whispering how madly in love you are with him.

This is a memory he’ll hold on to when Charles inevitably asks him to reconsider—to think about what’s best for both you and him. Fragile moments like this will slip through his fingers, but for now, they’re his to cherish.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

It turns out that love doesn’t come neatly wrapped in perfection. No—it’s a chaotic blend of tender glances and fiery clashes, of whispered promises and cutting comebacks. It’s arguments that sting as much as they heal, moments that don’t glitter but still matter, making the difference.

“Fuck off!” you snap, shoving the door against its frame, trying to shut him out. But Logan’s hand wedges in the gap, his strength effortlessly outmatching yours. “Get out, Logan.”

“No.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” he grits through clenched teeth, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Behind him, Jean calls your name, but he doesn’t turn. “Not now, Jean!” His voice echoes down the hall, and the sound of her retreating steps leaves the air tense.

You’ve already crossed the room, standing by the window. The sunlight filters through, painting your silhouette in warm flickers. Outside, the kids are in their break, passing a ball, their laughter carried by the breeze. Logan moves toward you, his presence heavy, and you hold up a hand to stop him.

“I’m going on that mission,” you say firmly.

“No, you’re not.”

Your head snaps toward him, a storm unraveling in your gaze. “Charles wants me there. The team wants me there,” you shoot back, jabbing a finger into his chest with each word, “and most importantly, I want to go. You don’t get to decide for me.”

Logan doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch. He can’t understand how you don’t see his side of things, how the thought of you being in danger like this twists his insides into knots. “I can’t lose you.”

“Logan—”

“No, you don’t get it!” The words burst out of him. “What if something happens to you? What if you get hurt, and we can’t get you back in time?” His fists clench at his sides, fighting the need to pull you into his arms, to feel that you’re still here with him, still safe. “It’d kill me, because I love you with everything that I am. Just thinkin’ about losin’ you makes me sick.”

Your expression softens, but only for a moment. You take a step in his direction, closing the space between you. There’s no hesitation in your tone when you speak, leaving space for conviction. “I had a life before you, Logan. I’ve been here since I was a child, learning how to fight, how to survive. I’ve gone on missions for years—missions that were just as dangerous as this one. I don’t need you to protect me like this.” Your voice wavers, just barely. “I appreciate that you care, but I’m just as capable as you are.”

How long can someone hold their breath? Logan doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until your arms encircle his waist, your embrace melting the tension that’s been coiling in his chest. You bury your face against him, your breath steadying, and he draws a long breath, pressing his lips to your forehead like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a softness that feels almost out of place after the heated exchange.

“You get so bossy sometimes.”

"I thought you said you liked me bossy," you answer, your voice low, laced with mixed feelings, as you look up at him through hooded eyes.

Logan’s lips twitch into what aims to simulate a smile, but it’s weighed down by the sadness pooling in his gaze. It doesn’t reach the crinkle of his eyes, doesn’t carry the warmth it usually does. 

“I do,” he says, his voice rough, barely audible, brushing a thumb across your cheek. The words hang between you, carrying a plea for things to feel less heavy, for this closeness to fix what words can’t.

The arguments come more frequently now. The love hasn’t faded—of course, it hasn’t—but it feels buried beneath the noise. You and Logan clash over everything, over nothing, over things neither of you can quite name, all the fucking time.

It’s a cycle that none of you can seem to break, passion feeding the fire until it burns too bright, too hot. One of you always storms out, slamming doors or throwing words that linger in the air like acid smoke. And yet, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how lost you both feel, the love is still there. Aching, waiting for the dust to settle.

You tell yourself it’s just a rough patch. That love like this isn’t easy, that it’s supposed to be messy. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too long after another fight, you can’t help but wonder how much more the two of you can take before something breaks for good.

Lust becomes your apology, an untamed collision of anger and desire that you can’t resist. It’s not gentle—it’s frenzied and blazing. The bed creaks beneath you, the sounds of your moans and the slap of his hips against your ass enveloping the room. Every thrust drives you closer, the ferocity of it making your head bump into the headboard, but all you can think about is how full he makes you feel.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry out, drooling all over the pillow, ass high up in the air as Logan continues to pound into you. He pulls out all of a sudden, making you gasp in protest. That’s when you feel his tongue against your slit, eating you out from behind, spreading your cheeks to see just how much further he can go. Your hand flies back, pressing him into your skin. “So good, baby. F-fuck.”

There’s no leaving him, not even in your wildest dreams. When he spills inside you, you always ask him to hold you close, whispering for him to stay there. To keep you full of him. And he does, fusing your body with the mattress, his weight anchoring you to the pleasure he knows how to grant you. 

But then, it’s morning. The sun filters through the curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets, and you’re tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist. You stare at the ceiling, your mind crawling back to the fight, to the anger that seemed so vital only hours ago. You have to force yourself to remember why you were so mad in the first place. As his hand slides over your hip, pulling you toward him, the memory slips further away.

Dating Logan means understanding the darkness he carries, the nightmares he has almost every night. Usually, you’re woken by his movements, his rambling, the tremors that run through his body. You’ve perfected a way of rousing him gently, pulling him from the grip of whatever horrors his mind conjures without causing him more harm.

Though tonight, you must’ve been drained. You didn’t notice the moment the nightmare began.

“Honey? Oh, fuck. Wake up, c’mon.” His voice pulls you from the depths of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open and adjust to the dim light, the first thing you see is Logan, sitting rigid, staring at your arm as though it’s breaking him apart. The pain in his gaze is nearly palpable.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice groggy as you sit up, still partly disoriented. “Logan, are you okay?”

Then you see it: Blood. Dark stains seeping into the sheets, trailing from a jagged cut running the length of your forearm. It isn’t deep, and oddly, it doesn’t even hurt that much. But Logan looks stricken, his eyes flickering between your wound and his own hands.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt,” you assure him as you fumble to grab the ruined sheets, bundling them up to contain the mess. Reaching for the lamp on the nightstand, you switch it on, bathing the room in a golden glow. That’s when you notice the droplets of blood on his knuckles, the torn skin where his claws must have pierced through. This has never happened before. Neither of you know what to say or how to react. When you reach for his hand, he recoils, shaking his head like he’s trying to will the scene away. “Hey, don’t do that.” 

“I knew it’d happen eventually.” He’s spiraling, rising to his feet. A man trying to escape himself. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his chest and back, his body tense with the effort of holding his pieces together. Turning to face you, his expression is the embodiment of torment. In his eyes, it’s as though the prophecy has been confirmed, irrevocably, by his own doing. “I hurt you. I told you it was going to happen.”

“Why are you acting like this?” you ask, pushing yourself off the bed to meet him. You’re tired, too tired to be arguing like this. “It won’t happen again.”

“How can you be so sure? You said the same thing before, and now look. Look at where we are.”

You’re at a loss for how to calm him. The exhaustion weighing on you makes your thoughts sluggish, and you’re afraid of saying something you’ll regret. But giving up isn’t an option—not with him, not because of this. Slowly, you step back and spin in place, letting him see you fully, the wound and all.

“You see? I’m fine,” you insist. “I’m not hurt. Please, Logan, believe me when I say I’m okay.”

He doesn’t respond, but the uncertainty etched into his face lingers. For a moment, you think you’ve reassured him, as he lets you guide him back to the bed. Together, you pull the sheets up to cover your bodies, and he leans into the pillows with a weary sigh. He mutters something about being sweaty, so you don’t rest your head on his chest as usual, settling into the curve of his shoulder instead. The rhythm of his breathing, uneven at first, begins to steady.

At some point, the warmth of his body disappears. You stir faintly, but your mind is too clouded by sleep to register it as anything more than the remnants of a rather vivid dream.

Logan remains standing, staring at Charles, refusing the invitation to sit down. “You told Jean,” he says, and the other man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even attempt to deny it. “I asked you to keep it between us.”

“I thought she might help you reconsider,” Charles answers, looking more serious than usual, his piercing eyes fixed on Logan. “Logan, I still don’t believe this is the right path for you. It’s not the solution to your problems. You can’t run from her, from this—relying on forgetting won’t bring you peace.”

Who really knows what’s best for him? Logan certainly doesn’t. After all these decades of walking the earth, what has he truly learned? His long life feels like a cruel irony, offering time without clarity. What use is immortality when you’re paralyzed by indecision, unsure of what you truly want?

“I can’t leave her. At least, not willingly,” he explains, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the arm of a chair, the gesture lacking finesse. “She’ll get over it. She’s stronger than she thinks.”

“You’re deciding for her.”

To that, Logan has no reply. He only looks away.

“When I got here, you told me you’d help with whatever I needed.” Logan crosses the room, lowering himself into a chair by Charles’ desk, his posture stiff. He lifts his chin slightly, trying to convey a confidence he doesn’t actually feel. “This is what I need you to do. Today.”

“Let’s start with your most recent memories and work backward from there.” Charles rolls himself closer, his chair nearly brushing Logan’s legs. “There’s an emotional core to every memory, and when you eradicate that core, it begins to degrade. By the time I’m done, those memories will have withered, as in a dream upon waking.”

Logan’s throat tightens at the description. There’s no comfort in Charles’ words. It doesn’t sound like a dream. It sounds like a nightmare.

“Do you want to proceed?”

“Yes.” Logan’s reply is immediate, though it scrapes his throat like gravel.

Charles nods once, solemnly. “Then tell me your most recent memory of her.”

I think I was preparing a class when she burst through the door, uninvited. I’d been trying to keep my distance from her, because of... well, all of this. But it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to leave, so I let her stay. She came up behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and asked if I had much left to do. I told her everything else could wait. Big mistake.

We were lying on my bed. Somehow, we always ended up there, tangled together. It wasn’t strictly... sexual. There’s something profoundly vulnerable about sharing that space. Snuggling, you could call it. Now that I think about it, she likes resting her head on my chest. Says it’s the best way to hear my heartbeat and find out if it matches hers.

“Focus, Logan.”

Yeah, I know. You’re right. Anyway, she asked me if I believed in soulmates, and I laughed. Obviously, she thought I was mocking her, so I had to convince her I wasn’t. I just thought the question was funny.

“Why did you laugh?”

Because it was exactly the kind of question she’d ask. She hadn’t before, but I’d been waiting for it. She told me she thought soulmates existed, and that I was hers. And I laughed again, and she threatened to leave. I held her tighter.

I told her I didn’t know if soulmates were real. I didn’t have that kind of certainty. What I did know, I said, was that I loved her. That was the only thing I was sure of. Soulmates or no soulmates, I loved her. I was right where I wanted to be. Those were my exact words.

“When did this happen?”

Yesterday. Before she left with Ororo and Scott for their mission. That’s why I’m choosing to do this now.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you again. Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Yes, Charles. Please, don’t ask me again.

Throwing open the mansion’s entry door, you let it swing wide as you step inside. You could use a shower, but right now, all you care about is finding him. Where is he?

Before starting your search, a cluster of students rushes toward you, their arms wrapping around your waist. Their laughter fills your senses as they chatter excitedly, hugging you tightly. “We missed you!” A boy exclaims, and you can’t help but smile, ruffling his hair.

“Have you seen Professor Logan?” you ask, crouching to meet the eye of one of the younger girls.

She grins, her innocent smile spreading, and she points toward the kitchen. “He’s in there.”

You thank her and make your way to the kitchen, your heart beating a little faster. You find him standing by the counter, slicing bread. His movements are methodical, his posture calm, but something feels off. You pause in the doorway, scrutinizing his face for a sign, any sign, that he’s happy to see you.

But his gaze flicks to you for only a brief moment, cool and detached, before returning to his task.

“Hey,” you call softly, tilting your head. His shoulders tense, and he doesn’t stop cutting. “I’m back,” you add, stepping closer, hoping for some sort of acknowledgment.

It takes him a few seconds to respond, and when he does, his voice sounds flat. “I see.” He opens a drawer, pulling out a fork. “Good for you, I guess.”

The words hit you like a slap. A joke, surely. But why? You take a hesitant step forward, your brows furrowing. “Logan, why—”

Before you can finish, a hand grabs yours, yanking you out of the kitchen. Startled, you turn to see Jean, her expression pale and stricken.

“Jean?” you ask, confused. “Is this another one of Logan’s pranks?”

Her lips twitch, and tears glisten in her eyes when she swallows thickly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I tried to stop him. I really did. But he—he wouldn’t listen!” Her hands tighten around yours, quivering. You’ve never seen her like this before.

“Wait—slow down,” you urge, your stomach twisting.

“I swear, I tried to talk him out of it,” she pleads, each of the words she utters rushing out like a flood. “You know how stubborn he can get.”

It doesn’t take too long for her panic to feel contagious. The pit in your abdomen deepens as you glance back toward the kitchen, where Logan stands just out of sight.

Something is wrong—terribly wrong.

“Jean, what did he do?”

Despite all his wisdom, Charles had known this moment would come the second he agreed to help Logan.

The door to his office flies open, slamming against the wall with a force that reverberates through the room. You storm in, your strides long and charged with anger, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Madness blazes in your eyes. “You did what?!”

“My dear—”

“You erased me from my boyfriend’s memory!” The words erupt from you, shaking the very air. You fling your arms wide, your fury spilling over. Before he can respond, you turn on his bookshelf, yanking ancient, cherished volumes from their resting places. One by one, you ignite them, flames devouring their fragile pages in an instant.

Then, there’s a momentary pause—a flicker of silence before you seize another book. This one you hurl in his direction, not quite at his face, but close enough to graze the air near his shoulder before it hits the floor with a heavy thud. The sound echoes, a physical punctuation to your rage.

“You made me disappear! He doesn’t fucking know who I am!”

His expression, pained and weary, holds no exasperation—only regret. “He asked me to do it.”

“What kind of an answer is that?” The question hangs underlined by the tears that stream down your face. Your voice breaks, the pain behind it cutting deeper than any accusation. “You could’ve said no, Charles. How many times have you denied me things?”

“You didn’t see him in the way I did, he was—” He stops himself, faltering. No words can repair what he has already destroyed. “I’m sorry.”

You stand there, breathing hard, the space between you filled with smoldering ash and a silence so loud it feels suffocating. The remains of his books lie scattered, the faint scent of burnt paper lingering in the air. Charles watches you, but he doesn’t move to stop you. He doesn’t fight you.

The fury ebbs, leaving behind a hollow ache that takes its place in your chest. “If you’re so willing to erase love like it’s nothing, then do it for me, too.”

Charles’s brows knit together. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Logan doesn’t remember me. I walk into a room, and he looks right through me. Like I’m a stranger, like I never mattered. So tell me, what’s the point in remembering him if he’s already forgotten me?”

“I don’t believe forgetting will give you the peace you’re looking for.”

“Is that what you told him as well? Clearly, it worked out well.”

Touché.

“I’ve already hurt you enough,” he whispers.

“And you’ll keep hurting me if you don’t do this. I can’t carry this alone.” You kneel in front of him, clutching the edge of his wheelchair. “If you could take it away from him, you can take it away from me, too.”

Charles stares down at you, his mouth tightening, as if the weight of your words presses down on him. His hands, usually so steady, shift uncomfortably in his lap. It’s clear he can’t believe this is the second time he’s found himself in this situation, faced with the same desperate request. “Are you sure?”

You nod your head. “He wanted to forget me. Now, I want to forget him.”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. “All right,” he says softly, though his voice carries a sadness he doesn’t try to hide. “But I need you to understand… once it’s done, there’s no going back.”

 “That’s the point.” You wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, as though erasing the tears could also erase the doubt creeping in.

“Then sit,” he counters, motioning to the chair Logan sat in days ago.

You hesitate for a moment, the finality of the act looming large. Slowly, you lower yourself into the chair, gripping its arms with all your earnest. Charles wheels himself closer, and the reality of what’s about to happen sets in.

“Tell me your last memory of him,” he says gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes, and the image surfaces instantly: Logan, holding you close, whispering that he loves you. No soulmates, no destiny—just love. You let out a shaky breath, your heart breaking all over again as you begin to recount it. “The last time he looked at me like I was his whole world.”

Charles nods, his expression unreadable, placing his hands on your temples. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I had to leave the next day, so I wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. My things were already packed. I walked into Logan’s room and asked him if he was busy. A week isn’t a lot, but ever since he moved here, we hadn’t been apart from each other. I was anxious about that. I thought it’d be so hard to fall asleep without him at night. What—oh, God, what’ll happen now?

“I need you to keep going, darling.”

Don’t call me that. 

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

I convinced him to lie in bed with me. I had my head on his chest, and he kissed my forehead. His beard scratched me in the right way. It never hurt or bothered me. I had once dated a guy who had a beard, and it was just so uncomfortable. But that wasn’t Logan’s case. He would kiss me and hug me, and it felt like the best thing in the world.

There was a question I’d been meaning to ask him. It was about soulmates, and the existence of them. I thought Logan was my soulmate, and I said it to him. I asked if he believed in them, but he laughed. He told me he wasn’t making fun of me or anything, just that he thought the question was funny.

Logan said he didn’t know whether soulmates existed or not, but he knew for a fact that he loved me. He didn’t care about anything else. He loved me. He really did. Do you think he loved me, Charles?

“Yes. I do believe so.”

Then why did you take that away from me?

“I’m sorry.”

I hate you.

“I know.”

Your head pounds, an ache that feels like it’s splitting you in two. It’s a pain unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink repeatedly until the world around you sharpens into focus.

Four blank walls. The stark, colorless void offers nothing but the oppressive weight of emptiness. This must be your mind, stripped bare. Somewhere in the depths of this space, Charles is at work, pulling threads and unraveling every memory of Logan.

You push yourself off the cold floor. A soundless shift disturbs the space—a door appears out of nowhere, its frame faintly glowing, and without hesitation, you reach for the handle and swing it open.

On the other side is a fragment of your past: that night months ago, sitting in the living room, watching a movie. Logan had decided to join you. The memory pulls you in, and suddenly, you’re no longer standing—you’re on the couch. Your clothes have altered to match that night. Logan sits beside you, the warmth of his presence impossibly real.

This moment feels untouched by time, but deep down, you know the truth. Charles is erasing it even as you relive it. Soon, this too will vanish.

The scene begins to warp. It’s no longer the movie on the screen. The couple has been replaced by you and Logan. You’re watching yourselves from a third perspective, your bodies framed by the flickering light of the TV. It’s deeply unsettling, but in this fragmented state of consciousness, it doesn’t feel worth questioning.

“Logan?”

“Tell me.”

You grab a cushion and smack him on the arm, the motion instinctive. “You idiot!”

“What was that for?” he asks, laughing as he takes the cushion from your hands, tossing it aside. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You erased me from your memory!” you accuse him, even as you know the futility of it. He’s merely a fragment, a faint echo of who he once was to you. A lingering shard of memory caught in the tangled wires of your brain, sparking as it teeters on the edge of a short circuit. “You’re not even real, are you?”

“No,” he admits, his voice tinged with something like regret. “I’m just in your mind. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. You’re just what’s left.” You lower your gaze, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How long do you think it’ll take Charles to erase you?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. The words you long for, the closure you might crave, are swallowed up. His lips vanish mid-formulation, and then you’re staring at a blank void where his mouth used to be. The rest of his features begins to fade—his eyes dissolve into nothingness, followed by his nose, his brows, the lines of his face. All that’s left is the space where he once sat, and even that feels tenuous.

You’re on your own now. The memory of him—of that night, the first time you truly shared an intimate moment—has been swept away like smoke in the wind. You collapse onto the floor, trembling as sobs tear through you, your hands pressed tightly against your face, attempting to contain your anguish. “I don’t want to forget you,” you choke out between hiccupped breaths, the sting of tears burning your eyes. “I never asked for any of this.”

“I know,” a familiar voice murmurs behind you, and there he is—Logan. This time, he’s wearing his suit. His claws are unsheathed, gleaming. “I shouldn’t have done it first. I don’t know what I was thinking’.”

You push yourself to your feet, drawn to him. When you move to hug him, he takes a step back, raising his claws as if to protect you from getting harmed. “I can’t retract them. If I hug you, I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, pressing forward and slotting yourself between his arms, ignoring the danger. Your face finds its habitual place against his chest, and you inhale deeply, inhaling his scent. “I just want you.”

His arms fold around you hesitantly, careful yet incomplete. You feel a sharp pain, a searing slice along your ribs that rips a scream from your throat. The agony is blinding, drowning your world into darkness.

When you open your eyes again, you’re somewhere else entirely. The bed feels soft beneath you, the sheets tangled around your legs. Logan is there beside you, his body warm against yours, both of you naked under the sheets.

“You’re lost in thought,” he says, his voice tender, taking a strand of your hair, twisting it gently before tucking it behind your ear. “You alright?”

His face won’t stay still. Beard, no beard. A moustache that fades as quickly as it appears. Hair long, then short. Sideburns one moment, smooth skin the next. He’s a shifting mosaic of himself. You realize you can’t remember what he looked like the last time you saw him.

“I’m forgetting you.” Your fingertips trace the curve of his cheek, memorizing each detail. “I don’t think I can stop it now.”

He’s seconds away from crying, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels both desperate and resigned. “Stay here with me,” he whispers against your mouth, his hands sliding over your arms, your stomach, your legs. “Don’t let me go.”

“You did it to me first,” you say, voice thick with emotion, pulling him closer, down until his body presses fully against yours. His weight feels real, but you know it’s not. Nothing about this moment is.

His voice breaks, repeating the same mantra. “Stay here with me. Don’t let me go.”

The touches multiply. It’s no longer just his hands on your skin. It’s as if the entire universe is reaching for you. The cacophony of touches, the overlapping voices—“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”—swirls into a suffocating chaos.

Logan begins to blur, like a photograph left too long in the sun. His face fades first, then his body, until all that remains is a ghost of his shadow. Then even that is gone. The bed disappears beneath you, leaving you adrift in an empty expanse. You can’t tell if you’re still there, or if you’ve vanished with him.

You exhale slowly. Silence, at last.

The second first time you see him, he’s sitting alone outside on a weathered bench, his shoulders slightly hunched. He’s completely alone, and you pause a few steps away, studying him for a moment. He doesn’t seem like someone you would’ve missed at the mansion. Charles mentioned he’d recently joined the team, a mutant who had spent too long wandering the earth.

You clear your throat, trying not to overthink it. “Mind if I take a seat?” you ask, your hands clasped behind your back as you wait for his reply.

He shifts to one end of the bench, leaving you more than enough room, though his movements seem cautious. You sit down, exhaling softly as an awkward silence stretches between you. His demeanor isn’t exactly inviting, and you wonder how to bridge the gap.

After a moment, you stretch out your hand, offering a polite smile, giving him your name. He glances at your hand, then takes it. “M’Logan,” he says simply, though you already knew that from your previous talk with Charles. His fingers are rough, calloused, yet they linger a beat longer than necessary before letting go. “The other day, I was in the kitchen, and you walked in. You were acting… strange.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Really?” Your gaze flickers between his face and your hand that still feels warm from his touch. “I don’t remember that. Are you sure it was me?”

Logan hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought so… but maybe not.” His lips press into a thin line, shrugging. “Never mind. I could be wrong.”

Tilting your head, you study him. There’s something familiar that you can’t quite place. “Have we met before? Outside this place, I mean. It’s just… I feel like I know you. Like I’ve seen you somewhere, but I can’t figure out where.”

His eyes meet yours then, like your question has triggered something dormant. He leans back slightly, his posture relaxing as he lets out a low chuckle. “Funny you’d say that. I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but… I got the same feeling.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.” His lips quirk into a smile, one that matches yours.

Inside the mansion, Charles and Jean watch the scene through the window. Jean folds her arms across her chest, her expression caught between awe and disbelief. “This is crazy,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

“Don’t get me started,” Charles replies.

“They don’t know what happened, but they still feel it. Like they’re connected.” She peers down at Charles, her voice quieter now. “You erased everything, didn’t you? Every memory, every trace.”

Charles keeps his eyes on the scene outside, his features softening as he watches the two of you talk. He sighs, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “You’re asking me for an explanation I don’t have. I guess some things… refuse to be forgotten.”

Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.

Friedrich Nietzsche.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt.14

Word Count: 27.1k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw if u have tokophobia, pregnancy sex, cunninlingus, pet names like kitten, sweetie, honey, xavier appears, rafayel appears, somewhat gory flashbacks

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti, @exorcxqsm , @ve1vet-cake, @letgobro, @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @connorsui, @iluvmewwwww75, @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer, @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, @milkandstarlight, @lilyadora, @depressedwhore, @nyumin, @kiwookse, @anisha24-blog1, @weepingluminarytale, @riamir, @definitionistato, @xxhayashixx, @adraxsteia, @hargun-s @cayraeley, @xxfaithlynxx, @palomanh, @spaceace111

AN: This is of course on A03! Loooong chapter yall, this one is juicy with the drama and inner turmoil. This took forever to write and upload cause of finals week. Pretty intense chapter, just a warning. Don't be fooled by the pretty pictures LOL <3

“Aren’t you tired of pretending?” he murmured, leaning closer. His breath brushed against your ear, warm and tantalizing, sending another shiver skittering down your spine. “I see it in your eyes. The need.” “The way you shift your legs together when I’m dressing in front of you…the way your eyes wander, even when you think I don’t notice.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts to sound firm. “You don't know?,” he said, his voice calm but laced with something deeper, something resolute. “Let me show you then, sweetie”

Read Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5 Pt.6 Pt.7 Pt.8 Pt.9 Pt.10 Pt.11 Pt.12 Pt.13 Pt.15

You were forgetting his voice.

The realization crept up on you slowly, like a shadow stretching longer and darker as the day went on. At first, you didn’t notice—not with everything else going on. There was too much chaos, too much survival, too much of him. But the truth struck one day in the most unassuming of moments: standing under the steaming water of the shower, staring blankly at the tile, it hit you like a tidal wave.

What did Xavier sound like?

You closed your eyes, willing yourself to remember. You could see him clearly—his smile, the way his hair fell just slightly into his eyes when he tilted his head, the way his eyes shimmered when he spoke, always so animated, so alive. You could recall the exact shade of his laugh, not the sound but the feeling it left behind, like sunshine lingering on your skin. But his voice? The sound of his voice? It was slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.

You tried to piece it together. He was kind of quiet, wasn’t he? Reserved in a way that made you lean in closer when he spoke. Soft, but not weak. Gentle, but steady. There was something soothing in the timbre, wasn’t there? Or maybe it was deep, deeper than you thought now that you were questioning it?

Your hands ran through your wet hair as if the motion could pull the memory out from wherever it had hidden itself. But there was nothing. No echoes, no fragments. Just a hollow ache where his voice should have been.

How long had it been since you last saw him? Since the last time he looked at you with those eyes, the ones that never failed to make you feel safe, no matter the chaos? You strained to count the days, weeks, months, but the timeline blurred. There were only two markers in your life now: before Sylus and after Sylus.

The before was fading.

It wasn’t just Xavier’s voice, you realized. It was everything. The smell of your old apartment, the way the sunlight streamed through the windows in the early morning, the feeling of the cool tile floor beneath your feet. The details were slipping away, like fog burning off in the sun. One by one, your memories were being eclipsed by the sharp edges of your new reality, until even Xavier, the person who had once been your anchor, was starting to become a ghost.

You scrubbed your face with your hands, the water pouring over you, trying to shake the despair creeping in. This wasn’t the time to cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Sylus.

You wouldn’t let him see. You wouldn’t let him know how much it hurt, how hollow you felt, how the guilt gnawed at you with every passing day that you couldn’t hold on to the fragments of the person you used to be. Sylus already held too much power over you—over your present, over your future. You wouldn’t let him take your grief too.

So, instead, you tossed and turned with it, swallowed it down until it sat heavy in your chest. Every night, you tried to dream of Xavier’s voice, reaching for it in the recesses of your mind, but it stayed just out of reach. And every morning, you woke up feeling like you had lost him all over again.

You turn to look at Sylus, who had stationed himself on the small stool by the bathroom opening—a constant, looming presence since the accident last week. Ever since you’d slipped, he had made it his personal mission to watch over you while you showered. It wasn’t about lust. No, Sylus didn’t leer or make comments. This was something else entirely—worry, perhaps? Obsession? You weren’t sure anymore. At six months, you were getting large enough that every movement felt precarious, every step required precision. All it had taken was one misplaced foot, the slick tiles betraying you, and you’d nearly gone tumbling.

You could still hear the scream that tore out of your throat, the panicked gasp as your hands shot out to grip the shower handle bars. Sylus had rushed in immediately, rushing into the bathroom. His wild, frantic eyes had scanned you for injuries as though you were made of glass. And no matter how many times you’d told him since then that you wanted to shower alone, he had never left the room again.

The water stopped cascading around you as you shut the shower off, sighing softly at the sound of it draining away. You stepped out, slow and careful, aware of every movement. Sylus was on his feet before you even reached the edge of the shower, the towel already in his hands. He moved toward you swiftly but not aggressively, draping the towel around your shoulders with mechanical efficiency. His hands, though firm, weren’t rough.

For a fleeting moment, you felt a flicker of gratitude that his gaze never lingered too long on your body. He wasn’t ogling, wasn’t leering—it wasn’t that kind of attention. And yet, the tension in his presence never left. The silence between you both was filled with unspoken words, unsaid things.

The sound of the chain on your ankle clinking against the tile echoed faintly in the humid bathroom. That sound was a constant reminder of your reality, the sharp tether that kept you grounded in more ways than one. Sylus crouched slightly, leaning in closer. His hand, damp and warm, brushed your face, his thumb tenderly stroking along your cheek.

You froze at first, your body stiffening instinctively. But you were too tired to fight him, especially not after…that.

Flashes of the memory burned through your mind—Sylus with a bullet wound in his chest, blood pooling far too quickly for you to process. The sight, the sound of it, the flash of the shot—it all slammed into your brain like a battering ram. You blinked hard, shaking it away. You didn’t want to think about that now. You couldn’t.

Sylus’s voice broke the silence, his tone gentle, too casual for the way he was looking at you. “Your face feels a little swollen,” he murmured, his thumb still lingering just under your cheekbone.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard, before laughing awkwardly. “Everything feels swollen,” you replied, your voice flat with exasperation. “My hands, my feet, my legs—it’s all miserable. The joys of pregnancy, right?”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, the concern in his eyes softening, though it never quite left. “Do your feet feel swollen right now?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You sighed, nodding. “Yeah, they feel like balloons.”

What he did next stunned you. Without a word, Sylus crouched, his fingers deftly working the lock on the chain around your ankle. You heard the soft click before you felt it—the chain falling away, leaving your ankle bare for the first time in what felt like forever. The relief was immediate, a strange weight lifting both physically and mentally, but it left behind a hollow unease.

He stood, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “Okay then,” he said softly. “You don’t have to wear that anymore.”

You stared at him, your emotions swirling into something you couldn’t define. Conflicted, you grimaced, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Yeah, until you find me a bigger one.”

Sylus frowned slightly, but it wasn’t anger. If anything, he looked… hurt? Confused? His reply came without hesitation. “Why would I do that?”

The simplicity of the question, the sincerity in his voice, was jarring. You wanted to believe he was being kind, that this was a gesture of trust, of goodwill. But you knew better than to take Sylus at face value. Every action, no matter how tender, had a shadow behind it—a motive you couldn’t quite see.

You didn’t answer him. You just turned away, clutching the towel closer to your body, your heart pounding as you tried to decide if this was freedom or just another chain in disguise.

Should you feel grateful? No. That thought rooted itself firmly in your mind as you stood there, damp and vulnerable, clutching the towel Sylus had wrapped around you. This had to be some kind of power play. It always was, wasn’t it? Every gesture, every word from him, even the gentle ones, seemed to carry the shadow of manipulation. And yet, as you stared into his eyes, searching for that hint of control, you found something else—stark genuineness. Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Maybe he was just good at pretending.

He gazed back at you, his brow furrowing slightly, confusion flickering across his face. He was probably wondering why you hadn’t looked away yet, why your eyes hadn’t shifted elsewhere. Truthfully, you didn’t know either. Maybe you were hoping that if you stared long enough, you’d see something deeper. Something truer. Maybe you could pierce through his perfect facade and catch a glimpse of his soul—if he even had one.

Because whatever Sylus was, it wasn’t human. You knew that now, undeniably, even if he’d never admitted it outright.

What are you?

You’d asked that question so many times since the fight, the words raw, desperate, slipping from your lips like a plea. But no matter how you phrased it, no matter how fiercely you demanded answers, Sylus had always sidestepped you with the same frustrating ease. His deflections were maddening, his calm demeanor only fueling your resentment.

“What about our daughter?” you’d asked once, your voice trembling as you tried a different angle. “She’s human, right?”

You thought you had him then, that you’d finally cornered him. But he’d only smiled faintly, his tone impossibly soft when he answered, “Of course. Her mother is human. Why wouldn’t she be?”

It wasn’t what he said that haunted you—it was what he didn’t say.

Now, standing before him, your mind drifted again to the memory of that moment, of how carefully he’d chosen his words. Your gaze dropped lower, lingering on his chest. You could see it in your mind’s eye: the bullet wound, the dark, ragged hole where his heart should have been. You could still remember the sharp tang of blood in the air, the way his body had slightly shook with the sudden bang. And yet, just as quickly, you could recall the impossible—the way that gaping wound had closed on its own, the way Sylus had stood up like nothing had happened. Death couldn’t touch him.

“Kitten, your arms,” Sylus said, his voice drawing you abruptly out of your thoughts.

You blinked at him, startled, before realizing he was holding up a tank top. He must have brought it into the bathroom with him. His tone wasn’t impatient, but there was a quiet insistence in his words.

“Oh…sorry,” you muttered, hurriedly drying the rest of your skin before stepping closer to him. You let him help you, too tired to argue, as he slipped the fabric over your head and guided it into place. His hands were careful, steady, and methodical, but you couldn’t help but notice how the tank top felt tighter than before. The material clung to your body, stretching over your belly in a way that made you wince.

Your eyes caught the reflection of yourself in the mirror, and the sight made you freeze. Your stomach protruded awkwardly, stretching the thin fabric of the tank top to its limit. Your body didn’t look like your own anymore. It looked…alien. Swollen. Foreign.

The tears came before you could stop them. They blurred your vision, hot and stinging, and you clamped a hand over your mouth as a pathetic whimper slipped through.

“I’m fat,” you choked out, your voice trembling with raw emotion. The words sounded ugly in the air, but you couldn’t hold them back. “I’m…I’m fat,” you whimpered again, your voice cracking as the dam finally broke. The sobs came hard and fast, your shoulders shaking with the force of them.

Sylus stepped closer immediately, his presence looming but his touch tender. “Kitten,” he murmured, his voice calm, soothing, as though you were a frightened animal he was trying to comfort. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not fat—you’re pregnant.”

His hands reached for your face, his fingers brushing away the tears that streamed down your cheeks. His touch was light, almost reverent, and it made you want to pull away even as you leaned into it. “Your body has to make room for the baby,” he continued, his tone patient. “It’s okay that you don’t fit your clothes anymore. I’ll have the twins buy stuff that's bigger soon. Something comfortable.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they only made the ache in your chest worse. You didn’t want bigger clothes. You didn’t want to make room. You wanted freedom.

The thought hit you like a slap, and suddenly you couldn’t take it anymore. The frustration, the helplessness, the overwhelming weight of it all—it boiled over, spilling out before you could stop it.

You shoved him hard, your hands pressing against his chest with more force than you thought you had. Sylus stumbled back a step, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Easy for you to say!” you snapped, your voice rising with a fury that had been building for weeks. “You don’t have to carry around extra pounds! You’re not the one whose body doesn’t feel like their own anymore!”

You took a shaky step back, your breath coming in uneven gasps. The words spilled out in a rush, raw and unfiltered. “You did this to me! You put your gigantic fucking kid in here, and now I’m fucking fat!”

The bathroom fell silent except for your labored breathing. Sylus stood frozen, his expression unreadable as he stared at you. His eyes searched yours, and for a fleeting moment, you thought you saw something there—hurt, maybe? Regret? You were almost shocked he didn't give you that usual smirk of his.

And you didn’t care. Not now. Not with the weight of everything crushing you, pressing down on your chest like a heavy, unrelenting hand.

Sylus moved closer, his steps deliberate but unthreatening. The tension in the room felt almost palpable, like a storm about to break, but his movements were calm, careful, calculated. When he reached you, he pulled you into an embrace—not tight or forceful, but firm and steady, as though he was trying to anchor you. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, but he was mindful, cautious to keep from putting any pressure on your swollen belly. It was a careful kind of tenderness that only irritated you more, as though his gentleness could somehow make up for everything else.

"Stress isn't good for the baby. Just breathe".

You stiffened at first, your instincts screaming at you to push him away, but his hold wasn’t suffocating. He didn’t force it. He didn’t press. His presence loomed, yes, but it was steady, and some small, buried part of you couldn’t deny that it felt grounding, whether you liked it or not.

“I won’t deny,” Sylus began, his voice low and deliberate, “that I’m half the reason she’s in there right now.” He leaned down slightly, lowering himself to your eye level, his crimson gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made it hard to look away. There was something in his expression—sincerity, maybe?—that made your breath hitch. “If I take responsibility” he continued, a faint lilt of dry humor sneaking into his tone, “will you put this on?”

You blinked, confused for a moment, before following his gesture toward the counter. There, neatly folded, was a shirt you hadn’t noticed before. Of course, he had thought of everything. He always did. The sight of it annoyed you in ways you couldn’t fully articulate. Did he ever falter? Did he ever leave anything to chance? You scoffed loudly, sniffing as you fought back the lingering tears from earlier.

“Not like you have a choice but to take responsibility,” you grumbled, bitterness creeping into your voice. “It’s your child, after all.”

“Yes, of course,” Sylus replied easily, his tone soft but steady. “I got you pregnant. It’s only natural you’re my responsibility.”

The words were delivered with such simplicity, such matter-of-factness, that they stunned you into silence for a moment. You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, he moved again, this time reaching for the hem of your tank top. His movements were smooth and deliberate, not rushed or invasive. His hands brushed yours briefly as he helped pull the tank up and over your head. The touch was fleeting, but it left you shivering—not from the cold but from the vulnerability of the moment.

You let him take the tank top off, standing there awkwardly in just your towel as he grabbed the larger shirt from the counter. He unfolded it with care before guiding it over your head and down your arms. His hands never lingered, never wandered. He moved with the same focused precision as always, almost clinical in his approach, but somehow it didn’t feel detached. It felt intentional, careful, as if he were trying to avoid making you feel even more exposed than you already did.

The shirt settled over your body, the fabric draping much more comfortably than the tank top had. It was plain black, nothing remarkable, but it felt infinitely better than the too-tight tank you’d just been wearing. As the material brushed against your skin, you caught a faint, familiar scent clinging to it. A clean, woodsy fragrance with hints of cedar and maybe something warmer—something distinctly Sylus.

“This is your shirt, isn’t it?” you asked after a moment, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Sylus nodded once, his expression calm but curious. “Is that a problem?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as he watched you, his crimson eyes catching the dim light in the bathroom.

You hesitated, your gaze drifting back down to the shirt. It smelled… nice. Warm. Familiar. He always smelled nice, didn’t he? It was one of those irritatingly persistent truths about Sylus that you couldn’t deny, no matter how much you wanted to. The scent wrapped around you as much as the fabric did, and you hated how it made you feel.

You didn’t answer him right away, unsure of what to say. Did it bother you? Did it comfort you? You weren’t sure. The scent reminded you of how meticulous he was, how nothing ever slipped past his control. But at the same time…it was oddly soothing. It grounded you in a way you couldn’t explain, even if it infuriated you to admit it.

“It’s fine,” you mumbled eventually, your tone clipped, though your hands fidgeted with the hem of the shirt. “Not like I have much of a choice.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly, giving you just enough space to feel like you weren’t trapped, though his gaze never wavered. He watched you with a kind of quiet intensity that made your skin prickle, as if he were reading every flicker of emotion that crossed your face. It was infuriating and disarming all at once.

You caught yourself staring again, your eyes drifting back to the faint curve of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw, the crimson gleam in his eyes. There were so many things you hated about him—his control, his secrets, his inhumanity—but his presence was so overwhelming, so undeniable, that it was impossible to ignore. And the scent of him, now wrapped around you in the form of this shirt, was like a constant reminder of everything you couldn’t escape.

The shirt was plain. Simple. But it carried the weight of his existence, his presence, his dominance over your life. And yet, as much as you hated it, you couldn’t deny that the scent of cedar and warmth was… alluring. You bit your lip, unwilling to admit it to him or yourself.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for you to say something more. When you didn’t, he finally broke the silence. “If it’s too loose, I can get you something else,” he offered, his voice softer now, devoid of the teasing edge from earlier.

You shook your head quickly, unwilling to let him do anything more for you. “It’s fine,” you said again, your voice firmer this time. But your hands lingered on the fabric, the faint scent brushing against your senses and leaving you more conflicted than ever.

After everything...you should hate him. You should be screaming at him everyday. Cursing him everyday. Maybe you had started getting used to brushing off chaos. Used to shoving traumatic memories into the back of your brain for sanity. You never thought one man could singlehandedly break you down this much. To the point that you had begun to accept the chaos. Little by little.

The truth was, you didn’t know how to feel. And that scared you more than anything.

The trauma doesn’t vanish just because you try to push it aside though. It lingers, festering in the quiet moments, slipping into the spaces where your mind is unoccupied. And at night, when you have no distractions, no walls to hold it back, it takes over completely. That’s when it’s the hardest—when you can’t force yourself to ignore your inner thoughts. In your dreams, the ones where your defenses crumble, the memories and fears you bury during the day come rushing forward, demanding your attention.

Tonight, your mind doesn’t conjure Xavier, with his fading voice, or Reese, with his shadowy presence. No. This time, the dreams are consumed by Sylus. Not the Sylus you deal with every day, with his careful touches and unnerving patience. This is the Sylus who handed you a gun, eyes locked on yours, and told you to pull the trigger. The Sylus who asked you to end him.

You dream of that moment again—except this time, the gun is already in your hands, its weight cold and unyielding. Your fingers tremble, knuckles whitening as you grip it tighter, the barrel pointed directly at his chest. His expression is calm, almost serene, as though he’s not standing at the edge of oblivion but on the precipice of something inevitable.

“Do it,” his voice echoes in your mind, soft but resolute. “You want to kill me don't you?"

You should feel relief. Joy, even. After everything, shouldn’t this be justice? But it isn’t. You’re frozen, your hand shaking as tears blur your vision. Your chest feels tight, constricted, as if some invisible force is pulling you back, keeping you from pulling the trigger. He doesn’t move, doesn’t plead. He just waits, like this was always the plan. And yet…you can’t do it.

Why? Why don’t you pull the trigger? Why do you hesitate? Why do your fingers go slack, the gun slipping from your hands and clattering to the ground? Why are you screaming as the deafening crack of the gunshot rings out anyway? The bullet tears through his chest, and you’re not sure if it was you or someone else. All you know is that he’s falling, collapsing to the ground, lifeless and still. Blood pools around him, dark and spreading, and you can’t stop screaming his name.

Your sobs wrench you awake. You sit up suddenly, gasping for air as your heart pounds violently in your chest. The room is dark, the shadows long and deep, but the dream clings to you, wrapping itself around your senses like a suffocating shroud. For a moment, you’re still there—in that place, holding the gun, watching him fall.

“Hey, hey,” a voice cuts through the haze, pulling you back to the present. Sylus’s hand is on your shoulder, firm but not forceful, shaking you gently. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His crimson eyes are softer now, lacking their usual sharpness, as they search your face for signs of distress. “You were whimpering,” he says quietly. “Are you okay?”

You blink at him, your breath still coming in shallow gasps, but you force yourself to nod. “Yeah,” you say, your voice hoarse and unconvincing. You look away quickly, desperate to shake off the lingering remnants of the dream. “Why wouldn’t I be? I have nightmares practically every night Sylus.”

Sylus doesn’t look convinced, his brow furrowing slightly. “You muttered my name,” he adds after a beat, his voice light, almost teasing. “Were you dreaming of me?”

You shoot him a sharp look, and his faint smirk fades, replaced by an expression of quiet understanding. He raises his hands slightly in surrender, his voice turning serious again. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he says. “If you don’t want to.”

You shrug, still trying to slow your racing heart. The dream had felt too real, too vivid, and you didn’t trust yourself to talk about it yet. “Let’s just… not,” you mumble, pulling your knees to your chest.

Sylus nods, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he shifts the conversation. “How about we talk about something else?” he suggests, his voice warm but careful, as though he’s testing the waters. “Names. Have you thought about any?”

“Names?” you echo, the word feeling foreign as it leaves your lips.

“She’s a few months from being born,” Sylus continues, his tone calm but probing. “Do you have any ideas?”

The question catches you off guard. Names. You hadn’t thought about it—not seriously. You’d been too focused on surviving, on getting through each day, to think about something as simple, as normal, as naming your daughter. The realization settles over you like a weight, leaving you momentarily speechless.

“I…” you start, your voice trailing off as your hand instinctively moves to rest on your belly. It’s strange, thinking about her like this, as someone with a name, an identity. Your chest tightens, not with fear but with something softer. Something like hope, though you’re too afraid to call it that.

You clear your throat, suddenly feeling awkward under his gaze. “I don’t know,” you admit finally. “I guess I haven’t really thought about it.”

Sylus tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable but patient. “Well,” he says slowly, “maybe now’s a good time to start.”

You bite your lip, the question hanging between you both. You hadn’t let yourself think that far ahead. You hadn’t allowed yourself to imagine what her life might look like, what kind of world she’d be born into. But now, with the question lingering in the air, you feel compelled to say something, to fill the silence.

“Uh…how about…Evelyn?” you blurt out, the first name that comes to mind. It sounds strange as you say it, as if you’re trying on someone else’s thoughts.

Sylus raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Evelyn?” he repeats, his tone somewhere between amused and curious.

You shrug, already regretting the suggestion. “I don’t know. It’s…a name.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and almost comforting. “It’s a start,” he says, leaning back slightly. “I don't think we should name the baby something random though. It should be a little thoughtful yeah?”

You glance at him, unsure if he’s mocking you or genuinely trying to help. His crimson eyes hold a faint glimmer of amusement, but there’s no malice in it. For once, it feels like he’s just…talking to you. Like a normal person. Like someone trying to plan for the future.

The thought makes your chest tighten again, but this time, you don’t push it away. Instead, you let it sit there, the possibility of names, of plans, of a life beyond the chaos. It feels fragile, tentative, but maybe, just maybe, it’s something to hold onto.

You were so tired. Tired of feeling scared. Tired of yearning for freedom that always seemed just out of reach. The weight of it had been crushing you for months, dragging you down with every small reminder of your reality. Tired of keeping your guard up, of treating every moment like a battle you had to win. It wore you down, chipped away at your resolve, until there were moments—just like this one—where you didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

And maybe that was okay. Maybe, for once, you could lean into the quiet. Into the stillness of the night and the absence of yelling, control, or guns. For this moment, at least, there was none of that. Just two people sitting together in the dark. Two soon-to-be parents, talking about their daughter.

You studied Sylus in the faint light, the crimson of his eyes softened to something less intimidating, less piercing. His expression was calm, his usual intensity dimmed. For once, he wasn’t looming over you with that overbearing aura of control. He just…was. A man sitting beside you. A man who was going to be the father of your child. The thought should have felt suffocating, but tonight, it didn’t.

For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the urge to fight him. You didn’t care if your emotions were genuine or just a mask you were putting on to get through the night. For now, you let yourself imagine that you weren’t a prisoner. That you weren’t someone trapped in a life you didn’t choose. For now, you could be his fiancée, his partner, the mother of his child. That’s what you were, right? His fiancée. His pregnant fiancée. And for once, that wasn’t terrifying. It was just…something that was.

You were definitely going crazy.

A faint, tentative smile pulled at your lips as you looked at him, unsure if it was real or if you were forcing it. You didn’t care. Not now. Not tonight. “Well…” you said softly, your tone lighter than it had been in days, “what do you suggest, then, sir?” You scoffed, adding a playful roll of your eyes for effect.

Sylus tilted his head, a flicker of amusement dancing across his face. “Sir?” he repeated, his voice tinged with mock offense. “I don’t recall being knighted, but I’ll take it.”

You smirked, crossing your arms and leaning back against the headboard. “Come on, then,” you teased. “If Evelyn's so bad, what’s your grand idea for a name?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I didn't say it was a bad name. Ruby,” he said with a small nod. “Or maybe Sapphire.”

The laughter bubbled up before you could stop it, the sound catching you off guard with its suddenness. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t fake. It was real, genuine, and it felt…good. You pressed a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but Sylus raised an eyebrow, his expression curious.

“What?” he asked, his voice dipping into that familiar amused lilt. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” you said between giggles, your shoulders shaking slightly as you tried to compose yourself. “You sure do like your gems, huh?”

Sylus’s lips quirked upward into a smile, one of the rare ones that felt real and unguarded. “Is a daughter not the most precious gem in the world?” he replied, his tone soft but filled with a warmth that caught you off guard.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips refused to disappear. “That was so cheesy,” you said, shaking your head.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a faint chuckle. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

His words settled in the air between you, lingering like a warm embrace. You weren’t sure how to respond, so you didn’t. Instead, you let yourself lean into the moment, let yourself imagine what it might be like to raise her, this little girl who was half of you and half of him. It was a fragile thought, one that felt precarious and strange, but it was also…comforting.

It was actually nice to be delusional for a bit.

“Ruby,” you said after a moment, testing the name on your tongue. “It’s…not bad, I guess.”

“Not bad?” Sylus repeated, his tone teasing again. “That’s practically a glowing endorsement coming from you.”

You shot him a look, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, curving upward in spite of yourself. “Don’t push it,” you said lightly, nudging his shoulder with your own.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, and for a moment, the weight of the past few months didn’t feel so heavy. The walls of the room didn’t feel so confining, and the imaginary chain around your neck was almost forgotten. Almost. You weren’t free—not really—but in this moment, you let yourself imagine that you were.

“So,” Sylus said after a beat, his voice softer now. “If Ruby’s not terrible, does that mean it’s a contender?”

You hesitated, your hand unconsciously moving to rest on your belly. You thought about her, this little life growing inside you, and for the first time, you let yourself picture her with a name. Ruby. It felt strange, attaching something so personal, so permanent, to someone you hadn’t even met yet. Someone you weren't even sure you could love. But it also felt…right. Or at least, like a start.

“Maybe,” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve really thought about it before.”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady but not intrusive. “Why not?”

You shrugged, your fingers brushing absently over the fabric of the shirt he’d given you. “I guess…I’ve been too focused on everything else,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s hard to think about names when you don’t even know what the future looks like.”

His expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. “Then maybe we should start imagining it,” he said quietly. “Together.”

You looked at him, your breath catching for just a moment. There was something in his voice, something in the way he said it, that made you want to believe him. Made you want to believe that, maybe, the future didn’t have to be so terrifying. That, maybe, you could find a way to hold onto moments like this.

You didn’t say anything else, but when you leaned back against the headboard, your hand still resting on your belly, you didn’t feel so alone. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself imagine what her life might be like. Ruby, or whatever her name might end up being, was coming. And for the first time, you thought…maybe that was okay.

Even if it was all a lie.

You were tired. Mind-numbing, soul-crushing tired. It wasn’t just physical, though your body constantly ached and groaned under the weight of pregnancy. No, it was the kind of tired that seeped into your very being, that made even the simplest of tasks feel monumental. You were tired of waddling around, tired of the constant heartburn, tired of your emotions riding a hormonal rollercoaster that never seemed to stop. But most of all, you were tired of peeing.

The baby—or your bladder’s nemesis, as you’d started calling her—seemed to take great delight in squishing your insides in the most inconvenient ways possible. You couldn’t make it through an hour without feeling the urgent need to waddle to the bathroom, only to sit there and produce a few pitiful drops. It was infuriating. Exhausting. Almost comical, if you weren’t so over it.

You sighed as you flopped back onto the couch, glaring at the ceiling as if it could somehow sympathize with your plight. “I swear,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m going to make her pay me back for this one day. She owes me. Big time.”

But no matter how much you complained, there were moments that made you pause. Moments that reminded you that, despite the aches and discomfort, you were carrying life inside you. Your daughter, this little person who already seemed to have so much personality. She was a tiny tyrant, sure, but she was also her own person now it seemed.

Even your cravings, as strange and unpredictable as they were, had become part of the bizarre tapestry of this experience. You’d learned to ignore the look Sylus gave you whenever you requested something outlandish. Like the time you swore that vanilla ice cream and pickles were the greatest culinary invention ever.

“I swear on my own soul,” you’d told him, your tone solemn but your eyes sparkling with mischief, “vanilla ice cream and pickles are delicious, Sy.”

He’d shaken his head at you, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, but he’d indulged you anyway. He always did. These days, Sylus seemed to exist solely to fulfill your every whim, no matter how absurd. His eyes, once so sharp and calculating, now held something softer whenever they landed on you.

"I feel like having cake today"

"What flavor, honey?"

"Sylus, I think I want the crib pink instead of white"

"As you wish, but isn't this the fifth time you've changed your mind?"

"Can I have your pillows? My backs hurting..."

"You already have most of the pillows on your side, sweetie".

"...."

"Alright, here you go."

He also hadn’t made you wear the chain for weeks now. At first, you’d been suspicious, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Freedom wasn’t something you associated with Sylus—not real freedom, anyway. But as the days passed, you began to relax, to accept the absence of the cold, metallic weight around your ankle. You weren’t truly free, not in the way you craved, but it was something. A step forward.

And Sylus…he had changed too. He was still the man who had held you captive, the man who had made decisions for you that you could never forget. Your captor, your rapist. He was still all of those things. But he was also the man who fetched you ice cream at two in the morning without complaint. The man who held your hair back when nausea overtook you and stayed up with you when insomnia refused to let you sleep. The man who had begun to apologize, not with words, but with actions.

The past still lingered between you, a shadow neither of you could fully escape. But you found yourself not thinking about it as much. There wasn’t space for it in your mind, not when your thoughts were consumed by other things: the relentless need to pee, the insatiable cravings, the constant stomach aches, and the naps that never seemed long enough.

Your daughter was growing, and she made sure you knew it. At seven months, your latest ultrasound had shown that she was thriving. Dr. Merill had smiled, pointing out her tiny feet and her steadily beating heart. She was very much alive, and she was letting you know it every single day.

She kicked nonstop, especially when you ate. If she liked what you fed her, she’d kick happily, little thumps that made you wince and smile in equal measure. But if she didn’t? Oh, she’d make you pay for that too. The nausea would creep in, or a sharp jab to the ribs would have you doubling over. It was like she was already forming very strong opinions, much like her father.

You rested a hand on your belly, feeling her shift beneath your palm. “You’re a little troublemaker, you know that?” you whispered, your voice soft but filled with amusement. She responded with a kick, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

Some days, you weren't sure how to feel about her. And others...were like today. You felt okay with her. She seemed to be okay with you too.

Sylus entered the room just then, carrying a tray with a glass of water and a plate of something you hadn’t asked for but probably wanted anyway. His crimson eyes landed on you, his expression softening as he noticed the way your hand rested on your belly.

“She’s been fussy today,” you said, glancing up at him.

“She’s always fussy,” he replied, setting the tray down beside you. “Like her mother.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no bite to it. “Don’t start,” you warned lightly, though a small smile tugged at your lips.

He sat beside you, his presence warm and steady. You glanced at him, taking in the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. He’d been with you through every late-night craving, every ache, every complaint. You didn’t want to admit it, but he’d been good to you. Better than you’d expected.

It was the least he could do after everything.

“Thank you,” you said suddenly, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them.

Sylus tilted his head, his brows raising slightly. “For what?”

“For…everything,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know I’m a pain right now.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and comforting. “You’re not a pain,” he said, his hand brushing yours lightly. “You’re pregnant. There’s a difference.”

You looked away, suddenly feeling vulnerable, but his words stayed with you. For all the mess, for all the past, there was something steady about him now. Something that made you feel…not safe, exactly, but cared for at least.

Your daughter kicked again, harder this time, and you winced, letting out a small laugh. “See what I mean? Trouble,” you said, rubbing your belly gently.

“She’s strong,” Sylus said, his voice filled with quiet pride. “She gets that from you.”

You didn’t respond, but as you leaned back against the couch, your hand still resting on your belly, you pondered what he just said.

You didn’t feel strong. Not in the way people romanticized strength. It wasn’t some fiery, defiant thing coursing through your veins. No. If anything, you felt...compliant. Like someone who had simply adapted to their circumstances, slipping into the role that had been carved out for them.

Maybe it was survival. Or maybe it was exhaustion.

You had learned the hard way that certain things didn’t work. Anger? Useless. You could scream at Sylus until your voice gave out, but he would only watch you with that maddening calm, as if your fury was nothing but a passing storm. Running? That didn’t work either. You’d tried that too, and all it had gotten you was a painfully short leash—both figuratively and literally.

And killing him? That was the one that haunted you the most. You had the chance. You had the gun in your hands. He had given it to you. He had told you to pull the trigger, had stood there, waiting. Daring you. But you couldn’t do it. Not because you didn’t want to—God, you had wanted to—but because some part of you, some deep, hidden part you couldn’t explain, had hesitated. And that hesitation had cost you everything.

And then...he hadn't even died.

So, what more could you do?

Now, all that fight was gone. Or maybe it wasn’t gone—maybe it was just buried under the weight of the life growing inside you. Because it wasn’t just about you anymore. There was a baby now, a tiny, helpless life that depended on you. Every time you felt her kick, every time she shifted or nudged, it was a reminder that she was there. She was real. And she didn’t deserve to feel the chaos that swirled inside you. She didn’t deserve to be born into a world filled with your anger and fear.

So, you picked your battles. You didn't think about things that would make your heart race and your blood boil. You didn't think about Xavier or wonder where he was/if he was safe.

The easiest battle to surrender was Sylus’s care. He wanted to take care of you. It was part of his control, you knew that. But it was also something you couldn’t fight against anymore. Not when your body ached, and your mind felt frayed at the edges. Not when the cravings hit in the middle of the night, or when you couldn’t roll over without help. You told yourself it was just practicality—letting him take care of you because it was easier. Because it was less exhausting than fighting him every step of the way.

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t the whole truth. The more time passed, the more you found yourself leaning on him. Not just willingly, but inevitably. He was there, steady and constant, filling the cracks in the world he had broken around you. You hated it. Hated how much easier it was to let him help you than to resist. Hated how he was always there when you needed him, as if he could sense your struggles before you even voiced them.

And the worst part? You knew this was what he wanted. He wanted you to rely on him. To need him. And it was working.

You stretch your neck a bit with a heavy sigh, one hand still resting on your swollen belly. The baby nudged against your palm, a gentle reminder of her presence, and you couldn’t help but smile faintly. “I don't know what the future holds for either of us” you murmured softly. “But its not your fault. I'm trying my best.”

You kept your hand resting on your belly, absently tracing slow circles over the fabric of your shirt, when Sylus moved. He didn’t say anything, didn’t give you a warning. He just leaned down, resting his head against your bump gently, almost reverently. The weight of it was light, careful, as though he was trying not to disturb the little life growing inside you.

Your daughter didn’t seem to appreciate the intrusion. She kicked, hard, right where his head was, and Sylus chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. He pressed a small kiss to your bump, his lips lingering just long enough to send an unexpected shiver through you. Then he tilted his head, looking up at you from where he lay against your lap.

The way he stared was intense, his eyes locking onto yours with a look that made your heart skip a beat. There was something in that gaze, something slow and deliberate. Almost…alluring.

You shifted under the weight of his attention, your breath hitching as you tried to hold his gaze. But it was too much—too heavy. You looked away quickly, pretending to focus on something else, your fingers twitching against your belly.

Sylus didn’t move right away. His presence was still there, looming over you even though he remained physically closer to the floor. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the unease bubbling up inside you. His energy was different tonight. Charged. And it wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but it was unsettling.

You weren’t strangers to his sudden affection. Over the past few months, he’d been initiating them more often—quick, fleeting kisses on your lips, always catching you off guard. You had started reciprocating. It felt… easier that way. He was taking care of you, after all. What harm was there in a few kisses? They were small gestures, nothing more.

And he hadn’t asked for anything more. Not yet. Despite the way his gaze lingered on you sometimes, despite the way his touches seemed to stretch a little too long, he hadn’t pressed for intimacy. Not in that way. He clearly wanted to—his body language betrayed him every time he was near you—but he had always pulled back when it became clear you weren’t going to entertain it.

But now…now he felt different. More pushy. More insistent.

“Despite everything,” he said suddenly, his voice low, almost husky, “I still feel so distant from you.”

You forced a laugh, looking away again to avoid the intensity in his eyes. “How?” you said lightly, trying to inject humor into the moment. “Your child is literally growing in here. Don’t think we could get any closer than, you know, mixing DNA.” You gestured vaguely at your stomach, offering a weak smile.

Sylus didn’t laugh. He didn’t even chuckle. He only smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that made your stomach twist—not from the baby’s movement, but from something deeper. Something instinctual.

He sat up slowly, shifting so he was eye level with you now, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. Direct. You felt pinned under it, like prey caught in a predator’s sights. The discomfort you hadn’t felt for weeks crept back in, winding its way up your spine and making your skin prickle.

“I think we both know that’s not what I mean, kitten,” he said, his voice dipping into something dangerously close to a purr. The nickname, the one that had started as something teasing, now carried a weight that made your breath hitch.

His hand moved, settling on your thigh with deliberate slowness. The touch was firm but not heavy, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric of your leggings and making you acutely aware of the space between your bodies—or lack thereof.

The room suddenly felt too small, too warm, despite the chill in the air. Your heart began to beat faster, the sound of it pounding in your ears as your hands grew clammy. You tried to steady your breathing, but it was hard to focus when his presence loomed so heavily, so insistently.

“Aren’t you tired of pretending?” he murmured, leaning closer. His breath brushed against your ear, warm and tantalizing, sending another shiver skittering down your spine. “I see it in your eyes. The need.”

You stiffened, but his voice didn’t waver. If anything, it grew softer, more intimate, as though he were sharing a secret meant only for you. “The way you shift your legs together when I’m dressing in front of you…the way your eyes wander, even when you think I don’t notice.”

Your breath caught, and your mind raced to refute him, to deny everything he was saying. But the words wouldn’t come. His tone, his presence, his touch—they were all too much, too overwhelming. Your body betrayed you, warmth creeping up your neck and settling in your cheeks despite your best efforts to suppress it.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing as he studied your reaction. He smiled again, but this time it was softer, almost disarming. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to deny it. I’m not blind, kitten.”

You swallowed hard, your gaze darting away from his as your hands fidgeted in your lap. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts to sound firm. Of course you knew. You weren't sure if it was the hormones or what but the feeling of need...the feeling of desire to be touched and ravished had been more rampant than usual. You honestly thought you had done a better job at hiding it, but Sylus had read you like usual.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, and leaned back just enough to give you a sliver of space. But his hand remained on your thigh, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles against the fabric. The sensation sent sparks racing up your leg, and you hated how your body reacted, how you couldn’t stop the way your breath hitched every time his thumb moved.

“You don't know?,” he said, his voice calm but laced with something deeper, something resolute. “Let me show you then, sweetie”

You barely process his words before you feel the heat of his touch spreading through your skin, a slow burn that makes it hard to focus on anything else. His hand moves with a gentle yet deliberate caress, and before you can fully process it, he's leaning in, his lips brushing softly against your neck. The contact sends a shiver down your spine, a reluctant thrill of pleasure that you can't quite shake off.

His other hand finds its way in your pants and between your legs, fingers teasing and exploring, rubbing your clit with a maddening slowness that leaves you teetering on the edge of resistance and surrender. You don't want to like it, don't want to give in to the pleasure that coils so insistently in your belly, but your body has other ideas, responding with a traitorous eagerness that you can't deny.

You should try and stop him like every other time. But you don't. Its like your brain has switched off, replaced by a sudden need for him to keep touching.

As his lips continued their gentle assault on your neck, sending waves of tingling sensations down your body, you found yourself sinking deeper into the embrace of pleasure. The hand on your thigh tightened its grip, a possessive gesture that only added to the intensity of the moment. His breath, warm and tantalizing, whispered against your skin, causing goosebumps to rise in its wake.

"You're so responsive," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper in your ear. "I love how your body betrays your resolve." He knew just how to play with your senses, to make you question your own resistance. His fingers continued their sensual dance, stroking and circling, pushing you closer to the precipice of desire.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the world narrowing to the sensations he evoked. You want to shut him up. You want to scream at him. But no words come. His touch was like a brand, searing your skin with a fiery delight. You tried to hold on to your last shreds of resistance, but it was like trying to grasp smoke; it slipped through your fingers, leaving you helpless against the onslaught of pleasure.

As his kisses trailed down, each one a delicate flame on your skin, you felt your inhibitions melting away. The hand between your legs quickened its pace, and you gasped, unable to stifle the sound of your growing arousal. You were falling, surrendering to the sweet torment he so expertly wielded.

"That's it, let go," he encouraged, his breath hot against your ear. "I want to hear your surrender, sweetie." His words were like a spell, binding you to the moment, to the pleasure, and to the surrender you were about to embrace.

The tension coiled tighter within you, a spring ready to snap, and you knew that when it did, it would be a release like no other. Your body was on fire, craving the climax he was so adept at orchestrating. And in that moment, resistance seemed like a distant memory, as you were ready to succumb to the blissful oblivion he promised.

The pleasure built to an unbearable crescendo, and in a moment of powerful release, you surrendered to the climax, your body arching against his touch. A mix of sensations flooded through you—pleasure, relief, and a tinge of guilt for succumbing so easily. You trembled as the waves of ecstasy washed over, leaving you breathless and weak. "You're beautiful when you come undone," he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. His hand lingered on your sensitive skin, stroking gently as you rode out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

"I....I..." you muttered, suddenly feeling incredibly lightheaded.

The climax washed over you like a tidal wave, leaving your body trembling and your senses heightened. You gasped for breath, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure he had just unleashed within you. As you came down from the peak, a wave of emotions hit you—a mix of satisfaction, vulnerability, and a tinge of shame.

As if sensing your sudden anxiety, Sylus tightened his hold on your waist, his touch gentle yet firm. "Shh, don't run from this," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. You tried to squirm away, suddenly self-conscious, but his strong arms guided you back into place, his hands caressing your hips with a possessive yet tender touch.

"Trust me," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "I'll take care of you." With a gentle but unwavering grip, he guided you into position, urging you onto all fours and guiding you to rest your belly against the soft cushions of the couch. Your heart raced as you realized the intimate position you were now in.

"My belly..." you started, your voice laced with concern as you remembered your pregnant form. Was this even safe? What if he was too rough and hurt her? You feel your pulse quicken of the thought of something happening to the baby.

Sylus, ever attuned to your needs, paused, his hand cupping your swollen belly with reverence. "I'll be gentle," he reassured, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin. "Just breathe."

His words, spoken with such tenderness, only calmed your nerves a little. You feel him pulling your leggings down and lifting your shirt. As he positioned himself behind you, his hardened cock pressed against your entrance, sending a jolt of anticipation through your body. You couldn't see behind you, but from feeling alone you could tell Sylus was harder than you'd ever felt him. You felt his breath on your neck, hot and ragged, as he began to enter you, his movements deliberate and slow.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as he penetrated, the sensation both painful and pleasurable. The stretch and fullness were intensified by your pregnant state, and you couldn't help but wonder if it was the reason for the heightened sensitivity and pleasure.

"Nnngh…" you groan, gripping intensely into one of the pillows. "Slower Sylus, please..."

"Its been awhile, but you'll adjust" he whispered, his voice strained with restraint. "You feel tighter too, no wonder it hurts" His hands moved to your hips, guiding you to meet his slow, careful thrusts. You can't help but feel your face heat up at the sinful words leaving his mouth.

"Shut up..."

The sensations were overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and discomfort that soon gave way to pure bliss. You moaned, your voice echoing in the room as you surrendered to the waves of delight coursing through your core.

"That's it, let me hear you," he encouraged, his own moans becoming more pronounced as he picked up the pace. "Let me show you how good this can be."

His hands roamed over your body, caressing your back, your hips, and occasionally returning to cup your belly, as if to remind you of the life growing within and the unique pleasure you were experiencing. The room was filled with the sounds of your pleasure—your moans, his deep grunts, and the soft, rhythmic sounds of skin on skin.

As he thrust into you with increasing fervor, his movements remained mindful of your comfort, ensuring each stroke brought you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

The penetration was deep and profound, each withdrawal a sweet agony, leaving you wanting more. Your body was alive with sensation, every nerve ending singing with pleasure and pain. You wanted to escape the exquisite torture, to find release, but he held you firmly in place, his grip a gentle captivity.

"Please, Sylus," you begged, your voice breathless. "I need..."

"I know, sweetie," he murmured, his voice a soothing contrast to the raw need coursing between you. "Have some patience."

With each withdrawal and thrust, he worked his full length inside you, his movements now a deliberate torture, designed to push you closer to the edge of ecstasy. Your body felt like it was on fire, and sweat began to form on your face.

Your moans became more frequent, more desperate, each sound a plea for release. He was relentless, his pace calculated to drive you wild, his own breath ragged as he held himself back from the brink, all for the pleasure of watching you unravel.

"Sylus, please," you cried, your body arching, seeking more of him. His teasing was almost driving you to madness.

"Soon, my love," he promised, his voice a low growl. "But first, I want to watch you come apart."

His thrusts quickened, still controlled, each one a stroke of pleasure, pushing you higher, closer to the peak. Your body felt like a live wire, every nerve ending sparking with sensation, your core clenching around him, seeking the release he was expertly withholding.

The room was filled with the sounds of your pleasure—your breathless moans, his restrained grunts, and the wet, erotic sounds of flesh on flesh.

As he thrust into you with increasing pace, your body became a conduit of pleasure, every cell alive with sensation. You were on the precipice of bliss, teetering between agony and ecstasy. His hands gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place, ensuring his length stroked every sweet spot within you.

"Yes, let go," he urged, his voice a command you couldn't deny. "Cum for me."

His words, spoken with such authority, pushed you over the edge. Your body convulsed, spreading aching pleasure as you climaxed, your release a sweet surrender to the bliss he had orchestrated. Sylus soon followed, hot ropes of his cum filling you as he groaned your name, his body shuddering against yours in perfect harmony. You feel out of breath as he finally pulls out of you, a sudden empty sensation taking over instead.

The aftermath left you feeling hollow and heavy, like the weight of the world had pressed down on you all at once. You remained there, your legs trembling slightly, and felt his fluids slowly begin to slip out of you, a sensation that made your stomach tighten. Your hand instinctively drifted to your belly, and as if on cue, your daughter kicked hard, a protest against all the extra movement. You sighed softly, a wave of guilt washing over you.

I’m sorry, you thought, offering her a silent apology as you rubbed your bump in slow, soothing circles. May have gotten carried away.

The sensation of a cool, damp cloth against your legs startled you out of your thoughts. You looked over to see Sylus crouched in front of you, his focus sharp and deliberate as he carefully cleaned you up. He was gentle, moving with a precision that felt practiced, as if he had thought about this moment long before it had happened.

He didn’t speak, and neither did you. There was no need to. The silence was thick, heavy with unspoken emotions, and you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. The cold cloth passed over you again, wiping away the remnants of what had just occurred, and you shivered involuntarily at the sensation. Your body still felt too warm, too sensitive, and the contrast of the cool rag made your breath hitch.

"I'll get you new clothes" he suddenly said, momentarily pausing his movements. You barely hear him, but make a noise of acknowledgment.

When he finished, he disappeared momentarily only to return with pajamas for you, his movements slow and purposeful as he helped you redress. The fabric felt strange against your skin, almost foreign, as if it didn’t belong to you anymore. Nothing did—not your mind, not your body. It was all borrowed, handed over piece by piece to him, to the baby, to this life that no longer felt like yours.

Once you were dressed, Sylus stood and gently pulled you to your feet, his hands steadying you as your legs wobbled beneath you. He adjusted the pillows. Without a word, he guided you back to the couch and eased you down onto the cushions in a new position before settling behind you. His arms encircled you loosely, his warmth pressing into your back as he rested his chin lightly against your shoulder.

His hand found your belly almost immediately, his fingers stroking the curve of it in slow, rhythmic motions. The touch was soft, almost absentminded, but it was constant. Ever-present. You could feel the satisfaction radiating off him, a quiet, smug contentment that made your chest tighten. He had wanted this for a long time—there was no doubt about that. The way he gently held you now, the way his touch lingered on your belly, spoke volumes.

And yet, you couldn’t help but feel slightly taken advantage of. The thought crept into your mind unbidden, a whisper that grew louder the longer you sat there in his arms. If it weren’t for the pregnancy—if it weren’t for the weight of your swollen belly and overbearing feelings that came with it—would you have even let him get this close? Would you have let him touch you the way he had?

You weren’t sure. And that uncertainty gnawed at you.

This was different from all the other times. He hadn't had to force you. Somehow someway he knew your own thoughts, even if you didn't speak them aloud.

Your body didn’t feel like yours anymore. Your mind didn’t either. Every decision, every thought, every movement was dictated by something outside of yourself—by Sylus, by the baby, by the strange, tangled web of your current reality. It was like you were living on autopilot, your choices whittled down to the path of least resistance.

As Sylus continued to stroke your belly, his touch steady and unrelenting, you felt yourself slipping further into your thoughts. His hand was warm, soothing in a way that made you want to hate it but couldn’t. It reminded you of how far you had come—not in strength or independence, but in compliance.

How much had you given up? How much of yourself had you handed over, piece by piece, without even realizing it? The chain had come off weeks ago, but sometimes, you swore you could still feel its weight. Not on your ankle, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere inside.

The silence stretched between you both, but neither of you spoke still. Words wouldn’t have changed anything. They wouldn’t have undone the strange intimacy of the moment, wouldn’t have erased the lingering feelings of guilt and resentment that churned in your chest.

You shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the movement only drew you closer to him. Sylus didn’t seem to mind. If anything, his hold on you tightened just a fraction, his touch growing softer, more deliberate, as if he could sense the thoughts swirling in your mind.

You wondered how far you’d fallen. How compliant you’d truly become. It scared you, the thought of how easy it had become to let him take the lead, to let him dictate the terms of your life. Somewhere along the way, the fight had drained out of you, leaving only this—this quiet surrender, this hollow acceptance of the way things were.

And as much as you hated it, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away either.

Xavier’s body ached, the deep, bone-deep kind of pain that refused to go away no matter how much rest he got. He leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, his fingers curling tightly around the edge as a sharp pang coursed through his torso. His chest rose and fell in labored breaths as he waited for it to pass. It wasn’t as bad as it had been the first few weeks after he was released from the hospital, but it was enough to remind him that his body wasn’t entirely his own anymore.

The new treatment, as Dr. Grey had called it, had definitely saved him some time. That much was true. But at what cost? He had nearly killed Grey the moment he learned the truth—his veins now carried the DNA of a Polar Wyrm, a wanderer that was known for its love of colder areas. He should have asked more questions, he knew that. But at the time, he hadn’t cared about the consequences. All that had mattered was staying alive, getting back on his feet. Back to you.

But staying alive didn’t feel like much of a victory when his body felt like this. Xavier had thought he would be stronger, faster, ready to take on Sylus and rescue you. Instead, he found himself struggling with the simplest of tasks, the phantom pain from his transformation a constant reminder that he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to fight Sylus. He wasn’t ready to protect you. And he hated himself for it.

Dr. Grey had specifically told him that it would take a bit to "adjust" to his new body and that the pain in his bones would stop. The pain seemed never ending though.

He exhaled slowly, wiping a hand over his face as he straightened up. His eyes drifted to the corner of the living room where the boxes sat. Your boxes. He had finally gotten hold of them a few weeks ago after the landlord cleared out your apartment. The sight of them, stacked and untouched, made his chest tighten every time he looked at them. It was like having a piece of you here, a small reminder of the life you’d left behind.

He moved toward them now, his fingers brushing over the lid of the nearest box before he pulled it open. He wasn’t proud of himself for this—rifling through your things like some desperate, lovesick fool—but he couldn’t help it. It was the closest he could get to you right now. Inside, he found books, random trinkets, and clothes. Some were clean, neatly folded as though you’d packed them with care. Others…weren’t.

His face heated as he pulled out one of your shirts, the fabric soft but faintly wrinkled. It wasn’t clean. The scent of you still lingered faintly on it, a mix of your shampoo and something uniquely you. It was embarrassing, the way he held it to his face for just a moment, inhaling deeply as if he could somehow hold onto your essence. It made him feel pathetic. But it also made him feel closer to you.

His fists clenched around the fabric, his jaw tightening as he thought about you. About the life you were living now, trapped under Sylus’s control. You deserved better. You deserved freedom. And he…he wasn’t ready to give it to you. Not yet. He hoped he wasn't running out of time

Not until I can make this pain stop, he thought bitterly, tossing the shirt back into the box and shutting it firmly. Dr. Grey had assured him that he wouldn’t turn into a Polar Wyrm—that he had simply harvested its power, not its form—but that did little to comfort him. His body was stronger, yes, but it felt foreign. The pain and unpredictability of it left him feeling more like a stranger in his own skin than the man he once was. He’d deal with Grey later. Right now, his focus was on you.

Xavier rubbed his temple, trying to push the frustration away as he made his way toward the door. He needed air. He needed to clear his head. The suffocating weight of his thoughts was too much to bear indoors.

The morning air was crisp, cool against his skin as he stepped outside. He didn’t go far, just to the steps of the building. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to let him breathe. His thoughts were consumed by plans to rescue you, even though he didn’t have all the pieces yet. How could he, when his own body betrayed him?

He was about to head back inside when something caught his attention. A single door down, near your old apartment, there were boxes sitting outside. Open boxes. His heart clenched painfully as he stared at them. Was someone moving into your place already? His mind raced with memories of you in that apartment, your laugh, your smile, the way you had asked him how the locks worked the day you moved in. You had been shy, your voice soft as you spoke to him, but your eyes had held a spark of curiosity that had drawn him in. That spark was what he missed most.

It had been early evening, the warm glow of the setting sun casting long shadows across the hallway. He was heading out to grab dinner when he saw you standing outside your door, a box perched precariously in your arms. You looked so unsure of yourself, your brows furrowed in concentration as you shifted the weight of the box from one hip to the other.

“Uh, excuse me,” you called out, your voice soft, almost hesitant. He turned toward you, pausing mid-step. “Do you know how the locks on these doors work?”

He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. There was something endearing about the way you asked, as if you were afraid he might ignore you or brush you off. He walked over, gesturing for you to hand him the box. “Here,” he said easily, taking it from your hands and setting it down beside the door. “What’s the problem? Fingerprint not working?”

You hesitated, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you fumbled with the key in your hand. “Fingerprints...?,” you asked. “ Then what's this key they gave me? I just moved in, and I think I’m doing it wrong or something. There's no keyhole...”

He raised an eyebrow, crouching slightly to inspect the lock. “Well, first off, these locks aren't unlocked by keys . They should've had you register your fingerprint at the front desk, yeah? Like this.” He gently grabbed your hand and pushed your finger against the pad, and the door clicked open after a few seconds.

Your eyes lit up, relief washing over your face as you offered him a grateful smile. “Oh, thank you! I was wondering why they wanted my fingerprint. The landlord didn't explain much, he seemed to be in a rush. I thought I was going to have to call him and look like a complete idiot.”

He chuckled, standing up and leaning casually against the doorframe. “Oh, you’re good. That physical key is probably for your mailbox. They haven't updated those yet. You’re new here?”

You nodded, fidgeting with your hands as you shifted awkwardly under his gaze. “Yeah, just moved in today. Sorry to bother you.”

“It’s no bother,” he said, waving you off. “Welcome to the building. Your a new hunter right?”

You blinked, surprised. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” he replied with a small smirk. “But most people that move here are hunters surprisingly.”

You laughed softly, a sound that stuck with him even now. “I guess so. It’s…nice. Its a lot different from my last place.”

“Change is good,” he said lightly. “New experiences and whatnot.”

You smiled again, this time a little more freely, and he felt something stir in his chest. He didn’t know what it was then, but it was enough to make him linger a little longer than he should have.

“Well, thanks again,” you said, your voice softer now as you glanced down at the floor. “I appreciate the help.”

“No problem,” he said, stepping back into the hallway. “If you need anything, I’m in 3A. Right next to you.”

Your eyes darted up to meet his, a flicker of surprise and something else passing through them. “Oh your so close! Okay. Thanks.”

He gave you one last nod before heading out, but the memory of your shy smile stayed with him long after he walked away.

Xavier opened his eyes, the flashback fading as his gaze returned to the boxes outside your old apartment. That shy, uncertain version of you felt so far away now. He couldn’t even imagine what you must be like after everything Sylus had put you through.

His jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. He had to get you back. Not just to free you from Sylus, but to bring back the person you were. The person who had asked him about the locks, who had laughed and smiled softly when he teased you. That person was still in there, somewhere. He had to believe that.

The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to see a red-haired woman climbing the stairs. She was talking loudly on her phone, her voice grating against his already frayed nerves. She was carrying a small bag, her free hand gesturing animatedly as she laughed at something the person on the other end said.

When she spotted him, she stopped abruptly. Her laughter faded, and she quickly ended the call, slipping her phone into her pocket as she flashed him a bright, practiced smile.

“Well, hello there,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet as her eyes roamed over him. “Didn’t realize this place had such…interesting company.”

Xavier’s expression didn’t change, his jaw tightening as he stared at her. He didn’t want this conversation. He didn’t want anything from her.

“You got a name, handsome?” she asked, tilting her head as she took a step closer.

“Xavier,” he said flatly, his voice curt. He regretted giving her his name the moment it left his mouth.

“Xavier,” she repeated, as if savoring the sound. “Well, Xavier, if you’re ever looking for company…” She paused, her lips curving into a smirk. “You know where to find me.”

She winked before slipping into the apartment, leaving the door slightly ajar. He stared after her for a moment, a heavy sigh escaping him as he shook his head. She was nothing like you. Her flirtation felt hollow, forced, and it only served to make him miss you more.

He lingered in the hallway for a moment longer, his thoughts drifting back to the day you moved in. He could still see the way you looked up at him, your nervous smile and wide eyes. The way you had laughed, soft and genuine, like you couldn’t help yourself. It pained him that your apartment would be tainted by someone else's presence. That memory was all he had left, and he clung to it with everything he had.

One day, he promised himself. One day, he’d bring you back. And he’d do whatever it took to make that happen.

The world was moving on without you. But he wouldn't.

The pain was unbearable today. It came in sharp, stabbing bursts, radiating from deep within his chest and spreading outward like wildfire. Xavier sat on the edge of his bed, gripping the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles turned white. Sweat dripped down his brow, his jaw clenched tightly to keep from crying out. The only sound in the room was his ragged breathing, each inhale and exhale a fight against the searing heat that pulsed through his veins.

It felt like his body was rebelling against him, and in a way, it was. The Polar Wyrm DNA wasn’t something meant to mix with human DNA obviously. Even now, months after the treatment, his cells still felt like they were at war. Every new surge of strength came with an equally crushing wave of pain, a reminder that his transformation was far from complete.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, his trembling fingers barely managing to swipe it open before dialing Dr. Grey. The screen reflected his strained expression, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to how little sleep he’d been getting.

The call connected, and Grey’s calm, collected voice came through the speaker. “Xavier. I assume this isn’t a social call.”

“No,” Xavier bit out, his voice tight. “I’m about ready to rip my own skin off, Grey. This pain is unbearable. What the hell did you do to me?”

There was a pause on the other end, the kind that made Xavier’s temper flare. Finally, Grey sighed, as if the question were an inconvenience. “I told you the process would be…difficult. Your body is adapting to something it was never meant to handle. The Polar Wyrm DNA is powerful, yes, but it’s also volatile. I warned you about this.”

“You didn’t warn me enough...” Xavier snapped, his voice rising. He forced himself to take a deep breath, his free hand pressing against his chest as he tried to will the pain away. “You said this would make me stronger, that it would save me. You didn’t say I’d be stuck like this—half-dead and useless.”

“You’re not useless,” Grey replied, his tone maddeningly even. “Far from it. In fact, I suspect your body is on the verge of a breakthrough. The Polar Wyrm DNA wasn’t meant to stand alone—it’s integrating with your existing Evol. Tell me, have you noticed any changes in your abilities?”

Xavier hesitated, his brow furrowing. “What kind of changes?”

“Your Evol,” Grey said, his voice almost eager now. “It should be manifesting differently. Stronger. Purified. You’re no longer just a light wielder, Xavier. You’re becoming something more.”

“I don’t want to be ‘something more,’” Xavier growled. “I want to be me. I'm running out of time”

“You will,” Grey said simply. “But first, you need to understand what you’re capable of. Push yourself, Xavier. Test the limits of your new body. You might be surprised by what you find.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving Xavier gripping the phone in frustration. He wanted to throw it across the room, to hear it shatter into pieces, but he didn’t. Instead, he shoved it into his pocket and grabbed his jacket. If Grey wanted him to push himself, fine. He’d push.

The forest was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. Xavier stood in the clearing, his hands clenched at his sides as he surveyed the trees around him. He could feel the power thrumming beneath his skin, a faint hum of energy that hadn’t been there before. His Evol used to be simple—a steady, golden glow that he could call upon at will. But now, it felt different. Sharper. Colder.

He exhaled slowly, letting his hand rise as he focused on summoning the energy. At first, it was familiar—the faint flicker of light forming in his palm. But as he concentrated, the color shifted. The warm gold faded into a brilliant, icy blue, and the light crackled with a crystalline texture that sent chills up his arm.

“What the hell…” he murmured, staring at the transformation.

The energy didn’t feel like his own. It was foreign, raw, and powerful in a way that made him uneasy. It begged to be released, pulsing and growing in intensity until he could barely hold it back. Gritting his teeth, he turned toward a nearby tree and hurled the energy forward.

The impact was devastating. The light struck the trunk with a deafening crack, and in an instant, the tree split in half, shards of wood scattering in all directions. Xavier staggered back, his eyes wide as he watched the crystalline residue from the blast spread like frost across the shattered bark.

He barely had time to process what had happened before a sharp pain shot through his arm. He looked down and froze. Small, translucent crystals were emerging from his skin, shimmering with the same blue light as his Evol. They jutted out like jagged shards of ice, and for a moment, panic gripped him.

“What is this...” he whispered, trying to shake them off, but they didn’t budge.

The pain intensified, radiating through his arm and into his chest. He fell to his knees, clutching his side as he struggled to breathe. His body felt like it was breaking apart, the power within him threatening to consume him entirely. But as the pain reached its peak, it suddenly stopped.

Xavier looked up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The crystals had receded, melting back into his skin as if they’d never been there. His hands trembled as he stared at them, his mind racing with questions he couldn’t answer.

This wasn’t just his Evol anymore. It was something else. Something new.

Xavier leaned back against a nearby tree, his legs too shaky to support him. He closed his eyes, the events of the last few minutes replaying in his mind. Grey had been right—his body was changing, evolving into something he didn’t fully understand. The power was incredible, yes, but it came at a cost. He could still feel the residue of pain lingering beneath the surface, a reminder that his transformation wasn’t complete.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. About how this power might be the key to saving you. He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening as he stared at the broken tree in front of him.

“I don’t care what it takes,” he muttered, his voice low but steady. “I’ll figure this out. I’ll get stronger. And I’ll save you.”

The icy blue light flickered faintly around his hand as he spoke, a promise made to himself and to you. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

And so, Xavier had begun training his body, determined to push past the limits of the pain that still gripped him. Every day was a battle—against his own weakness, against the lingering effects of the Polar Wyrm DNA, against the gnawing guilt that he wasn’t moving fast enough to save you. But he fought anyway. His mornings were spent stretching and testing his endurance, forcing his muscles to adapt to the power coursing through his veins. The afternoons were for testing his abilities, honing the blue energy that had taken over his Evol.

He found himself venturing farther from home with each passing day, seeking the quiet isolation of the wilderness where he could unleash his new powers without fear of prying eyes. The first time he used them against something alive, it had been a wanderer—a lanky, glowing wolf-like creature prowling the edges of the forest. The beast had lunged at him, its teeth bared, but Xavier had met it head-on.

The icy blue energy exploded from his hands, crackling through the air before freezing the creature mid-leap. Crystals formed along its body, spreading rapidly until it shattered into a thousand glittering shards. Xavier had stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the destruction he’d wrought. It was…exhilarating. But it also felt strange, alien.

Every encounter after that had been the same. He tested his powers on other wanderers, creatures that roamed too close to civilization. Each time, his control over the energy grew stronger. He learned to summon it faster, to shape it, to pull it back before it overwhelmed him. But the pain never left. It lingered, like a shadow over every victory.

In the evenings, when exhaustion overtook him, he would sit on his couch and stare at the boxes of your belongings. Sometimes he would sift through them, searching for something that would spark a new memory of you. Other times, he’d simply sit there, his hands gripping his knees, the silence broken only by his ragged breaths.

Captain Jenna had been calling regularly, her voice crisp and no-nonsense on the other end of the line. “Xavier, I need an update,” she’d say, her tone brooking no argument. “When can we expect you back on duty?”

He’d stall, his answers carefully crafted lies wrapped in enough truth to be believable. “Still working on my recovery,” he’d tell her, his voice strained just enough to sell it. “The pain’s manageable, but I’m not at full strength yet.”

It wasn’t entirely false. The pain was still there, and he wasn’t ready to return to work. But that wasn’t the whole reason he was avoiding her. The truth was, he couldn’t afford to split his focus. His new body, his abilities, and his plans to save you—they demanded his full attention. Work could wait. You couldn’t.

Jenna wasn’t easily fooled. He could hear the skepticism in her voice every time she called, the way her words lingered just a little too long. “I assume your following all medical directions and resting, Xavier?” she asked once, her tone sharp.

“Of course,” he’d replied quickly, his jaw tightening. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

That seemed to placate her—for now. But he knew it wouldn’t last. Eventually, she’d come looking for him, demanding answers he wasn’t ready to give.

His savings were dwindling, a fact that gnawed at the back of his mind like an ever-present worry. He couldn’t avoid work forever. The money he had left was barely enough to cover his basic needs, let alone the resources he would need to take care of you when you were back. But he shoved those thoughts aside, focusing instead on his training. Every time he felt doubt creep in, he thought of you—of your smile, your laugh, the way you used to look at him with trust in your eyes. That memory kept him going.

One night, after an especially grueling session in the woods, Xavier sat on the floor of his apartment, his back against the couch as he stared at his hands. They were still trembling, the blue light faintly flickering at his fingertips. The power was growing, becoming something he could feel in every cell of his body. But with that power came responsibility—responsibility to wield it carefully, to not let it consume him.

His gaze drifted to the boxes of your belongings, and his chest tightened. He couldn’t afford to fail. Not when so much was at stake. Not when you were still out there, waiting for someone to save you. He thought about the day you moved in again, the shy way you’d asked him about the locks, the small laugh you’d shared when he joked about the apartment.

The crystals flickered along his hands again, a reminder of what he was becoming. He clenched his fists, determination hardening in his chest. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Xavier stood in the middle of the forest at dawn, his body covered in a faint sheen of sweat, his muscles aching but his resolve unshaken. He takes one last deep breath, summoning the blue light in his hands, and releases it with a force that splits another tree in half. The icy shards glitter in the early morning sun, a symbol of the strength he’s gaining.

Xavier looks at his hands, then toward the horizon, where he imagines you waiting. His jaw tightens, and he mutters under his breath, “I’m almost ready.”

With that, he turns back toward the path home, the faint sound of breaking branches and scattered ice lingering in the air behind him.

Was it possible to be tired of being tired?

Every part of you ached—your back, your feet, your shoulders—and your belly, now enormous at 29 weeks, made everything harder. Sitting, standing, walking—it all felt like a monumental effort. Even breathing sometimes felt like too much.

You couldn’t help but think that Sylus had known exactly what he was doing when he got you pregnant.

It was a cruel, insidious kind of strategy, really. The further along you got, the more your body betrayed you. The more energy it siphoned away, the less fight you had to offer. Anger took energy, resistance took energy, even sharp words took energy—and you had none of it to spare anymore.

Not when your legs felt like they were weighted down with bricks. Not when your back screamed in protest every time you tried to stand for more than a few minutes. Not when your daughter’s relentless kicks and movements left you exhausted even as they filled you with a strange, bittersweet pride.

You had stopped fighting him long ago. The sharp words that once came so easily to your lips now stayed locked behind your teeth. The glares and icy silences were fewer, replaced by a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion that dulled every edge you once had. You hated it. You hated how compliant you felt on some level. But what choice did you have?

Sylus, of course, noticed the change. He always noticed. And while he didn’t comment on it directly, you could see it in the way his touches lingered a little longer, the way his hands found your belly more often now. He wasn’t as careful about hiding his intentions anymore, not when you barely had the strength to push him away.

His advances had become bolder, his touches more insistent. A hand on your hip as he guided you to sit down. A kiss pressed to your neck when he helped you get dressed. And you…you didn’t stop him. You didn’t encourage him, either, but you didn’t stop him. Because that, too, would take energy you simply didn’t have.

You sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor as your hands rested on your belly. The fabric of your shirt stretched tightly across your bump, the fabric pulling uncomfortably as your daughter shifted inside you. She was active tonight, her movements sharp and frequent, as if she was protesting the same exhaustion you felt.

“Alright, alright,” you murmured softly, rubbing slow circles over your belly. “I get it, you’re not happy. Join the club, kiddo.”

Your words were quiet, spoken more to yourself than to her, but they still made you feel marginally better. At least she was growing, thriving, even if it felt like she was slowly taking every ounce of strength you had left.

Sylus entered the room a moment later, his footsteps soft but deliberate. You didn’t have to look up to know it was him. You could feel his presence, heavy and ever-watchful, as he came to stand beside you.

“Here,” he said, holding out a glass of water. His crimson eyes scanned you with a mix of concern and something deeper—something you didn’t want to name.

A moment of deja vu hits you like a brick. When you had first arrived, frantic, desperate for a way out. He had poisoned your water with god knows what. Handed it to you exactly the way he was doing now.

You don't even recognize that version of yourself anymore.

You took the glass without a word, your fingers brushing against his as you did. His hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back, leaning casually against the dresser as he watched you drink.

“You can rest more, honey,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “You don't need to be up every single day.”

A sharp retort hovered on the edge of your tongue, but you swallowed it down, too tired to argue. Instead, you set the glass down on the nightstand and leaned back against the headboard, your hands still cradling your belly.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, though you didn’t sound convincing even to yourself. "I'm pregnant, not made of glass."

Sylus raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand finding your belly like it always did. The touch was warm, steady, and uninvited—but you didn’t have the energy to push it away.

“She’s very strong,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the curve of your bump. “She takes after you in that regard.”

You scoffed, your lips twisting into a bitter smile. “Don’t flatter me. I feel like a beached whale, not some warrior goddess.”

Sylus chuckled, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles. “You’re just tired,” he said simply. “That doesn’t make you any less strong.”

You didn’t respond, but his words lingered in the air between you. You didn’t feel strong. You felt trapped, worn down by the weight of your circumstances and the life growing inside you. But you couldn’t deny that his touch, his presence, made it harder to hold onto the anger you’d once felt so fiercely.

Maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all. How easy it was to let yourself lean into his care, to let yourself forget—if only for a moment—how you’d ended up here in the first place.

As Sylus continued to stroke your belly, his touch steady and unwavering, you closed your eyes and let out a long, shaky breath. For now, you were too tired to think about what you’d lost. Too tired to plan your next move. All you could do was survive, one exhausting day at a time.

Sylus helped you ease back down onto the bed, his hands firm but careful as he guided you. He didn’t let you move too quickly, didn’t let you settle until he was sure you were comfortable. His touch, while gentle, was unrelenting. You couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been hovering nearby, ensuring you didn’t strain yourself or move in a way that might upset the fragile balance of your body at this stage.

Once you were lying back against the pillows, he joined you, sliding onto the bed with an ease that contrasted your slow, lumbering movements. He curled up beside you, his arm wrapping around your swollen belly, and for a moment, there was peace. The warmth of his body against yours, the slow rhythm of his breathing—it was almost soothing, even though you didn’t want to admit it.

But then his lips found your skin.

It started with small kisses, pressed lightly against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. They were soft, almost hesitant, as if testing your reaction. You tensed slightly at first, but the exhaustion coursing through your body made it hard to resist. His lips moved to the curve of your neck, lingering there, and you shivered as his breath brushed against your skin.

“Sylus,” you muttered, your voice low and weak. You didn’t know if it was meant to be a warning or just an acknowledgment of what you both knew was coming.

The kisses deepened, his lips pressing harder against your neck, his hand sliding over your belly in slow, deliberate strokes. You felt your body reacting before your mind could catch up—the way your pulse quickened, the way your skin seemed to come alive under his touch. It infuriated you, this instinctive response to him, this betrayal of your own conflicted feelings.

He moved with purpose now, his kisses trailing lower, across your collarbone, down the exposed skin of your chest. You didn’t stop him. You never stopped him. What was the point? He always seemed to get what he wanted, and you were too tired—too heavy, too drained—to put up much of a fight.

And besides, a dark, shameful part of you didn’t want to fight him. As much as you hated to admit it, deep down, your body craved his touch now. It was as if your body had betrayed you completely, giving in to him even when your mind screamed not to.

Sylus’s lips found yours, and the kiss was different now—deeper, hungrier. His hand cupped your face, tilting your head slightly to give him better access as he claimed your mouth. You let him, your lips moving against his with a practiced ease that you hated yourself for. His hunger for you seemed boundless, and as much as you wanted to deny it, some part of you responded to that hunger.

Still, you found the strength to place a hand on his chest, gently pushing him back. “Not today,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “I’m tired.”

Sylus paused, his crimson eyes searching yours for a moment. Then, a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your ear as he whispered, “Then let me do all the work.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his hand slid lower, resting just above the swell of your belly, and his words made your breath hitch.

“I just want to taste you,” he said softly, his voice low and sinful. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he continued, “You’re my favorite flavor, kitten.”

Heat rose to your face, your cheeks burning at the sheer audacity of his words. You hated how easily he could fluster you, how his voice alone could send a wave of heat rushing through your body. His words were deliberate, designed to break down any resistance you might have had, and you hated how well they worked.

You closed your eyes, willing yourself to remain calm, to push past the fog of desire clouding your mind. “Sylus…” you started, your voice trailing off as his hand moved lower, his lips finding your neck again.

There was no denying what he wanted. No denying the way his body pressed against yours, his movements slow but insistent. And as much as you wanted to push him away, to reclaim some semblance of control, you knew you wouldn’t. Because even now, even with every fiber of your being screaming at you to stop him, a part of you craved this. Craved him.

Pregnancy had taken its toll on you in every way possible. Your body was getting harder to control—with your daughter growing inside you, with Sylus constantly hovering, touching, claiming. And as much as you hated it, you couldn’t stop it. Because deep down, you weren’t sure you even wanted to.

With a gentle yet commanding touch, he parted your thighs, exposing your most intimate core, already glistening with anticipation.

"Just relax," he whispered, his voice a soothing contrast to the raw hunger in his eyes. You watch as he removes your underwear swiftly, as if its an obstacle standing in the way of his prize.

His hands, skilled and reverent, caressed your inner thighs, his touch light and teasing, sending sparks of sensation through your body. You shivered, your breath coming in short gasps as he leaned forward, his breath warm against your sensitive skin.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he lowered his head, his tongue tracing a path from your inner thigh to the heart of your desire. His first touch was a gentle stroke, his tongue gliding along your folds, eliciting a soft moan from your lips.

"Hgnnn..." you breathed, your body arching into his touch, unable to deny the pleasure he so effortlessly evoked.

His tongue, long and talented, began to work its magic, circling your clitoris with exquisite precision, sending waves of pleasure radiating through your core. He was relentless, his technique honed to perfection, pushing you to the brink of ecstasy in an instant. "Stop...it's too much..." you panted, your voice laced with a mixture of pleasure and disbelief.

Sylus's response was to increase the pressure, his tongue firm yet gentle, sending you spiraling into a vortex of sensation. Your body trembled, your juices flowing freely, a testament to the pleasure he was delivering. He lapped at your essence, his moans of appreciation mingling with your cries of delight.

"You taste so sweet," he murmured, his voice strained.

His fingers joined the dance, teasing and probing, as his tongue continued its rhythmic assault on your clitoris. Your body was a live wire, every touch, every lick, pushing you closer to the precipice of pleasure. You clenched, your muscles tightening around his fingers, as he found that sweet spot within you.

"Oh, god..." you cried out, your body arching off the bed , your hands gripping the blanket as you surrendered to the climax he had orchestrated.

Sylus continued his attentive ministrations, riding the waves of your orgasm, his tongue and fingers working in harmony to prolong your pleasure. As the tremors subsided, he slowly withdrew, his lips and fingers leaving you feeling sated and boneless.

Your mind felt foggy, sluggish, as though it was shutting down one piece at a time. Thoughts that would normally race through your head in an endless loop were distant now, fading into a dull hum that you couldn’t focus on if you tried. You barely registered the gentle weight of Sylus’s hands on your skin as he cleaned and redressed you, his touch careful and practiced. It was a routine he’d done many times before, but tonight, you didn’t even have the strength to feel self-conscious about it.

As the haze of exhaustion began to settle over you, a thought surfaced unbidden, cutting through the fog like a sharp blade. It was random, yet it felt heavy, carrying more weight than you expected. Your voice, soft and strained, broke the silence.

“Sylus…” you murmured, your eyes barely open as you stared at the ceiling. “Are we really going to raise a baby that will never see the sun?”

Your question hung in the air, unanswered for a moment. You felt Sylus pause, his hand stilling on your arm as he processed your words. The quiet stretched, and for a brief second, you thought he might ignore you. But then he shifted, his crimson eyes meeting yours, thoughtful and searching.

Before he could respond, the words tumbled out of your mouth again, unfiltered and raw. “I was thinking…I’d really like to raise her somewhere other than the N109 Zone. I’ve seen what’s out there. It’s no place to raise a baby.”

You weren’t even sure why you were bringing it up now, of all times. Maybe it was the exhaustion loosening your tongue, or maybe it was the way your daughter had been moving all day, a reminder of her presence and the life she would inherit. Whatever it was, you couldn’t stop yourself from saying it, even though you knew it was foolish. Pointless.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, watching you with an unreadable expression. His lips curved into a faint smile, but his eyes remained thoughtful. “Is that so?” he asked, his voice low and even.

You nodded weakly, your hand drifting to your belly as if to shield your daughter from the life she hadn’t even entered yet. The idea of her growing up in the same walls that had confined you for almost a year now made your chest ache. She deserved better than this. Better than you.

Better than him.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head with a tenderness that felt almost mocking given the weight of your words. “Sleep,” he murmured, his voice soft and firm at the same time. “We can talk about it another time.”

Of course, he avoided the conversation. He always did when it was something that mattered. And you were too tired to push him, too drained to argue. But the ache in your chest didn’t go away. Your daughter would grow up in this place, just as trapped as you were. She would never see the sun, never feel real fresh air on her face. Her whole world would be the walls of this house, the reach of her father’s control.

Your heart broke for her, the pain sharp and piercing. You wanted to cry, to let the tears come and release the weight pressing down on you, but nothing happened. No tears came. Just an overwhelming heaviness, settling over you like a blanket you couldn’t throw off.

An innocent life. Trapped with you.

The thought stayed with you as you closed your eyes, your body finally surrendering to the exhaustion. Your breathing slowed, evening out as sleep claimed you, pulling you under into the dark where, for a little while, you could escape the ache in your chest and the questions that had no answers.

For once, you were grateful. Grateful that your body had betrayed you again, leaving you too tired to stir in your thoughts for long. Too tired to dwell on the tangled mess of feelings and resentments that usually plagued you. For a few blessed hours, there would be no fear, no anger, no guilt. Just silence.

A new day arose and you sat in one of the plush chairs in the library, your hands resting lightly on the swell of your belly. Across from you, Luke and Kieran were in a heated debate, their voices rising and falling as they gestured wildly at each other.

“I’m telling you, The Light Swordsman is leagues better than that drivel you suggested,” Luke argued, his tone dripping with mock disdain.

“Drivel?” Kieran scoffed, clutching a book to his chest as though it were sacred. “You’ve clearly never appreciated the depth of The Dragon's Tome. It’s a masterpiece. She liked it, didn’t you?” He turned to you, his expression hopeful.

You smiled softly, watching them bicker. “I liked them both,” you said diplomatically, earning groans from both of them.

“Oh, come on, that’s not an answer,” Luke teased, crossing his arms. “You’ve got to have a favorite.”

Before you could respond, Kieran cut in. “Clearly, it’s The Dragon's Tome. It’s got everything—romance, adventure, incredible world-building—”

Luke shrugged his shoulders dramatically. “Oh, please. It’s just overcomplicated nonsense masquerading as literature. The Light Swordsman has action, wit, and characters with actual personalities.”

You chuckled quietly at their antics, the sound almost surprising to your own ears. Moments like these felt rare, where the weight of your reality didn’t seem quite as suffocating. Sylus had left hours ago, saying he had “personal matters” to attend to, and for once, he hadn’t taken Luke, Kieran, or even Mephisto with him. The twins had stayed behind, their presence filling the large, empty house in a way that was oddly comforting.

The old you would have reveled in the chance to be alone, to bask in the quiet and the freedom of being unobserved. But now, being alone felt strange. Uneasy. Your whole life had become these people, this house, this new reality. And when they weren’t around, the silence was deafening. It struck you just how alone you truly were, how small your world had become.

Sometimes, in those moments of solitude, you found yourself talking to your daughter without even realizing it. Asking her how her day was, if she enjoyed breakfast as much as you did. She’d respond sometimes with a nudge or a kick, as though answering in her own way. It always made you smile, a fleeting comfort in the midst of everything else.

Your gaze drifted to Luke, and a thought tugged at the back of your mind. Over time, you’d noticed something about the twins. They weren’t avoiding you, but they seemed careful—deliberately keeping a certain distance from you, never standing too close. It wasn’t hard to guess why. Sylus. No doubt he’d warned them, made it clear that any perceived closeness with you could have consequences. The idea made your stomach twist. You briefly considered trying to make Sylus jealous, just to see how far you could push him, but you dismissed it just as quickly. He wouldn’t punish you—he’d punish them.

The sound of the library door opening broke through your thoughts. All three of you turned toward it as Sylus stepped inside, his presence immediately commanding attention. Luke and Kieran straightened instinctively, their argument forgotten.

“Out,” Sylus said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. The twins exchanged quick glances before nodding and leaving the room without a word.

Sylus crossed the room with measured steps, sitting down in the armchair adjacent to yours. He dropped a stack of glossy magazines onto the table between you, the covers catching the light. Confused, you tilted your head.

“What are these?” you asked, picking up the top magazine. The pages were filled with images of lavish penthouses—floor-to-ceiling windows, sprawling balconies, gleaming kitchens, and modern interiors that looked like they belonged in a dream rather than reality.

“Penthouses,” Sylus said casually. “Take a look.”

You flipped through the magazine, each page more opulent than the last. One property featured a rooftop garden with panoramic city views, another had a private pool overlooking a tranquil forest. The kitchens were decked out with state-of-the-art appliances, the bedrooms were expansive with plush furniture, and the bathrooms looked like they belonged in luxury spas.

“These are…” you trailed off, your eyes widening at the listed prices. They were astronomical—far beyond anything you’d ever imagined. “Why are you showing me this?”

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his expression calm. “Pick one,” he said simply. “I’ve already bought all of them, so you don’t necessarily have to rush. If you don’t like any of those, I’ll find more for you.”

You stared at him, your mind struggling to process his words. “You’ve…already bought them? All of them?”

He nodded, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “For you.”

The weight of what he was saying hit you like a tidal wave. These weren’t just expensive—they were beyond anything you could fathom. And he had purchased them for you. “I don’t—” you began, but he cut you off.

“You said you don’t want to raise her in the N109 Zone,” he explained, his voice measured. “These are located in various areas surrounding it. Not terribly far, but close enough. Once she’s born, I’ll move you both to whichever one you choose. I’ve already ensured the best schools are nearby each of them.”

You didn’t know what to say. You stared at him, then at the magazines, your heart pounding in your chest. This wasn’t freedom. This wasn’t some act of generosity. This was a larger prison, a gilded cage with more space to move but no less control.

The words tasted bitter as they formed in your mind. A larger prison for me and my daughter.

Your hands trembled slightly as you set the magazine down. You wanted to argue, to say this isn't what you meant, that it wasn’t what you wanted. But the exhaustion—the same exhaustion that had been eating away at you for months—kept your words locked in your throat.

Instead, you met his gaze and forced yourself to speak, your voice trembling. “Thank you.”

Sylus nodded, his crimson eyes steady as he said, “Of course.” His voice was calm, but the way he took a deep breath afterward made you think he was mulling something over. For a moment, you thought he might say nothing more, but then his gaze flickered to yours, a faint glimmer of thoughtfulness crossing his expression.

“You know…” he began, his voice softer now, “your birthday is coming up.”

The words hit you like a shockwave. Your birthday. How could you have forgotten? But then again, time had become such a blur in this place. The days bled into weeks, and the weeks into months, each one heavier than the last. You stared at him, stunned, as the realization sank in.

“Oh…right,” you murmured, your voice quiet. “It is nearing the end of September.”

Sylus gave a small nod, his lips curving into a faint, contemplative smile. He seemed to weigh his next words carefully, the silence stretching between you like a taut string. Finally, he spoke again, his tone as casual as if he were offering to fetch you a glass of water.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, leaning back slightly. “For your birthday…I’ll take you to Linkon. You can shop for the rest of the baby things you wanted. Consider it one of your many presents.”

For a second, you couldn’t breathe. You stared at him, your brain struggling to process what you’d just heard. He had to be joking. There was no way Sylus, the same man who kept you locked away for months, was offering to take you to Linkon—himself. Was this some kind of trick? Some twisted game to see how you’d react?

“What did you do with Sylus?” you asked finally, your tone half-joking, half-bewildered. “You can’t actually mean that.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It’s no joke,” he assured you, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. “I assume you already know there will be very little chance for any misbehaving.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. Of course not. You weren’t naïve enough to think he’d let his guard down completely. But the thought of even leaving this place, of setting foot in Linkon again, made your mind spin. Would this be your chance? Could you call for help? Could you escape? The fire that had been smothered for so long began to flicker again, a spark of defiance reigniting inside you.

“Right,” you said slowly, nodding as you tried to keep your voice steady. “I’m almost eight months pregnant, Sy. Can’t exactly run that well.” You offered a weak joke, your lips twitching into a small, nervous smile.

He smirked faintly, his gaze lingering on you as though he could see right through your attempt at humor. “Good,” he said simply. “Because this isn’t a gift I intend to regret.”

You nodded again, but inside, your thoughts were racing. This was it—your last chance, your only chance. If you were going to escape, it had to be then. You couldn’t waste it. For the first time in months, the possibility of freedom didn’t feel so far away.

You just had to make it count.

As the days crept closer to the 29th, the tension in the house became unbearable. Sylus seemed calm, but you could feel the undercurrent of his ever-present watchfulness. He wasn’t a man who left things to chance, and you knew better than to think he hadn’t already considered every possible outcome. The thought made your chest tighten.

And then there was the question you hadn’t dared voice aloud: Would you run into anyone you knew?

The idea sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. What if you saw someone from your old life? Someone who recognized you, who asked questions? Would Sylus allow it? Or would he shut it down and force you to leave?

The thought of seeing an old friend, of having to explain your situation—or worse, being unable to—made you want to curl up in a ball and hide. You couldn’t decide what was worse: the idea that they might not notice anything was wrong, or the possibility that they might.

By the night of the 28th, the anxiety had reached its peak. You barely touched your dinner, your stomach too unsettled to handle more than a few bites. Sylus noticed, of course, but he didn’t comment. He simply watched you with those red eyes of his, a faint smile playing at the edges of his lips, as though he could see straight through you. You expected him to push you to eat more, but surprisingly he didn't.

When you finally lay down that night, your body was trembling with exhaustion, but your mind refused to shut off. The possibilities, the questions, the sheer weight of what tomorrow might bring—it was all too much.

You pressed a hand to your belly, feeling the faint movements of your daughter beneath your palm. She could probably feel your beating heart and anxiety. “It’s going to be okay,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you believed it. “Its just one day.”

But as the hours ticked by and sleep continued to evade you, all you could think about was how close you were to finally leaving this place and how terrified you were of what might happen next. For the first time in your life you weren't excited for your birthday. It would be the first birthday spent without friends or family by your side. You wondered if anyone back home would even remember?

You didn't want to think about it anymore.

You woke up to the scent of something sweet wafting into the room, the faint clinking of a tray bringing you out of the haze of a restless sleep. You blinked groggily, your heart immediately racing as you registered the figure standing beside the bed. Sylus. His eyes gleamed with their usual intensity, but his expression was softened, almost…warm.

“Happy birthday honey” he said smoothly, his voice low as he set the tray down in front of you.

Your breath caught as you sat up, your body stiff and sluggish from the weight of pregnancy. On the tray was a spread of breakfast—fresh fruit, buttery croissants, and a glass of orange juice. A small card sat to the side, its edges gilded, your name written on it in his elegant script.

“Thank you, Sy” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as your heart thudded in your chest. His unexpected kindness always left you feeling unsteady, as if the ground beneath you could shift at any moment.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on you as you took a tentative bite of the food. The flavors melted on your tongue, but you barely tasted them, your mind spinning too fast to focus on anything else.

As you picked at the plate, Sylus leaned back slightly, his tone casual but laced with intent. “Have you made a decision on the new home yet? No rush, of course. But if you’ve chosen one, we could tour it after we leave Linkon.”

The question sent a fresh wave of tension coursing through you. He was so composed, so calm, as if this were just a normal conversation between a husband and wife. You swallowed hard, shaking your head as you placed the fork down carefully on the tray.

“I…I’m still thinking about it,” you said, forcing a small smile. “Thank you for giving me time.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he stood. “Of course. It’s your day, after all. No pressure.”

The way he said it, the deliberate gentleness in his tone, made your skin prickle. Sylus never did anything without purpose, and his kindness now felt like a carefully calculated move. Still, you nodded, your smile brittle as you finished the food mechanically. You didn’t care about the penthouses. You didn’t care about your birthday. All you cared about was getting to Linkon—and the faint, fragile hope that you might find a way to act once you were there.

After breakfast, Sylus helped you downstairs, his hand resting lightly on your back as you descended. The air in the house felt different—charged, expectant. You could feel it before you even reached the bottom step.

As you turned the corner into the living room, you were met with a loud shout. “Surprise!”

Luke and Kieran jumped out from behind the couch, grinning like fools as they threw handfuls of confetti into the air. One of them miscalculated and bumped into Sylus, who shot them a pointed look but didn’t say anything.

The living room was a kaleidoscope of color. Balloons of every shape and size floated along the ceiling, ribbons cascading down like waterfalls. The table was covered in a spread of snacks and a small cake with “Happy Birthday” written in elegant frosting.

You couldn’t help but laugh, a genuine sound breaking through the wall of tension in your chest. Their energy was infectious, and for a brief moment, you let yourself feel the joy they were so clearly trying to share.

“Happy birthday!” Luke said, thrusting a party hat in your direction with an exaggerated flourish. Kieran crossed his arms at the gesture, but his laugh betrayed his amusement.

“Thank you,” you said, your smile widening as you took the hat. You glanced around the room, taking in the decorations, the effort they’d put into all of this. It was overwhelming. Surreal. None of it felt real.

You moved through the motions, thanking them, laughing at their antics as they joked about how hard it had been to keep this a secret. But deep down, you felt detached, like you were watching it all unfold from a distance. The decorations, the laughter, the balloons—it was all a distraction. A beautiful illusion that only served to highlight how far removed you felt from yourself.

Sylus stood off to the side, watching with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His presence was a constant reminder, a tether that kept you from fully enjoying the moment. You weren’t free, no matter how brightly the balloons shone or how cute the decorations looked.

Your hands rested protectively on your belly, grounding you as you forced yourself to smile, to laugh, to nod along to the twins’ jokes. Inside, your thoughts churned.

All you cared about was Linkon.

Your mind raced with possibilities and plans, each one more fragile than the last. Could you slip away? Call for help? Find someone—anyone—who could get you out of this nightmare? The fire that had reignited in your chest burned brighter now, fueled by the proximity of what could be your only chance.

The morning already felt like a whirlwind, and the surprises weren’t over yet. Just as you thought things were calming down after the confetti and laughter with Luke and Kieran, one of Sylus’s chefs rounded the corner. The man was carrying an enormous, lavishly decorated cake, the kind you’d only seen in magazines or fancy restaurants. It was perfectly frosted, adorned with intricate details that looked almost too beautiful to eat, and crowned with lit candles that flickered softly in the light.

You stared, shocked at how he was managing to balance it all without toppling over. “A cake too?” you murmured, glancing at Sylus. “You spoil me, Sylus.”

He smiled faintly, his crimson eyes glinting as he motioned for the chef to set the cake down. “Only the best,” he said smoothly. “Light the candles.”

As the chef adjusted the candles, Luke suddenly piped up, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. “Should we sing happy birthday, boss?”

Kieran joined in immediately, clapping his hands together. “Yeah, yeah, let’s sing happy birthday!”

Before you could protest, the chef, Luke, Kieran—and even Sylus—started singing. The twins’ voices were loud and theatrical, the chef’s was surprisingly melodic, but Sylus…oh, Sylus sounded like a dying cow. His voice was deep and off-key, dragging the notes in a way that almost made you laugh.

You bit your lip to suppress the giggle bubbling up in your chest, but when you glanced at him, you saw he wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest. In fact, he looked…happy. Genuinely happy.

When the song ended, Sylus leaned closer, his voice low and deliberate. “Make a wish, honey.”

Your heart raced as you met his gaze, mustering the best smile you could. A wish. You turned back to the cake, the candles flickering before you. The moment felt surreal, almost dreamlike, as if you were standing on the precipice of something monumental.

You closed your eyes, your mind racing. I wish to see Xavier again, just once. I wish for my daughter to live as happily as she can, regardless of what's to come. I wish for some control of my life back—even if I can never truly escape this. The thoughts came unbidden, raw and desperate. They weren’t just wishes; they were your heart laid bare.

With a deep breath, you leaned forward and blew out the candles.

As the room filled with applause from the twins, Sylus motioned toward a towering pile of presents sitting near the table. Your eyes widened as you took in the sheer number of them, the boxes wrapped in elegant paper and tied with shimmering ribbons.

“I—I can’t possibly open all of these today,” you stammered, staring at the mountain of gifts. “I’ll get tired by the tenth one.”

Sylus chuckled, his amusement evident. “Alright. Pick a few to open now, and you can get to the rest when we return.”

When we return. His words echoed in your mind, sending a chill down your spine. You forced yourself to smile and nod, pushing the thought aside. There was no guarantee you’d be coming back. Not if you could help it.

You began opening the presents, each one revealing something more extravagant than the last. Designer bags, stunning pieces of jewelry, elegant outfits—items you’d once dreamed of owning but could never afford. You wanted to ask Sylus how he knew these were things you’d wanted, but you didn’t. Instead, you thanked him for each one, forcing a smile as the twins “oohed” and “ahhed” over the luxury of it all.

Eventually, you picked up a smaller box that Luke and Kieran eagerly pointed out as their gift. You opened it to reveal a gorgeous portrait of yourself, intricately drawn and framed. The detail was stunning—almost lifelike—and your breath caught as you stared at it.

“You guys didn’t tell me you could draw,” you said, your voice filled with genuine surprise. “This is gorgeous. Thank you.”

The twins beamed with pride, immediately launching into a playful argument about who had contributed more. “I did the shading!” Luke declared.

“ But I did the fine details!” Kieran countered.

You couldn’t help but laugh, their bickering easing some of the tension in your chest. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the warmth of their gestures, even as the weight of the day pressed heavily on your mind.

Eventually, Sylus checked his watch and straightened. “We should get going,” he said, his tone calm but firm. Your heart skipped a beat as he ordered the twins to bring the car around to the front. This was it. It was happening. Linkon. You were going to Linkon.

Keeping your excitement carefully hidden, you excused yourself to go upstairs and change. Among the gifts Sylus had given you was a beautiful dress—simple yet elegant, with a cut that accommodated your growing belly. He’d even purchased it in two sizes, one for now and one for after the baby was born. The thoughtfulness of the gesture left you conflicted, but you didn’t dwell on it. Not now.

You slipped into the dress, smoothing the fabric over your bump as you caught your reflection in the mirror. For a brief moment, you almost didn’t recognize yourself. The woman staring back at you looked calm, composed. But beneath the surface, your heart raced with the weight of what lay ahead.

When you returned downstairs, Sylus was waiting by the door. His crimson eyes roamed over you, his lips curving into a small smile. “You look beautiful,” he said simply, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to smile as he guided you toward the car.

The drive began in tense silence, the sound of the engine and the faint murmur of the twins in the front seat filling the space. You stared out the window, your mind racing as the familiar streets of N109 Zone gave way to the outskirts of Linkon. Your heart pounded, anticipation and fear warring within you.

After a while, Sylus broke the silence. “I can understand how strange and…different this day must feel for you,” he said, his tone measured. “If you’re upset, you can tell me.”

You glanced at him, your pulse quickening. For a moment, you considered telling the truth, laying everything bare. But then you saw the faint tension in his jaw, the way his hands gripped his knees. Even Sylus, it seemed, was on edge today. You couldn’t risk it. Not now.

“Sure,” you said instead, keeping your voice light. “A little different. But you guys have done a great job making it special, regardless. Thank you.”

Your smile was genuine, though not for the reasons he’d think. You were grateful—not for the celebrations, but for the opportunity that lay ahead.

Sylus studied you for a moment, his expression softening. “I love you,” he said simply.

You nodded, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. “I know.”

And as the city skyline of Linkon came into view, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself for a whirlwind of emotions.

The first thing you felt was the sun.

Its warmth poured through the car windows, leaving trails of heat wherever it touched your skin. It felt like heaven, a balm for your soul after months spent in artificial light. The sensation was almost overwhelming, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes, savoring the moment. But when you opened them again, the light was blinding, harsh after so long without it. You winced, squinting against the brightness.

Sylus noticed immediately. Without a word, his hand came up to turn your head gently away from the window, shielding your eyes from the light with his palm. The gesture was unexpectedly thoughtful, catching you off guard.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft.

He nodded, but you noticed him squinting too, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight. Was he sensitive to light? It made sense, you supposed, given the rare, striking red color of his irises. It was a strange thing to observe, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered what other vulnerabilities might lie beneath his controlled exterior.

The car came to a gentle stop, and you felt your heart begin to race. This was it. You were in Linkon. The opportunity you’d been waiting for was just outside that door, and yet, your chest tightened with a mix of fear and anticipation.

Sylus stepped out first, circling to your side and opening the door. His hand extended toward you, his gaze firm but steady. “Come along,” he said, his voice calm.

You hesitated for only a second before placing your hand in his. Maneuvering with your belly was a challenge on its own, and as you stepped out of the car, you couldn’t help but feel like a waddling penguin. The thought made your cheeks flush, but Sylus’s hand was steady as he guided you to your feet.

When you looked up, the sight of where you were hit you like a freight train. You were standing in the parking lot of one of Linkon’s largest shopping malls—Aurora Galleria. Its gleaming glass façade stretched high into the sky, reflecting the sunlight like a beacon. You’d been here countless times before, shopping with Tara or browsing aimlessly on weekends. The memories came flooding back, unbidden and bittersweet, making your throat tighten.

I never thought I’d be back here...like this.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away quickly, unwilling to let Sylus see. He shut the car door behind you, giving the twins some instructions you couldn’t quite hear. Then his attention turned back to you, his hand still holding yours.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice smooth but laced with an undercurrent of authority.

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and let him guide you toward the entrance. The tension between the two of you was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Sylus’s hand squeezed yours slightly as you walked, the gesture clear even without words: Behave.

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting as you stepped through the automatic doors into the cool, air-conditioned interior of the mall. It was a stark contrast to the warmth outside, but it did little to soothe the nerves coursing through you. The space was massive, bustling with people, their voices echoing faintly against the high ceilings. The familiar hum of life surrounded you, and for a moment, you felt dizzy, overwhelmed by how normal it all seemed.

And yet, nothing about this was normal. Not for you.

A child suddenly darted past you, nearly knocking you off balance. You gasped, your body instinctively tilting forward, but Sylus’s grip tightened immediately. His arm slipped around your waist, steadying you as you regained your footing.

“Careful,” he said, his tone low but firm.

You nodded, grateful for the support even as the weight of his presence made your chest tighten further.

“There’s quite a few baby-oriented stores on the first floor,” he continued, gesturing towards an area of the mall nearby. “This way.”

You followed him silently, letting him guide you. Every step felt heavier than the last, your mind racing as you scanned the faces of the people you passed. You tried to catch someone’s eye, hoping to silently signal that something was wrong, that you needed help. But no one looked your way for more than a second. Their gazes slid past you, uninterested and unaware.

Your heart sank. It was as if you were invisible. Already, you could feel your chances of escaping slipping through your fingers.

No. You can’t give up that easily.

The baby clothing store was bright and cheerful, filled with racks of tiny outfits in every color imaginable. The sales clerk, a woman with a bubbly demeanor, greeted you the moment you stepped inside.

“Welcome!” she said brightly, her voice warm and inviting. “Can I help you find anything today?”

Before you could respond, her eyes drifted to your belly, and her face lit up with a wide grin. “Congratulations! Boy or girl?”

The lump in your throat returned, but you managed to smile, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. “It’s a girl. Thank you.”

“How lovely!” the clerk gushed. “Our entire back wall is dedicated to girl clothes, and we actually have a discount for currently expecting parents! Just find me when you’re ready to check out.”

You nodded politely, offering her another smile before turning your attention to the rows of clothing. Sylus was already scanning the racks with a critical eye, his hand still resting lightly on your back as if to remind you that he was there.

The nervous energy in your chest only grew as you moved through the store, your thoughts racing. What would you do if someone recognized you? If you saw Tara? Would you scream for help? Would Sylus drag you away before you could even finish the thought? You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, noting the calm, composed way he carried himself. He seemed utterly unbothered, as though this were just another mundane errand.

Meanwhile, every step you took felt like walking a tightrope. And with each passing moment, the weight of what you needed to do pressed heavier on your shoulders.

Don’t lose focus. Not yet.

The back wall was a dazzling display of baby clothes, neatly arranged by color and design. Soft whites, pastel blues, delicate pinks, even bold black and red outfits caught your eye as you scanned the racks. Each one was more adorable than the last, with tiny bows, frilly trims, or playful patterns. But as you reached out to pick up a red onesie adorned with a cute animal print, your attention snagged on the price tag.

“Fifty dollars…for one? Are these made out of the finest pure cotton or something?” you gasped, dropping the tag as if it had burned you. You stared at the onesie in disbelief. Who spends fifty dollars on a single piece of baby clothing?

A low chuckle from beside you made you whip your head around. Sylus, who had somehow secured a shopping basket without you noticing, reached out and picked up the onesie you’d dropped. Without a word, he tossed it into the basket with an air of nonchalance, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

“Let me worry about the price, sweetie,” he said, his tone smooth and confident. “You can pick whatever you’d like.”

You scoffed inwardly, your irritation flaring. Oh, he’s so rich, you thought bitterly. How could I forget?

Something about the moment—the absurdity of standing in a baby store with Sylus, the fresh air of being out in public for the first time in months, or maybe just the hormonal rollercoaster you were riding—emboldened you. With a smirk tugging at your lips, you reached into the basket, pulled out the red onesie, and placed it back on the rack with exaggerated flair.

“That one is ugly,” you said, feigning disdain as you turned to face him. “Can’t have my daughter in unflattering colors.”

Sylus raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he leaned slightly toward you. There was a glint in his crimson eyes, a mix of amusement and intrigue as he seemed to catch onto your attitude. “Since when is red an unflattering color, sweetie?” he asked smoothly. “Does that mean you hate the majority of my wardrobe?”

A flash of irritation sparked inside you, and you crossed your arms, your expression defiant. “As a matter of fact, I do,” you shot back. “Would it kill you to change it up once in a while?”

He simply laughed, the sound rich and infuriatingly warm, as if you’d told him the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Noted,” he said, his voice still laced with amusement. "I didn't realize I was in the presence of a fashion expert. I humbly apologize for liking the color red"

You scowled, turning back to the rack of clothes. Smug asshole. Your fingers brushed over the soft fabric of another onesie as your mind whirled. If he wanted to play this game, you could play it too.

With a sweet but pointed tone, you turned to him and said, “Actually, you’re right, Sylus. Red isn’t a bad color.” You paused, letting the moment linger before delivering the punchline. “In fact…why not get all of them? One of each color, every design, and in every size.”

For a brief moment, you thought you’d caught him off guard. But Sylus barely blinked. Instead, he turned on his heel, motioned to the cashier, and said casually, “Need these in every color, every design, and every size. The whole wall.”

The young woman’s eyes widened as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Y-yeah,” she stammered. “Let me get another employee to help me!” She disappeared into the back, leaving you standing there, your jaw clenched and your glare fixed on Sylus.

Of course, money wasn’t an obstacle for him. Nothing was. He didn’t even hesitate, as if the ridiculousness of buying an entire wall of baby clothes didn’t faze him in the slightest. You fumed silently, your mind racing for some sort of comeback, but the only thing you could think was, Fine. He’s carrying all those damn bags anyway.

Sylus turned back to you, his expression calm and self-satisfied, as if daring you to say something. You didn’t. Instead, you grabbed another onesie—this time a soft pastel blue—and tossed it into the basket with a defiant flick of your wrist. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his smirk still firmly in place.

The sales clerk returned moments later with two other employees, each armed with empty baskets. They hurriedly began pulling clothes from the wall, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief as they tried to keep up with Sylus’s order. He even instructed them to add some baby shoes in the mix.

You stood there, arms crossed, watching the spectacle unfold. It should have been amusing—absurd, even—but all you could feel was a simmering irritation and a growing sense of helplessness. No matter how much you tried to push back, Sylus always had the upper hand. He always won.

But not today. Today, you had a bigger game to play. Just needed the right moment.

Sylus stood at the counter, casually brandishing his sleek black card as the cashier rang up the final total. You didn’t miss the way her eyes widened when she saw it, her professional demeanor faltering for a moment before she recovered. No doubt she’d be gossiping with her coworkers the moment you left.

“Your total comes to $2,594,” the cashier announced with a polite smile, though her voice betrayed a hint of disbelief. "With the discount!"

Internally, you screamed. Over two and a half grand for baby clothes?! In no world, under any normal circumstances, would you ever spend that kind of money on onesies and tiny shoes. Yet here you were, watching Sylus swipe his card without hesitation, as if the amount were pocket change. You tried not to gape at him as he calmly took back the card and tucked it into his wallet.

When everything was bagged up—dozens of glossy shopping bags stacked high—you couldn’t help the small flicker of satisfaction that came with watching him carry them all himself. It was ridiculous how many bags there were, and seeing him juggling them with practiced ease gave you a petty sense of amusement.

As you both exited the store, Sylus turned to you, his crimson eyes sharp but calm. “You’re quiet,” he remarked, his voice laced with curiosity. “Are you hungry?”

You glanced at him, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem to be in a bad mood,” he replied smoothly. “Food usually fixes it, so I’m asking.”

You internally cursed him. He wasn’t wrong. Despite the lavish breakfast he’d prepared for you earlier and the cake, your stomach was already growling. Being pregnant had turned you into a bottomless pit of cravings, and the aroma of freshly baked cookies wafting from the food court wasn’t helping.

Sylus noticed the way your eyes drifted toward the cookie stand and smirked knowingly. Without a word, he set down the bags in a neat pile and reached into his pocket, handing you his black card.

“Go on then,” he said, his tone almost indulgent. “You can use my card. I’ll be sitting over there.” He motioned to one of the tables in the food court, his expression calm and composed, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

You stared at the card in your hand, its surprising weight catching you off guard. It was cold and metallic, an unmistakable sign of wealth and exclusivity. No wonder the cashier had been so wide-eyed. This wasn’t a card anyone could get their hands on. It was one of a kind, a statement of power.

For a moment, you hesitated, your mind racing. Is this some kind of test? The thought made your palms sweat. Was he seeing if you’d try to slip away, or talk to someone? You glanced back at him, but his demeanor remained relaxed, his attention already turning to his phone.

You swallowed hard and waddled toward the cookie stand, your mouth watering as the scent of chocolate and sugar grew stronger. The worker greeted you cheerfully, her smile wide as she asked, “What can I get for you?”

You opened your mouth, tempted to blurt everything out—Help me. Please. I’m not here by choice. But as you looked at her, doubt crept in. Would she even believe you? And what would happen if Sylus noticed something was off? The thought of what he might do—both to you and the unsuspecting worker—froze the words in your throat.

Instead, you forced a smile and placed your order. “Two chocolate chip cookie sandwiches with chocolate icing in between, covered in sprinkles, please. And a lemonade.”

The worker beamed. “Great choice!”

You waited as she prepared your order, your heart pounding the entire time. When she handed over the cookies, you murmured a quick thanks before waddling back to Sylus, your hands trembling slightly around the black card.

But when you reached the table, something caught your attention immediately. The massive pile of shopping bags was gone.

“The bags, Sylus,” you said, your voice rising slightly in surprise. “Where did they go?”

He looked up from his phone, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “They didn’t disappear, honey,” he said smoothly. “They’re fine.”

You scowled, irritated by his cryptic response. “That’s not an answer. Where are they?”

His smile widened, clearly amused by your reaction. “Relax,” he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. “The twins are handling them.”

Of course. You should’ve known. Seeing him struggle with all those bags had been a small, satisfying victory, but naturally, Sylus always had a solution. And with Luke and Kieran undoubtedly running errands for him somewhere in the mall, he didn’t even have to lift a finger.

You grumbled under your breath, biting into one of the cookies as you sat down across from him. The sweetness melted on your tongue, momentarily distracting you from your irritation.

Sylus watched you carefully, his crimson eyes studying your expression. “Better?” he asked after a moment, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

You glared at him, still chewing, but didn’t answer. Smug bastard. But at least the cookie was good. He seemed willing to entertain your attitude at least.

The first sound that drew your attention was the screaming, sharp and frenzied. It rippled through the food court like a shockwave, followed by the unmistakable click-click-click of cameras.

“Rafayel!! Rafayel! Big fan, please sign my arm!” a voice shrieked, and you turned to look.

Sure enough, a mass of people had gathered near the escalators, chasing after a casually dressed man with striking purple hair. He wore a simple white shirt and white pants, his outfit at odds with the chaos surrounding him. Bodyguards flanked him, trying—and failing—to push the crowd back as phones were shoved in his face.

He looked exasperated, but his steps remained measured, even purposeful, as though he were used to this kind of attention. There was something familiar about him, his features tugging at the edges of your memory.

“Rafayel?” you murmured, tilting your head. “Like the artist?”

Sylus barely glanced at the scene, instead reaching up to dab the corner of your mouth with a napkin. The motion was practiced, intimate, and you let him do it without flinching, too engrossed in what was unfolding in front of you.

“What’s someone like him doing here?” you mumbled, your gaze fixed on the crowd.

Sylus smirked faintly. “There’s quite a bit of luxury stores here. Why wouldn’t someone like him shop here?”

His words made sense, but your focus was elsewhere. People were pressing closer to Rafayel, their hands clutching phones, holding them high to snap pictures. You could see the glint of screens flashing, and the realization struck you like a bolt of lightning. Phones. Phones meant access.

Your throat tightened, and you suddenly choked on a bite of your cookie. Coughing, you grabbed your lemonade and took a long sip, washing down the pain. Sylus’s gaze sharpened, his hand resting lightly on yours.

“You alright, kitten?” he asked, his tone calm but tinged with concern.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, brushing him off. But your mind was spinning. I need a phone. I need a way to use one without Sylus noticing. He was always watching, always close, his presence like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

But then your eyes drifted across the mall, landing on a nearby sign. Restrooms. The realization hit you like a burst of light. Of course. The bathroom. He couldn’t follow you in there. It was your one chance to slip away and ask someone—anyone—if you could borrow their phone. Maybe they’d let you call for help, or at the very least, send a message.

Sylus’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “It’s rude to stare so hard, kitten. I can ask him for an autograph if you want,” he teased, though there was an unmistakable edge to his tone. Jealousy.

You turned back to him, startled. “Oh! No, I’m not a fan,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just crazy. I’ve never seen a celebrity up close before…”

You trailed off deliberately, your hand drifting to your belly as you feigned sudden discomfort. “Shit,” you muttered, clutching your side. “I’ve gotta pee. I drank my lemonade too fast.”

Sylus raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of mild amusement. “You’re always rushing with your drinks,” he said, but his tone wasn’t dismissive. He leaned back slightly, motioning toward the restroom. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”

You nodded, forcing a small, sheepish smile as you rose from the table. Your heart pounded as you waddled toward the restrooms, trying to keep your steps measured and casual. Inside, the plan you’d been crafting felt both daring and fragile. It was risky, but it was your only shot.

Now or never, you thought, the weight of your decision pressing down on you as you reached the door and stepped inside.

The bathroom was bustling with activity—women waiting for stalls, washing their hands, chatting casually with one another. The sound of running water and faint laughter filled the air. Near the corner, a little girl clutched her mother’s dress tightly, her wide eyes fixated on you as you entered. You felt your cheeks flush under her innocent gaze, suddenly all too aware of your presence in the crowded space.

You stood there awkwardly, your heart pounding in your chest as you scanned the room. Each woman seemed like a possible lifeline, but also a potential risk. Who do I ask? Your palms were damp, and you clutched them together to steady your nerves. What’s the worst they could say? No?

But no wasn’t the answer you feared. It was the possibility that someone might call attention to you. Or worse, that Sylus might sense something was wrong and come storming in.

Finally, your eyes landed on a short, older woman near the sinks, typing away on her phone. Her graying hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her expression was sharp, preoccupied. She seemed approachable enough—or at least, not overtly intimidating. Summoning every ounce of courage, you took a deep breath and stepped toward her.

“Excuse me?” you said, your voice trembling slightly. She glanced up from her phone, her eyes narrowing as she took you in. “Can I…use your phone? I need to call someone.”

Her gaze shifted to your belly, and something flickered in her eyes—judgment? Disgust? Whatever it was, it made your stomach twist. You felt small under her scrutiny, like you had to defend yourself for daring to ask.

“Don’t you have a phone, dear? Where’s yours?” she asked, her tone edged with suspicion.

Your mind raced. You needed an excuse, something plausible but not overly detailed. Would she think you were crazy if you told her the truth—that you’d been kidnapped and were living under constant surveillance? Would she even believe you? Or worse, would Sylus somehow track her down later? You shivered at the thought, deciding quickly that it wasn’t worth involving an innocent bystander more than necessary.

“I…I’m so sorry,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “Mine’s dead. I just need to make a quick phone call. I'm really lost. I promise—it’ll only take a second.”

She sighed heavily, tapping something into her phone before holding it out to you. “Quickly, please,” she said. “My husband is waiting for me as well.”

Relief washed over you like a tidal wave. “Thank you,” you whispered, your hands shaking slightly as you took the phone.

This was it—your chance. Your mind scrambled as you opened the keypad. Who do I call? Police? It was a tempting thought, but the idea was quickly squashed by reality. Even if they arrested Sylus, what if they didn’t hold him? What if he slipped away and came back for you later, more prepared, more ruthless? You couldn’t risk it.

Captain Jenna? The thought flickered briefly, but you dismissed it. She might involve too many others, escalating the situation in ways you couldn’t control.

Your fingers hesitated over the keypad before a name settled firmly in your mind: Xavier.

You blinked a few times, steadying your breath as you began to enter the numbers. The phone rang once. Twice. The sound brought a flood of déjà vu, memories of the first time you’d escaped flashing through your mind. You were standing at a grimy phone booth back then, desperate and shaking, waiting for him to pick up. Just like now.

Finally, a familiar voice came through the line. “Ah, hello? I think you may have the wrong number,” the smooth, quiet tone said.

You nearly collapsed in tears at the sound of it. “Xavier…” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “It’s me. I don’t have a lot of time, an—”

You stopped abruptly, your heart seizing as you remembered the story you’d given the woman watching you. Her brow was already arched in suspicion. Stick to the story.

“It’s you...” Xavier’s voice shifted instantly, concern and excitement lacing his words. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

Your heart raced, but you forced yourself to sound calm, casual. “Honey,” you said, clenching your teeth as you plastered on a smile. “I need you to meet me at the shoe store near the fountain in the mall. It seems I’ve lost you, and my phone’s dead. Please hurry.”

“The mall?” His voice sharpened with urgency. “Which one? The big one? Aurora Galleria?”

“Yes,” you said quickly, your heart pounding even harder. “Please hurry.”

“I can be there in about twenty minutes, okay? Don’t go anywhere, please!” You could hear the sounds of him moving quickly, the faint click of a door unlocking in the background.

“Yes, honey. Love you too. Bye now,” you said, your voice soft but deliberate as you ended the call.

Handing the phone back to the woman, you gave her a sheepish smile. “Thank you so much,” you said. “Sorry for the trouble.”

She nodded curtly, taking her phone back and slipping it into her pocket. “Hope you find him,” she said, her tone neutral as she walked away.

You exhaled slowly, your pulse still racing as you turned toward the sinks. Twenty minutes. You had twenty minutes to keep everything together. To not draw Sylus’s suspicion. To not falter.

Steeling yourself, you walked out of the bathroom, forcing your breathing to steady as you returned to where Sylus waited.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you forced your face to remain calm as you approached Sylus. He sat casually at the table, scrolling on his phone, the picture of ease. There wasn’t a single hint of suspicion in his expression as he glanced up at you.

“Any longer and I would’ve thought you’d fallen into the toilet,” he teased with a smirk, his crimson eyes flicking to yours.

You rolled your eyes at his joke, managing a small chuckle to play along. The enormous clock hanging on the wall of the mall caught your eye. Twenty minutes. That’s how long you had. You needed to keep him occupied, keep him unsuspecting until you could make another excuse to slip away.

“The baby still needs toys and such…” you said, your voice light and cheerful as you smiled at him. “Where could we shop for those?”

Sylus raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, his gaze scanning the nearby stores. His eyes landed on another child-oriented shop across the way on the third floor, its colorful displays practically spilling into the walkway. “She won’t need toys for a few months,” he said, his voice calm, “but it can’t hurt to stock up.”

“Great!” you replied, grabbing his hand and pretending to be excited. “Let’s go!”

He let you lead him, his fingers curling around yours as the two of you walked to the store. Inside, the next twenty minutes were a blur of colorful toys, tiny pacifiers, and shelves lined with bottles. You feigned enthusiasm, picking items off the racks and handing them to Sylus while your mind was consumed with the clock. You kept glancing at it from the corner of your eye, counting down the seconds.

Eventually, the twenty minutes passed. A quick glance at the store clock told you that Xavier was likely here—either in the parking lot or somewhere near the store by now. Your pulse quickened as you turned to Sylus. He was at the register, calmly paying for the mountain of baby items the two of you had collected.

Your eyes lingered on him. This man. The one who had stolen your entire life, twisted it beyond recognition. He had taken your mind, your body, your soul, leaving you a shadow of who you once were. You would never forget his face, not for as long as you lived.

Sylus finished the transaction and turned toward you, catching you off guard as he ruffled your hair affectionately. The gesture sent a strange shiver down your spine. “You’ve been staring an awful lot today,” he said, his tone amused. “Come along.”

You forced yourself to move, your legs feeling unsteady beneath you. As you walked toward the store’s entrance, you had to focus all your energy on keeping yourself from trembling. This is it. It’s now or never.

“Sylus,” you began, your voice wavering slightly but soft enough to pass as gratitude. “I really want to thank you for letting me experience shopping for her in person. I didn’t think you’d let me.”

His face softened, and for a fleeting moment, he smiled at you—warm, genuine, as if everything was normal. “Of course,” he said. “I know things haven’t always been easy between us. I really do think our daughter will change everything.”

He reached out and took one of the bags from your hand, his touch light but deliberate. “Where’s this coming from?” he teased, his smirk returning. “You were so mad at me earlier. It was cute.”

You faltered for a moment, caught off guard by his words, but quickly recovered. “Ah…” you said, clutching your belly as if on cue. “She’s on my bladder again. Sorry, Sy. Sucks the nearest bathroom is on the first floor.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable but calm. “Of course. I’ll make sure the bags don’t disappear this time.”

You gave him a sheepish smile and turned away, walking toward the escalator with steady steps. You didn’t look back, even though you could feel his eyes on you, burning into your back. Go. Just go. Goodbye, Sylus. See you never.

The ride down felt like the longest seconds of your life. Your thoughts swirled as you hit the bottom and turned the corner toward the bathrooms. You walked just far enough to make it look like you were heading inside, but when a surge of the crowd passed by, you turned abruptly, weaving yourself into the throng of people.

Go. Go. Faster. Don’t look back.

Your heart pounded in your chest, every beat echoing in your ears as you slipped through the sea of bodies. You turned another corner, your breath catching as the familiar shape of the mall’s fountain came into view. Relief and fear collided in your chest, pushing you forward.

Okay, the shoe store. Your eyes locked onto the display windows filled with polished shoes, your legs carrying you faster than you thought possible with your belly. You stepped into the store, scanning the small crowd.

And then you saw it—him.

Blond ash-colored hair, slightly broad shoulders, and piercing blue eyes. Xavier. He was standing near the back of the store, his posture rigid, his gaze scanning the area anxiously.

“Xavier…” you called out, your voice cracking as you took a hesitant step forward.

His head snapped toward you instantly, his eyes going wide as they took you in. For a moment, neither of you moved, frozen in place as if the world had stopped spinning. You watched his eyes drop to your belly, then back onto your face. The emotions swirling in his gaze mirrored your own—relief, disbelief, and something deeper.

Love.

And then, before you even realized what you were doing, your legs carried you forward. You were running, as fast as your body would allow, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

“Xavier,” you choked out again, your voice breaking as you broke into a sprint towards him.

The world around seemed like it disappeared. Nothing else mattered right now as you ran towards your first love.

You had gotten one of your birthday wishes after all.

[bbokaricentral]

because this is my 14th life -teaser

pairing. hyunjin x fem!reader

genre. starcrossed lovers with a twist, thriller/sci-fi, romance, fluff, a good portion is straight angst. 

synopsis: You’ve found him in every lifetime—his soul pulling you in before your mind can catch up. A touch, a glance, a smile, and the ancient fire between you ignites again. But each time, the universe rips you apart. War, betrayal, tragedy—the endings shift, but the pain is the same. This life is different. This time, you remember. Flashbacks of past lives flood your mind, and a terrifying power awakens within you—the ability to bend time itself. 

You vowed you wouldn’t lose him again, but you know what’s coming. Every third anniversary, you lose him, and in just 14 days, it will happen again.  But this time, you’ve done something—something dangerous. You're not supposed to be here, you're not even supposed to be alive. But against all odds you’ve shattered the rules, and now Fate itself is hunting you. They’re watching, waiting for you to slip. Can you save him before time and destiny destroy you both? Or is this ending—like all the others—already written in the stars?

warnings. smut,(spanking, kissing, fingering, oral -fem receiving, so so so much praise he lit praises reader every second) plot twists, mentions of violence, going through many universes, rewinding time, messing with time, thrills, an argument where a secret gets revealed, near death encounters, lmk if i missed anything. 

est word count. 34k (longest shit ive ever written and plus i have another han, felix and chan one too..) / teaser word count. 1k

teaser warnings. Mentions of a car accident, mentions of a hospital.

est release date. june 20th or june 22nd(extended to june 26)

You don’t remember the crash. The impact, the screech of metal, the shattering glass—all gone. Your mind is a blank, a void that refuses to recall. But there’s something, an echo, a persistent feeling, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. The sound of sirens, sharp and terrifying, slicing through the air as you're rushed to the hospital.

The world feels muffled, distant, as though you're submerged in water. You can hear the frantic cries of people, but their words are indistinguishable. Only the voice of the doctor breaks through, his words cold, clinical, almost rehearsed: "This is bad. The crash... it's serious."

But even that, even that doesn’t feel real. It’s all a blur.

And then, it begins. A sudden rush. A flood of memories. But they’re not yours. They come crashing into your mind, tumbling over one another like waves in a storm. At first, it’s just flashes, fragmented moments that make no sense. Faces you don’t recognize. Places you’ve never been. But then—something shifts.

A battlefield. The air is thick with the scent of smoke, of blood. The distant cries of soldiers and the rhythmic pounding of artillery echo through your mind. You see men, their uniforms caked in mud, their faces twisted in fear and determination. The weight of something heavy in the air. You don’t know how you know this, but you do.

A soldier’s face stares back at you, eyes hollow with exhaustion, mouth set in a grim line. He’s standing on a battlefield, rifle in hand, looking not at the horizon, but directly at you. You freeze. His face... it's your face.

You gasp. The sharp intake of air stabs your lungs as you jolt upright, your body betraying you, as though trying to escape the weight of those memories. The vision of the soldier lingers, haunting your mind, his eyes still locked on yours as if warning you.

Then, more faces. A woman this time, standing in front of a grand, lavish estate, her dark eyes filled with sorrow. She’s holding a child, her arms trembling. But there’s something in the way she looks at you—a sense of recognition, a deep familiarity that doesn’t belong. You try to place her, but it slips through your fingers like water.

You blink, and the image disappears. The faces blur, distort, becoming a storm of people. But then another scene. A dusty road. A horse-drawn carriage. A man riding beside it. His face too is yours. His expression is tense, as if he’s looking back at something—or someone. Who?

You feel a tremor run through your body. The disjointedness of it all. The sense that these people, these lives, these memories, are somehow connected to you, but they aren’t yours. They can’t be.

And just as quickly as the visions come, they begin to fade. But something lingers—a presence. A feeling. You can’t place it, but it’s there, like a shadow hanging just behind you, following you, whispering something you can’t hear.

You let out a sharp gasp, your breath shaky. You try to sit up again, but your head spins, and the world around you remains a blur. What’s happening?

"Ms. L/n? Are you alright?" The voice is soft, concerned. It’s a doctor’s voice. It cuts through the chaos in your mind, but it doesn’t sound real. You blink rapidly, your surroundings still swimming in and out of focus.

Something’s wrong. Something is so wrong. The air around you feels heavy, stifling. The scent of antiseptic, the distant beeping of machines—all too sharp, too sterile. It feels... unnatural.

"Love?" A voice trembles, soft yet desperate, cutting through the confusion. It’s familiar. So familiar. It’s him. Hyunjin.

Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You know him, of course you know him. He’s your anchor. Your other half. But even now, even as he rushes to your bedside, the unease gnaws at you.

You turn your head towards him, your vision still blurry. There he is, kneeling beside you, his hand hovering over yours, uncertain. His face is streaked with tears, his eyes wide with panic. "Are you okay?" he whispers, his voice breaking.

For a moment, you can’t speak. You can’t breathe. The room spins. Your boyfriend. You were just with him, weren’t you? You were driving to your favorite dinner place, excited for the reservation. Your anniversary. Everything was fine.

You remember that now. The laughter in the car. The warmth of his hand in yours.

But then the flashbacks surge again.

The soldier. The woman with the child. The road. The carriage. All of them, overlapping, colliding, their faces flickering like a broken film reel. It’s like you’re living their lives, their thoughts, their experiences, all at once.

And with every passing moment, the unease grows. The feeling that you’re not supposed to be here, that you’re out of place, out of time. That none of this is real. That you’ve stepped into someone else’s world.

You try to speak, but your throat is tight, as if the words are caught somewhere deep inside you. “Hyun—” you begin, but your voice cracks.

Hyunjin leans closer, his face contorting with fear. "What is it? What’s wrong?" His hands tremble as they hover near your face, but he doesn’t touch you, as if afraid that doing so might break something irreparably.

Your heart pounds harder, your pulse racing as another flashback breaks through—a man in a dark coat, his eyes cold and calculating, watching from the shadows.

You gasp again, the room tilting around you as you feel your mind stretching, expanding, breaking. You grasp Hyunjin’s hand, squeezing it, as if grounding yourself in this moment, in this reality. But the sensation is fleeting.

Something is wrong. You don’t belong here. You know it. But why?

Why does everything feel like it’s unraveling, like you’re on the verge of losing yourself, of losing him?

"Please, please, talk to me," Hyunjin pleads, his voice trembling with desperation. "You’re scaring me."

And you want to tell him, you want to scream, but the words are too heavy, too full of the truth you’re not ready to face. Because deep down, in the pit of your stomach, you know.

Something is coming for him.

The danger is real, and it’s closing in on him, on both of you. But you don’t know what it is.

All you know is that you’re running out of time.

authors note: heh! one of my biggest projects almost completed, (i might have 4 other fics ready around that time as well 👀)

do not copy, repost, or translate my works on any platform. do not repost, alter, or translate any of my content without my consent.

[iwtv-theories]

All hints of past Devil’s minions (analysis)

Ok, before I get started I’ll preface this by saying some of this evidence has obvious (and literal) counter explanations and some of the easter-eggs could simply be foreshadowing for a reimagining of future d.m. But, in case they did have a past together , I might as well mention all the possible hints for fun.

1)Armand mentions “Tabula rasa”(Latin for a 'blank slate’ ) and then he turns his head to Daniel .

In philosophy 'tabula rasa' is a theory that says : at birth the mind is hypothetically a blank or empty slate before receiving memories that shape them into who they are. The term “tabula rasa” linguistically is derived from a wax-covered tablet (tabula) used for written notes, which was blanked (rasa) by heating the wax and then smoothing it to be reused and have new words written on it. Yeah , certainly sounds similar to someone's powers (memory alteration via words). What's very telling is the fact Daniel in response to this says annoyed: " disregard... as Armand remains off the record." It seems like a very tongue and cheek joke (from the writers). Because Armand was taken out of Daniel's narrative as well . Like Daniel said in ep 5 : "Armand redacted himself. which is why I don't remember." In qotd, Daniel & Armand would also often watch 'blade runner', and in that film , the 'maker' was able to manipulate/create memories in the ‘short- lived’ replicants’ lives.

2)[Let’s talk about the Alice proposal]. First we have Louis talk about his time in Paris (as the camera pans to Daniel and Armand) : “she was giving me permission to explore a life apart from her” .Armand: *tilts his head*: and then mentions Alice.

Armand may have let Daniel explore other romantic relationships like Alice (if he was with Louis) to make the dynamic more fair . So Daniel may be conflating fragments of his lost memories of Armand with memories of his ex Alice (since he was with them at the same time).

Armand may have replaced himself with Alice. Or he may have 'redacted' himself and Daniel's brain tried to fill in the gaps in memory naturally, since they were both romantic partners to him (around the same time). Daniel already had to be reminded by his ex wife ( Alice) that he didn't own a buick with her (which he probably drove in the past with Armand) . Daniel already "conflated events" : mixing up Louis for a human he met at a rehab , so it wouldn't be the first time he's mixed people up in his head.

-Louis about Daniel &Alice: “you were talking past each other “.

-Daniel to Louis : "Did you gravitate to San francisco as a hub for homophiles? " Louis: “ Paris was the more formative LIBERATION for me...you felt FRERER to hold her hand in Paris, I wonder why that is?

Then of course we see the framing of the proposal scene. Daniel says almost proudly that he did surprise Alice , which if he surprised a mind reader I could see why he was proud. Then Daniel has a flashback of Armand silently looking at him. Louis : “and what did she say when you finally asked her to marry you? " Daniel turns and looks at Armand confused as they both stare at each other . Daniel now hears Armand’s voice from the past . Armand: “Louis, perhaps we should- “. Daniel: “She said , no” . Armand : “she wanted to say yes, but she didn't trust you yet .”

Also, isn’t it interesting that an episode later Armand says it’s wrong to go into Daniel’s memories. So why did he (allegedly) go into Alice’s? And if so why is Daniel an exception? Is it really just because he’s a “guest” in the house (like Armand claimed) ? Did he really go into Alice’s mind or was he just admitting how he felt at the time of the proposal? Also if he supposedly didn't read Daniel's mind how did he know he was thinking of Alice initially? Either he knew he was taking about Alice, because he was around during that time. Or he read Daniel’s memoir that referenced her and Daniel in Paris (which would already be a hint Armand is more interested in Daniel than he lets on).

Also, Armand says Daniel was thinking of “Alice” after Daniel says “she’s tired of your dilettante vibe.” Alice may have said it , but the word ‘dilettante’ is considered an archaic term that originated in 1733 and is borrowed from the Italian word "dilettante" meaning "lover of music or paintings”. Given Armand’s old fashioned vernacular, and origins in the Italian- art scene . It makes me wonder if he actually said it (not Alice)

And … before the proposal flashback, Louis says in relation to Alice and Daniel in Paris : “I SEE I triggered a memory.” But for Daniel , when thinking of the proposal, the only visual memory he SAW was of Armand . Which begs the question why did a failed marriage proposal trigger a memory of Armand (for Daniel) ?

Lestat asking Louis to be his companion and turning him was already compared to a wedding at a church. Daniel may have “finally gotten his shit together “ (got sober) and asked to be turned and be Armand's companion and Armand said "no" . And this still subconsciously hurts him deeply. In the books, armand's refusal to turn him was the biggest issue in their relationship. It could be a similar pain to when Alice first rejected his marriage proposal (or his pain from Armand's rejection was displaced on to Alice's rejection, in his distorted memories). Similar to him thinking he drove a buick when married to her.

Also , isn’t it interesting that in Daniel’s first flashback of Armand, the first thing Armand says as he looks at Daniel is , “no.” And the second flashback is: “(s)he said no.”

I also find it interesting that Daniel first remembers Armand via a dream and of course Alice (could be a ref to Alice in wonderland which is a story heavily associated with dreams). A hint he’s mixing the 2 up? (Alice and wonderland series) : “In the garden of memory, in the palace of dreams, that is where you and I shall meet.” *Literally remembers meeting Armand (in his memory) via a dream….

3) This next scene could have a lot of logical explanations. And it could be heavily symbolic and foreshadow that past d.m did happen. But if past d.m did occur it’s also possible Armand wasn’t simply worried about the talamasca showing Daniel the trial-script (which Armand may or may not have assumed burned in the fire). But, was worried about Daniel learning about their affair and telling Louis. Daniel to Armand: “you could read any mind you want. Why didn't you?" Armand: "I was in Love". Daniel snears at Louis: "you believe that?" Louis: I believe... he could have gotten lazy. Armand: "It was love." Louis sarcastically: "Sure, and Love. I suppose he was loving in those times... (angrily)Love!"

Armand then immediately turns away from Louis and asks three times if Daniel was left alone to talk to anyone (talamasca) during dinner . And Louis looks visibly confused on why he's harping on Daniel, and not the fact he just alluded to the fact that he thinks Armand doesn't love him anymore. And louis say exasperated : "WHY do you ask, LOVE?" There's a lot of symbolic weight in that last sentence. He literally is referring to Armand by the nickname 'love', but he's once again alluding to his doubts of Armand's love by emphasizing the last word. He's also asking why on earth is he bringing Daniel up in this conversation??? The dramatic pause between the 2 lines, may symbolically tell us the answer : " Why do you ask (about Daniel)? (Is it) LOVE? ".Armand may have been trying to figure out if Daniel found out about the affair, and told Louis.

And to answer Louis' question on ‘why he’s asking about Daniel’ we hear a drink being prepared and Armand is shown in both shots as the drink is poured...

And what does Daniel say shortly after : "Rashid, more vermouth next time.It's just HIS (Armand's) were better (*smirks)." Armand's odd look in response is possibly because he's wondering if this was or wasn't a subtle jab at their past relationship. “ They were not compatible / He tasted like Vermouth."

The drink symbolism could be a hint that Armand was asking cause he was afraid an ex-romantic relationship had been exposed. Not to mention, this whole scene was spurred on by Armand saying he doesn't read minds , cause of "love". And in an earlier episode he apologized to Daniel (for Louis going into his mind) saying "it was wrong to go into your memories ." Maybe Armand feels guilty about what he did last time he went into Daniel's memories?I mean …during this whole scene he could have just read Daniel's thoughts/memories to know what he actually knew or if he met up with the talamasca during dinner. Instead he openly admits he tried to hack Daniel’s computer : “you have everything we have , unless you're HIDING something on your encrypted laptop.”And funnily enough the only thing the Talamasca agent said to Daniel, at dinner, was he 'shouldn't fear Armand'. Sus.

The agent says this AFTER Armand just killed Malik. And before this convo with the talamasca, Daniel said himself: “1000s of kills, when has Armand ever spared a life ?” Yes, exactly, so why does the talamasca agent seem so confident that Armand isn’t a threat to Daniel? . Are they really just that bad at keeping their assets alive? I guess Armand usually only targets certain types of people, but still . And why does Raglan warn Daniel about Louis??? Louis hasn't killed anyone since 2000! Even agent Rashid says Daniel shouldn't have accepted Louis' invitation if he wanted to get out alive. Who knows maybe they're like, Daniel if Louis finds out about your little affair - you're going to die (just like Antoinette).

Not to mention that in the episode commentary of the scene, Assad says that Armand was suspicious "that they knew" . And I mean -after they both question Armand's 'love'. It makes sense he’d jump to the conclusion that they might know about the affair . Anderson (Louis) then says about the scene: " Louis known for a long time something is wrong. A lie is being told. I think Louis and Daniel have been sort of like kept things for Armand." Which yeah- sounds more like d.m proof than Armand simply trying to figure out if they know about the trial script.

4) louis : “we’ve been TOGETHER 77 years . Should we let the MATH of that settle.” Well, that’s certainly interesting math, given the fact Armand said in the prior episode they’ve been “TOGETHER” for “ 70 years.” Logically ,I know Armand is simply “rounding down” (which is already out of character tbh). But SYMBOLICALLY I find it really interesting that Armand when Daniel is in the room says “77 years”, but when Daniel is in another room he always says “70 years “ . Maybe a symbolic hint their affair lasted 7 years ?

Think about it, what did Lestat say when explaining his affair with a human who he later turned into a vampire : “ For 7 years …if your companion no longer wishes to share his body with you. If every word out of his mouth is disinterest or vitriol for 7 years ! You still hope ... that he'll love you, like you love him . But, what do you do? (picture of Antionette pops up).Do you find affection elsewhere? “ . Santiago: “Antionette Brown, ladies and gentlemen, later the vampire Antoinette . 7 long years . “

Also , Daniel had to be reminded by his ex wife Alice that he didn’t own a Buick while they were together . His publisher also had to remind him the dates must be wrong for when he owned the car - cause child car seats weren’t even mandatory until 1985, the year he got Alice pregnant . Daniel told his publisher he owned a Buick 7 years before 1985. Cough it was probably Armand’s car (and the timeline is jumbled in his head). And they were together for 7 years. Daniel didn’t even own a credit card in the 80s but he thought he drove a luxury car in the 70s???? Sus

Louis while with Daniel , also says to Armand : “do you care to Join us?” Armand to Daniel: “Mr pointe du lac will join you at course 7.” Daniel: “7?... wait “(Armand rushes away from Daniel). Maybe that's symbolic?

who knows , Lestat (was separated from Louis) and lived with Antoinette for years- only to later get back with Louis. Is it possible that something similar happened between Armand, Daniel, and Louis ?

Not to mention when Armand says to Daniel “77 years and it still feels like a slight.” (it pans to Daniel, and I can’t help but think the real slight would be to Daniel, if they actually were together during that 77 y long marriage). Daniel in the last episode screaming : “77 years based on a seismic lie!” (Makes me wonder if the trial isn’t the only seismic lie). I'm sorry, I still find it interesting that ‘home-wrecker’ molloy destroyed their marriage “almost to the day” of Louis & Armand's anniversary.

In the show they also changed Marius/armand’s relationship so it now lasted 12 years. Which in the books is also how long Daniel/Armand were together . I could see Armand/Daniel having the “chase/get to know you phase “ for 5 years and then actually be together for 7 years. Since in the books they knew each other for 4 years before dating for 8) .

5)This next scene could also be heavily symbolic ,when Louis is discussing his courtship to Armand (the camera lingers on Daniel cause the dialogue may have also applied to him): "Some of my most pronounced feelings and thoughts were taking shape. When my mind was being touched by Armand's I became deeply excited and driven to form new conclusions about myself and vampiric life in the abstract." / Louis: "Is something wrong, Daniel?" Daniel: Something you were saying made me think of, um... Louis : "Think of what?" *Armand turns to look at Daniel* Daniel:" It just flew out of my head. It's gone." *Camera pans back to Armand looking at Daniel* Who may or may not be wondering if Daniel almost remembered something. Also the fact during this whole scene Daniel is clicking on the “escape” button over and over as Louis describes his romance with Armand (it may also be symbolic that young Daniel would not want to hear any of this ).

5b) We already know Daniel’s memories have been slowly coming back in relation to Armand (when something or someone triggers a memory). They’re not completely lost- he can get some of them back. Another proof d.m happened in the past is what “triggers a memory (of Armand).” There's the examples that have an obvious explanation: he searches on his computer the painting of Marius which he already discussed with Armand, and when he asks about Armand’s diet ( he remembers when Armand almost made him a meal). But the other things that trigger Armand to flash in his mind… are very suspicious. The first time he remembers Armand in s1 was when Armand placed a blanket on him (*which book Armand has done for Daniel before) . And in s2 Daniel also has a flashback occur when Armand (for the first time in Dubai) says “Daniel” . This whole convo occurs because Daniel was asking Louis about hallucinating his ex (and then Daniel sees a vision of Armand from the past ,HMMMM). And he also has his memory of Armand “triggered “ when he sees a photo of a Parisian couple near a fountain + thinks of how he was rejected by his ex-wife in Paris. Daniel’s subconscious is reminded of his past with Armand - when he thinks of a combination of France , romance, and heartbreak.

6) Armand says about Daniel: “the boy…he’s still in there .”If young Daniel knew about Armand/louis I could see him being jealous and resentful of that relationship in the 70s and 80s. And so older Daniel (subconsciously) just needs to shit on their relationship , whenever the opportunity presents itself . Louis: “ I’d like to introduce you to the vampire Armand, the love of my life…my love ran a theater troupe for over a 150 years, Daniel.” Daniel: “the love of your life (Lestat) was in a box “. Daniel to loumand: lestat , lestat, lestat… love of my life or ‘rebound of my life ‘, with you two? “ Armand and Louis mentioning first meeting in a park: “with a habit of chasing after the wrong kind of love”. Daniel (sarcastic): “oh, what better place to find the right kind of love than in a public park. “ Louis who has told Daniel about dream- Lestat for multiple episodes, but then dream Lestat mocks Louis’ “ I love you” to Armand . Pans to Daniel squinting and then spitefully smirking : “Are you schizophrenic Louis ?”Louis: “we’ve been together for 77 years, Daniel.” Armand : “47 more than he did with lestat”. Daniel (smirks and looks at Armand): “keep selling it.” Louis talking about his and Armand’s romantic library dates . Daniel deadpan and sarcastic : “hot.” Daniel pressing the “escape’ button over and over as Louis describes his romance to Armand. Lestat to Loumand : “let’s see how long (your relationship) holds” . Daniel sarcastic and smug : “interesting phrase , what do you think he meant by that Louis? “ Daniel :*breaks them up “almost to the day” of their anniversary. *

It’s so funny how often Daniel questions their “love “ for each other . Like ,great job keeping a professional-objective lens, Daniel.

And speaking of “love “ I have to mention something else . The fact Daniel (in the 70s) uses the term "homophile" is VERY telling about his true desires. "The homophile movement was a collective term for the main organizations and publications supporting and representing sexual minorities in the 1950s to 1960s around the world.Proponents of the term 'homophile' hoped to emphasize the romantic rather than sexual aspect of same-sex relationships by replacing the -"sexual" suffix with the Greek root "philos," meaning LOVE. " In the books, when they first got together Daniel called Armand his "LOVER" and Armand called him "BELOVED" and “My LOVE.” Daniel deep down wanted "love" from a man , but before the interview in the 70s he only acted on his sexual desires (where there was no emotional intimacy and it could more easily be dismissed as just needing a fix, experimentation, etc). So yeah… Armand and Daniel both were hyper sexual but deep down they both wanted the same thing- Love . And young Daniel may have really LOVED Armand ,if they were together . Armand would have been the only man he ever loved.So yeah , even with amnesia , his bitterness may slip out (subconsciously). I mean, imagine Armand chose Louis over you: and you had to hear Louis talk on and on about his ex Lestat, mention while he was courting Armand that a hallucination of Lestat mocked Armand repeatedly . Hear how Louis didn't even want to call Armand his “companion" and just wanted to be friends with benefits, and in the end Louis chose to be with Armand to spite his ex Lestat. Then he proceeds to hook up with 100s of guys a year while being with Armand (despite being devastated Lestat slept with 1 other person). And it is made abundantly clear that Armand was just a “rebound” for Louis- and Armand still chose Louis over you! I’d be bitchy and want them to break up too . XD

Obviously, Armand was toxic as hell to Louis through out their companionship though. No debating that.

7) so again, this is a crack theory, I’ll admit . But remember how Daniel tells Louis . “Memory is a monster.WE forget , memories don’t .” This I believe is a reference to repressed memories . Because irl when you’ve repressed a traumatic memory : your emotions and behavior still reflect that forgotten trauma ( you just don’t know and understand the root cause of your behavior). Why Daniel suggested Edmr to Louis (it helps recover and re-contextualize lost memories to better understand your present behavior ). So my point … Daniel and Louis may be acting in certain ways that they don’t even understand (because of their repressed memories). So What if Louis found out about the affair and Armand erased it ? It would possibly explain some of Louis behavior toward Daniel.For example, whenever Daniel gets distracted from Louis's story because he's looking at Armand - the camera pans to Louis and Louis' expression is certainly... interesting whenever this occurs.

It would possibly explain some of Louis behavior toward Daniel. Louis laughing about Daniel’s heart break about Alice (*which may actually be about Armand ). Louis smirking and side eyeing Armand, when Daniel said he wasn’t interested in Armand’s blood ( *Daniel as a human used to drink Armand’s blood). Daniel in s2e5 interrupting louis to say 'follow up with Armand' and Louis side-eyes the hell out of him XD.

In s2e5 Louis also says very angrily : “who would care if another drug addicted homophile disappeared. The Berkeley barb?” (Alluding to Daniel being closeted ,mocking his past drug habit+ college newspaper, and implying he was insignificant). Now even though that was technically part of the reason he initially approached Daniel in the 70s (and Louis sadly does have a habit of saying mean stuff to people he cares about) … it’s still odd how much venom he said it with in the present . Especially in contrast to the speech flashback in the same episode (that had the opposite sentiment).

Also something else I always found really strange. In the last ep of s2, Louis verbally defends Daniel from Armand (telling Armand not to hurt Daniel). And right after this Louis moves in to shake Daniel's hand - Daniel immediately backs up afraid . We also see Daniel be afraid of Louis in the s1e1 script : “ The attack on the tape is horrifying … begging and screaming … suddenly Louis transports himself across the room and presses the stop button. Molloy tries to hide his fear as Louis towers over him.”The strange thing is- if it's simply just a human reaction because Louis' a powerful vampire & Daniel has a subconscious fear of Louis after he attacked him in the 70s. Then WHY wasn't he even MORE afraid of Armand (after all the shit Armand did to Daniel in the 70s)?? Why does Daniel not even flinch after he destroys Armand's 77 y long relationship (and theoretically created a perfect reason for Armand to attack him)? Is it because he subconsciously knows Armand wouldn't actually harm him???

8) [Armand brainwashing Louis]. So remember how Armand ‘s memory powers work- by repeating a phrase over and over again until the victim believes the memory or thought implanted? Even if this was completely unintentional/accidental on Armand’s part. I do find it interesting (and strange) that Armand essentially implanted in Louis mind that he was “partial “ to Daniel. Partial means you like someone OR you have a bias in favor of someone over other people in a conflict. I just find that kind of ironic cause before s2e5 , Daniel/ Louis were constantly beefing while Armand was essentially the referee trying to get them to chill the F-out . And at least for a good portion of the show it seemed Armand was the one actually “partial” to Daniel. It just made me wonder , if we’re missing something . Also , if Armand really only met Daniel once, and was still jealous and resentful of how much attention he garnered from Louis, why did he implant the thought in Louis' head that Daniel could be "fruitful in later times'???? Wouldn't he never want to see this guy again? (Even if he's supposed to be a symbol of their companionship enduring, idk, I still find it weird. Even Daniel questioned the reasoning in the beginning of the ep) .

9) I’ll be honest , I’m probably wrong about this (and it’s a crack theory). Like 90% chance It's not true … but it’s been bothering me ever since s2e5 aired. And yes, there may be some symbolic reason I’m missing (like the dialogue is similar to show the contrast between Louis and Armand’s treatment of Daniel in the 70s ) . But … something about the speech Daniel recites at the end of ep 5 is very strange to me. Not only because Louis, in Dubai, in e5, says the opposite sentiment (to said speech) . But because the words echo what Armand says or heard in e5 .

Daniel to Armand in e5: “I’m a bright young report with a point of view .” The speech repeats this line , and when Daniel says it in an earlier ep the camera pans to Armand looking at Daniel, then turning away to smile . speech : “ If things ever get bad again, these are the words you’ll hear LIKE a tape playing over and over in your mind , LIKE a song.” Armand about the tapes : “ I played the tapes twice … over and over until it was pounding in my brain LIKE a hammer ...(to Daniel) LIKE a bath … LIKE honey on your tongue .” Not to mention Armand’s powers work by repeating the same words “over and over again” . Speech: “Listen as though I’m the voice of god or an angel“ (literally in ep 5 we see Armand taken aback when Daniel is scared and starts saying “oh , my god” over and over again.And in the books Daniel described Armand as his “dark god”. )

Speech: " There are stories that need to be told." Armand: " Do you want to hear my story?" speech: You’re not insignificant " Armand to Daniel : “That makes you special.” Speech: “these words will lift you up and carry you.” (lmao, Armand’s words literally lifted and carried Daniel off the ground too ). Who knows, the line “what will it be tonight the good nurse or the gremlin?” may have a deeper meaning.

But again what really threw me off was that Louis (in Dubai) said about young Daniel in ep5: “who would care if ANOTHER drug addicted homophile disappeared? The Berkley Barb?!” speech: "You’re NOT insignificant or a junkie. you're a bright young reporter with a point of view.“ They’re literally opposing thoughts?? Not to mention it was Armand in ep 5 who called him a "reporter" & Daniel told Armand he was good at getting "angles" as a reporter (hello, 'perspective' is a synonym for 'angles').

Also , maybe just a huge plot hole but Louis later claims that when a “vampire commits to coffin” it’s nearly impossibly to wake them up , even if a “jet engine” flew by. So how did Louis wake up to save Daniel after Armand closed louis' coffin (and Armand told louis to "rest') ? Was it just because he was in so much pain that he couldn’t fall asleep? Was he fighting his instincts to save Daniel? Was Louis just over exaggerating how powerful a vampire’s sleep in a coffin is? Idk maybe it’s just a plot hole or I’m over-reading it . We do see Louis help Armand move Daniel later (so he obviously was awoken at some point). Maybe all the lines in the speech were a coincidence or just meant to juxtapose Louis and Armand's behavior. And Louis just heard the convos between Daniel/Armand from the other room, before saying the speech. But I always found ep 5 odd because of the discrepancies .

Heck, the ep prior we have Louis and Armand fighting as Daniel tries to listen to the San-Fran tape of Louis /Armand arguing. The first thing Daniel hears on the tape is his younger self essentially yelling at him : "You've forgotten man! You don't even understand the meaning of your own story!" (Which may or may not have more symbolic significance than we realize). And then the whole ending scene (of ep 4 & the audio of the tape playing Armand's voice) is abruptly cut off and the preview of ep 5 plays . Maybe it’s a hint Armand cut off and changed the ending to the following ep of San Fran too ??? “Same precise edit on 2 brains.” Who knows maybe Armand changed it cause he was afraid that certain details may start jogging memories of the affair .

And technically it would be a parallel to how Lestat let Armand take credit for saving his ex’s life (which generally changed how Louis saw the 2). And , s2e5 greatly changed how Daniel saw Louis. Armand may have done something similar to Lestat . But again it’s a crack theory … and I’m super happy with Daniel and Louis just having that nice moment (and becoming friends) . But those details always just threw me off , so I had to mention it (just incase there was some crazy plot twist in the future).

Also, if this is the case, I don't think Armand saved Daniel for romantic reasons at the time (but a different reason entirely). We see in episode 5 after Claudia's death Louis is spiraling due to grief and not abiding by his usual diet. Every night, in the 70s, he'd have sex with a young-queer male sex worker and then kill them . In the Parisian flashback we see Armand not eat but select bad guys for his coven to drain, as Armand tells Louis : "I understand you supplemented your diet (with animals)... I like how you withhold. It's alluring, it's practiced, it makes me wonder what's in there." One of the reasons Armand was attracted to Louis in the first place was because of his diet!!! But in the 70s , Armand every morning had to clean up the dead bodies of young boys whose backgrounds eerily resembled Amadeo's ( that would probably mess with anyone's psyche especially when Armand rarely ate and generally only chose shitty people or those who wanted to die). In s2e5, Armand and louis literally fight over who Louis chooses to kill (and it's implied to be an ongoing issue). Armand: "With a BOY! Things got heated with a BOY… And once again I'm here with mop and mindlessness to clean it up!” Louis: “so the room’s dirty, I’ll clean it up.” Armand: “NO! YOU make the mess I clean it up … unfortunates and broken CHILDREN. FINE!" Louis sarcastic : "Oh, FINE! the 'fine' that doesn't found like fine!" Louis later says to Armand : "sorry". And Armand retorts: Meaningless word, meaningless, a neighbor saw you while he was taking out the trash. I had to chase him down." ( Armand's face looks almost... guilty? And then the camera pans to Daniel looking at the body).Louis , surprised that Armand hasn’t killed Daniel yet : "He's alive?" Armand : " Oh, the BOY? The fascinating BOY?He's fine. He's just fine. Oh, he's fine. You're fine!This is fine! We're all FINE!"

I think Armand snapped on Daniel since he had no one else to lash out at. And, he also high key mentally snapped over Louis saying 10 hours with Daniel was more ‘fascinating' than decades with him) .But more importantly, Armand knew that covering up for injured Louis, required killing 'the boy' (like he did the neighbor) . And Daniel doesn't fit Armand's kill-code. Unlike most of Armand's victims Daniel's 'transgressions were ordinary' and unlike Malik who was 'begging for it in an hour' (Daniel fought for days) . Daniel was not Armand's usual target. Armand usually just cleaned up the dead bodies of the young sex workers (not kill them) . Armand: “128 boys and you’re the first he hasn’t consummated and drained, that makes you special.”Armand says Daniel was "special" because he was the 'first boy’ that ended up still being alive by the time Armand got there with his "mop". The fact Armand literally counted EVERY ‘call boy’ he was forced to clean up is probably an indicator Louis' choices in victims bothered Armand more than he lets on.

Also the show keeps on implying over and over that Armand doesn’t really drink blood very often (in the Parisian flashback louis asks if Armand is going to eat with his coven which he doesn’t) . Then Louis mentions twice to Daniel that Armand ‘rarely eats’. In the books, ancient vamps could go years without blood. Then we’re told later in Dubai by Louis that Armand generally only targets certain humans who cause a lot of harm to the world , and this is backed up by the flashback in Paris .Armand in Paris describing his target: “while their country men starved and clutched their ration cards, they made quite a killing on the black market . Enjoy yourselves .” But in front of Daniel he says : “ they (humans) were all the SAME to us, cattle for our DAILY suppers .” And he also says to Daniel that in Paris he often drank the blood of young men , like Daniel “for sport.” So what’s the truth??? The books say Armand (usually) only killed humans that were “evil doers” or that wanted to die. So … is he lying or exaggerating a facade to Daniel? Is he trying to look worse (and more bloodthirsty) in front of Daniel for some odd reason? Why? Well, maybe he’s trying to say things that would decrease the chance of Daniel remembering him. Armand even says to Daniel: “He had taken a mortal lover ! Hah, more heresy!!!” Armand just had to slip in his backstory that he personally finds the idea of banging a mortal sacrilegious and that he’d never EVER do it ! Though protest too much, maybe !

10) Throughout the present storyline we have Armand constantly protect Daniel. Which is narrative whiplash from what we saw in the flashback of the 2 first meeting. It begs the audience to question what changed from the 70s till now ? Is it really just because Armand thinks Louis likes Daniel? We have Armand stop Louis from exacerbating his Parkinson’s symptoms, and immediately apologize for what Louis just did. Then, when Louis goes into Daniel’s mind and mocks him over his failed proposal. Armand tries to stop it and then comforts him. And the next day (while Louis is asleep) Armand apologizes for Louis using his powers against Daniel for a second time. And throughout the present storyline we never actually see him use his powers against Daniel (despite all the jabs and provocations). Perhaps not using his powers and apologizing for Louis doing so - indicates his guilty conscious over what he did to Daniel? He wishes he could apologize but he can’t do so sincerely without exposing the truth . He has to stay in character (or else it could destroy his relationship with Louis).

Before s2e7 Daniel never verbally acknowledged any of Armand’s apologies . But when Armand says Louis “forgave (him)” for Paris . We then have Daniel say: “I didn’t forgive you.” And for some reason , Armand looks hurt that some ‘ insignificant mortal ‘ doesn’t forgive him. And then he tries to put back on his calm facade . But it’s fake, because he immediately changes the subject away from Paris to something personal , and mentions how Daniel’s past addiction did far more damage to his mind than his memory wipes in San Fran. Which ...(after Daniel's vermouth line) maybe Armand brings up the memory wipe cause he's not sure how much Daniel knows and whether Daniel is secretly alluding to ‘not forgiving him’ for memory-wiping their relationship. Or perhaps he's (lashing out and bringing up the memory wipe) because he knows if Daniel knew the truth , he probably would not forgive him for the 2nd larger memory wipe . Then he sits back down and backtracks : “fine , you want an apology . I’m sorry. WE thought it was the right thing to do“ passive aggressive or not… It’s interesting that he's even willing to say it at all, when he won’t even dignify Louis with one. “ you’re mad I erased it? You have no right to be.” The last time Armand said "sorry" to Louis was in Paris. Ever since Louis laughed and sarcastically said he was “sorry” for leaving him multiple times a year. Armand has never apologized to Louis, again. Armand :” tri-annual fuck off and find me, with apologies to follow.” Louis laughs and says sarcastically : “I’m sorry”. . Louis : “so-so. “ Armand: “what’s that? “ Louis: “sorry” . Armand : “meaningless word . Meaningless .” Hmm, then why are you constantly apologizing to Daniel??? Is it really just an empty gesture/manipulation tactic ? or is there a deeper reason?

11) Armand brings up Lestat (his and Louis’ ex) asking: “Did he BREAK you Louis? Are you broken?" Later Daniel says " That's why I go after you real Rashid . YOU (unlike Armand) I can fucking BREAK!" Then Armand whispers 'excuse me' and storms out . The only other time Armand asked to be "excused" and stormed out was when Daniel called him a "rent boy" (which would obviously be triggering regardless but even worse if Daniel was his ex).So the whole "BREAK" line may have a deeper meaning than the literal interpretation. Maybe that line hit a nerve cause he actually felt like Daniel 'broke' him. Armand talking about Daniel: "He wants YOU in pieces." Armand to Daniel, the supposedly 'insignificant mortal': " I did it to protect me… from YOU, Mr. Molloy. Why do I owe YOU my shame. Why do I owe YOU. "

Note , in s2ep7 he says he ripped out Claudia’s diary pages that had his name in them (aka memories of himself ) from Daniel’s viewing . And literally yells that he did it to protect himself from Daniel. He pretty much admitted he may have erased himself from Daniel’s memory to “protect (himself).” Meanwhile he may have rationalized erasing Louis attempt in San Fran as “protecting him from himself.” Begrudgingly he apologized for erasing Daniel’s memory but immediately shuts down Louis concern . Weird priorities ,Armand .

12) If Armand was overthinking , and contemplating whether or not Daniel knew about the relationship because of : the 'vermouth' line, 'I don't forgive you', and saying how Louis' romance with Armand 'reminded him of something', etc. And then he sees Daniel has the trial -script which was given to him by the talamasca . And the talamasca has surveillance on all vamps. Is it that hard to believe that Armand assumed Daniel already knew about the affair (because of the talamasca) ? And did this partially as “pay back” ? Especially when Daniel should only remember Armand torturing and trying to kill him. And all Daniel does (after blowing up his marriage) is adjust his glasses and stare into Armand’s eyes, with apparently no fear . He may assume Daniel already knows , and just doesn’t tell Louis (cause Daniel isn’t sure if Louis would be angry at him). When Armand looks at Daniel , at the table, this might be when Armand thinks: *it's officially confirmed Daniel knows about their past relationship*. In a show that already has the motif of “pov changes the perception of a story” . Anything is possible …

13) Armand to Daniel (who he supposedly only met once): “It’s in your nature , Mr . Molloy . Can’t get OUT THE DOOR before lobbing one MORE bomb.”

In the novels, Daniel was infamous for leaving Armand over and over again. This was because Armand would constantly refuse to turn him, leading Daniel to feel unloved , leaving, doing substances , and mentally begging for Armand to come and find him again. This also echoes Louis’ behavior in the 70s too: “tri-annual, fuck off and find me. With apologies to follow ( after a drug binge).” But maybe the last time Daniel left - he dropped one last bomb , on their relationship. In the books , Armand turned him in 1985 , the same year that show-alice was pregnant. It’s possible this was the bomb Daniel decided to leave Armand with . But here’s the thing. Armand was a child whose whole life was negatively affected by his parents abandoning him . He may not want to contribute to that. As Armand said “children” are “innocent.” He was abandoned by his parents, abandoned by his maker /lover who raised him as a teen and called him “son”, he felt abandoned by Lestat. And he probably felt abandoned by Daniel & Louis walking out on him over and over . And he may not have wanted some “innocent “ kid to deal with that cause of his & Daniel’s relationship . In the books Armand had a soft spot for human kids . It could make his words as he turned to Daniel have more symbolic weight : “the sleep of an infant . Blank slate (tabula rasa).”

And (after turning him) he may have left cause he couldn’t deal with being abandoned AGAIN. Not after Louis just left and Daniel has done so - many times before. So he “abandoned“ him first. In the books , he said he left Daniel after turning him cause he assumed Daniel would hate him for turning him into a 'monster' . Armand says in the show: “those we make ourselves are bound to despise us “ (and this is a quote directly from TVA where he mentions turning Daniel and his resentment for Marius). In the unpublished draft of one of Anne rice’s books , Armand reunited with the vampire-Daniel and says “I didn’t mean to abandon you." Note before the finale, Armand talks about memory wipes , turns to Daniel and says “a few days after we abandoned him.” And then he almost cried (now could he just be crying about Louis attempt that he mentioned right before this, of course. Assad even said that event traumatized Armand and there is narrative proof for that) . But I only mention the scene for two reasons. 1) the timing of him crying the second he turns away from Louis ,looks at Daniel , and says he ‘ abandoned him’ (makes me wonder if he’s thinking of the last memory wipe where he actually abandoned Daniel). And 2) “Abandoned” is such a strong word for someone you barely know , don’t care about , and find ‘insignificant’ . why not say ‘ditch ‘, ‘dump’, etc? Even Daniel an ep prior says “your boyfriend (Armand) is ditching us.” When Armand does say this line we even have Daniel close his eyes , turn away, and blink rapidly like he’s trying to emotionally process something (but just doesn’t know what ). Then Armand puts back on his calm mask and the next thing he says is “continuing on the record , I was a coward, Mr molloy. “ As Daniel just stares at him.

So, maybe... If Daniel wants Armand back , he’ll actually have to find Armand after he’s run away ( like Armand always did for Daniel). Daniel: “Have you heard from my maker?”

14)People always question how Daniel and Armand could have had the affair - if Armand was with Louis. But there’s several possible explanations. This scene alludes to one possibility . *pans to Louis sleeping in the day*. Armand : “he’ll awaken when the sun sleeps. We should probably wait for him.” Daniel smirks : “probably” . *prolonged silence as Armand smiles at him and then looks away. After this, he breaks the silence, and brings up "blenders" ( possibly recollecting his time with Daniel , during the day) -in the 1970s he would constantly wreck Daniel's blenders .

I mean… think about it, guys. Armand has been shown to be able to go out in the daytime since the 70s, he hunted in the day in s2 , and in the day he did not “wait” for Louis to talk to Daniel ( about “ fetishes”, and his sex life). Armand literally could have just had the affair in the daytime while Louis was none the wiser sleeping. And Armand also mentions in s2e5 that Louis would leave him for prolonged periods of time “tri-anually." So 3 times a year he could have just been with Daniel (on night island). And of course it’s also possible they had a “brief separation” similar to how Lestat was separated from Louis for years and lived with his human lover…

Other possible eastereggs:

-Daniel seemed very upset after reading about a failed relationship between a vampire and human . And if Daniel is mixing up Alice with Armand . There’s a possible parallel between Charlie/claudia and Armand/Daniel. Aka both eating pink & white ice cream with their vampire lovers. In the books Armand would often take Daniel to restaurants and cafes too. And, the way Louis mentions he knew the street that Daniel & Alice went to and the strange look he gives Daniel , as Daniel describes the moment .... makes me wonder if he found out about them , when Armand/Daniel were in Paris .

-It’s a little weird Armand (a vampire who can’t even taste alcohol) is so good at making Daniel’s drinks. Daniel even writes in his notes that it’s weird that the drinks taste like ‘ Rashid’ was trained at the Dukes.so yeah- why is a vamp that good at making Daniel’s drinks just to his liking . Experience? Also when Louis mentions that Daniel was curious about how Armand’s blood tasted . Daniel asks for a “refill” - hinting that maybe he has had Armand’s blood in the past and that he will get a refill (once he’s turned in s2). Also, it’s ironic when Armand says to Daniel “I wouldn’t allow you near my neck if-“ and human Daniel literally bites his neck while being turned, in the books.

- In s2e1, Armand says " The boy from San francisco" ( and he speaks normally until 2 Lines in particular.He then takes 2 large pauses with a pained expression as he says: " He's still in there... we can find him". Not only is it suspicious on Armand's end but it could also allude to the rest of s2 having hints in the narrative that 'young Daniel' (who was with Armand- is still in there) . Like Daniel getting upset thinking about the 'proposal' along with other scenes.

- Louis said having sex with a vampire ,as a human, is something you can never really forget . And Daniel “really” thought he had sex with a vampire . Maybe it just wasn’t Louis? I also find it narratively interesting that almost all the vampire couples meet each other when one of them was human : Lestat/louis, Claudia/madeline, Armand/Daniel . And , in the novels, the biggest issue for Daniel and Armand’s relationship was the fact he wouldn’t turn Daniel. I also would just find it ironic and funny if Armand who criticized Claudia and Lestat for being romantically attached to humans , ends up doing the same decades later .

- I just think having Daniel’s words bite him in the ass , would be narratively fulfilling and hilarious . Daniel : “This is great , you shared a boyfriend” (maybe you and Louis did too?) Daniel : “it’s a telenovela!” (You know a common trope of telenovelas and soap operas- amnesia causing you to forgot your lover ). Daniel to Louis: "you took (him) back... lover, murderer, maker (cough Maybe Daniel will take Armand back ). “you talk about him 50 years later like he was your soulmate. Locked together in some fucked up romance.” ( Well 50 years ago, Armand in both the show and books locked you up for a bit… but you still ended up dating him.) Louis: "He was MY murderer,MY mentor, MY lover, MY maker... death, rebirth, coming out." Daniel ('have you seen MY maker') Molloy judgey as hell: "coming out? What's sexuality got to do with it? "

- Daniel mentions how when someone wants to create emotional distance from a situation it becomes impersonal, “ going from I to oneself , himself.” This obviously refers to Louis’ words in relation to San-Fran , but the camera also pans to Armand looking uncomfortable (as Daniel explains this). Armand already did something similar when recounting his past “This is amadeo . He is …” But what Daniel said , had me thinking . Armand was plenty comfortably in s2e5 addressing Daniel by his first name. But now he (almost) exclusively refers to him as “Mr. Molloy” - maybe because he wants “emotional distance” from him? Armand about an ex: "THE NAME! THE NAME! unuttered in our home for... years!"

- Daniel in the show says terrified “ It’s you who’s fascinating ! You can read minds right?” (Aka he was terrified but was telling the truth- Which Armand sensed.)This echoes Daniel’s thoughts of Armand before they first started dating in the books (but were still getting to know each other post entrapment) : “in mute fascination, Daniel had watched Armand.”/ “Daniel found himself fascinated. sometimes trying to write down the things Armand had told him.”

- Armand says to Daniel : “you are going to teach me how to be fascinating .” And he also told Louis : “we are teachers of one another .” In the books once Armand and Daniel become a couple he says : “you will be my teacher .”

- Daniel asking Louis for the dark gift: “give it to me. “ Louis to Daniel: “and I paraphrase … you said give it to me, make me a vampire” . Daniel to Armand in the books : “give it to me, damn you , immortality as close as your arms . “

- In the books when Armand for the first time admits he loves Daniel in Pompeii … he “gently puts (Daniel) on his knees , using his hands” . This is after Daniel looks at a pompeii mural of a naked character kneeling . It contrasts the scene of Armand telepathically and aggressively putting Daniel on his knees when they first met . The visual storytelling of both scenes would show how far the relationship has changed since they first met (how could the show runners not do it? It would be a wasted opportunity!)

- Daniel’s apartment has a painted blue sky . In the d.m chapter Armand was said to be fascinated by blue skies and he’d also painted clouds in Marius’ paintings .

- Daniel & Armand talked about Marius’ painting and Daniel later remarks about the “stolen Rembrandt” (we see Armand smirk at the mention of this ) . It could be a hint because Armand used to steal paintings and give them to Daniel . We even see in s1e1 Daniel doing a puzzle of a famous painting- that in the books Armand showed Louis.

- Daniel also complains about Armand’s disguises as Armand stares and smirks again. Maybe thinking about how young Daniel enjoyed his human costumes. Armand literally impersonated a human attorney to get Daniel out of jail (could he have just used the mind gift? Sure , but that’s not as fun, is it? ) Bro prob loved his disguise when Armand bailed him out of jail, dropped him off at a hotel to sleep off his hangover , and filled Daniel’s wallet with multiple $100 dollar bills. Did I mention they weren’t even dating yet ? Also Louis’ excuse for Armand’s ‘Rashid disguise’ was : “my love was in charge of a theater troupe for over a 150 years .” So are human disguises just something he does on the regular for fun 😅 ? Or is Louis just that in denial XD ? Both? Obviously he may have just done the disguise so he could monitor the interview without being directly involved or mentioned in Daniel’s book (even ripping himself out of Claudia’s journal pages that mentioned him). But yeah… if he also wanted to be extra careful about Daniel not remembering him: pretending to be a 20 something year old human servant , using a different name (would help) .

- It may be a coincidence, but when Armand finally broke character in s1 (and started to take off his gloves to remove his contacts) he does so right after Daniel called himself a "wh*re". That's what caused him to break character. Which, given both their backgrounds, and if they did date- Armand may really dislike Daniel calling himself that.

- I feel if (in the show) d.m did happen in the past .They placed some interesting eastereggs to allude to it. In the show , Daniel interviewed Louis on divisdero street and then Armand kept him in the apartment for days and Daniel was eventually let go . This echos how in the book: after Daniel interviewed Louis on divisdero street , Daniel finds lestat’s house and meets Armand for the first time .Armand temporarily imprisons him there and then lets him go (saying he’s going to watch him and if he grows bored of him he’ll either eat him or simply lose track of him). But then he gets to know Daniel over the years and they eventually get together. My guess (if it happened in the show): Daniel with what little he remembered …and using his skills in ‘investigative-journalism ‘ found the apartment on divisdero street again and Armand was there- then the chase began. Armand in the book stalked Daniel until they became an item , and in the show he observed and stalked Louis and Lestat before they hooked up too ( a pattern of behavior ) .

-(Maybe just me coping) but sometimes I wonder if one of the reasons we didn't see Daniel's turning is because it would give too much away (and that it may be shown later, contrary to what the producers claim). For example, Daniel's turning in the books was "beautiful" . And in s2 Louis even says Armand could be a part of a "beautiful" turning. It's possible the turning was a lot less violent/'spiteful' than we expect (especially if Armand mistakenly assumed Daniel knew about their past). There's also a few easterggs in the show alluding to the book turning. For example: Armand putting a blanket on Daniel in s1 (is something he does after turning Daniel.) He put a blanket on him and said : “by the time you wake up you’ll be one of us.” Daniel says “quite the house plant” in reference to Armand’s purple magnolia tree which is similar to the purple wisteria tree Daniel sees when he's turned. Magnolia trees represent “everlasting love” and wisteria trees represent “enduring love”. Get it … immortality , everlasting love, ‘enduring’ being a word used often by the vamps . Armand also says he wouldn't let Daniel near his neck (which is ironic cause Daniel drinks from Armand's neck when being turned). Armand also says “I was a coward, mr molloy" which is similar to Armand telling Daniel "I'm a coward, I can't let you die." (before turning him). And before he's turned Armand tells Daniel he’s dying, and Daniel makes a sarcastic joke (that's very similar to something show Daniel would say): "yeah, yeah, as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death." And when Armand says he'll turn him (Daniel just goes silent in disbelief ). Also, Daniel not believing Armand hasn't turned anyone -is a callback to the turning where Armand says: "I've never turned anyone. I know you never believed me-" And then Daniel cut him off to say he "no, I believe you". Also there's the scene of Louis describing Madeleine's turning : "The lamb (pans to Daniel) smiling up at the wolf (pans to Armand) ." For all we know - the fact it wasn't a ' spiteful' turning may actually cause Daniel more confusion and questions regarding his maker. And it may make him wonder what else is Armand hiding . A possible reason for Daniel looking for him.

[unabashegirl]

Fragments — one shot

Harry runs into Y/N in Japan. She is his ex and she is seeking closure.

Author's note: Hello everyone, I hope you are all doing well. Here is this week's one shot! I hope you enjoy it. LOTS OF ANGST! The second part will get posted tomorrow.

check out my patreon (starting at $2) and get full access to all chapters, various one shots and much more :)

Please note that everything that is both underlined and italicized is from the past—they are flashbacks!

word count 3.9K

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As the sun began its descent in the late afternoon sky, Shiba Park in Tokyo was bathed in a gentle, golden light. The cherry blossoms, just beginning to bloom, added a delicate touch of pink to the scene, signaling the early days of spring. The air was crisp but not cold, filled with the subtle fragrance of blooming flowers and fresh grass.

Harry Styles, hoping to escape the relentless pace of his life, walked through the park with a coffee in hand. Dressed casually, he blended in with the locals, his trademark curls tucked under a beanie and his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The sounds of children playing, birds chirping, and the distant hum of the city created a peaceful backdrop.

As Harry roamed along the winding paths, taking in the serene beauty of the park, his attention was drawn to a familiar figure sitting on the grass. It was Y/N, his ex-girlfriend, enjoying a solitary picnic. A blanket was spread out before her, adorned with an assortment of snacks and a book lying open beside her. She seemed lost in her own world, her face relaxed and serene.

Two years had passed since their breakup, a period marked by unresolved tensions and painful memories. Seeing Y/N unexpectedly stirred a mix of emotions within Harry. He paused, torn between the urge to approach and the instinct to keep his distance. The years apart had softened some of the bitterness, but the wounds were still there, just beneath the surface.

Y/N, sensing someone's gaze, looked up and their eyes met. For a moment, time stood still. The park faded away, and all that existed was the shared history and unspoken words between them. Harry's heart raced, and he wondered if the universe was giving them a chance to get some closure or if it was sick joke.

Harry's breath hitched slightly as he stood there, unsure of what to do next. His mind raced with memories of their past together—the good times, the laughter, the fights, and ultimately, the heartbreak. He took a tentative step forward, then stopped. Y/N, on the other hand, seemed to be caught in a similar turmoil. Her eyes, which had initially shown surprise, softened as she looked at him, but there was also a hint of uncertainty.

The sounds of the park seemed to fade into the background as they continued to hold each other’s gaze. Finally, Harry took another step forward and then another until he was standing a few feet away from her. He hesitated, then managed a small, tentative smile.

“I thought Japan was my territory and off limits for you” he said, his voice gentle, almost hesitant.

“Didn’t realize that we still had divided territories. Weren’t you in Italy a few weeks ago?” she replied, a playful tone in her voice, but her expression a mix of surprise and amusement. She shifted slightly on the blanket, making room as if inviting him to sit.

He took the invitation, lowering himself onto the grass beside her. For a few moments, they sat in silence, the only sounds being the rustling of leaves and distant laughter from other park visitors. Harry took a sip of his coffee, searching for the right words.

"Point taken," he said with a knowing smile, aware that Italy held a special place in her heart. Perhaps that's why he found himself spending most of his free time there—chasing her and the memories they had once shared. Italy had become one of refuge, a place where he could feel closer to her, even if she was no longer by his side.

"I didn’t expect to see you here," he finally said, glancing at her.

"I didn’t expect to see you either," she replied, a faint smile touching her lips. "How have you been?"

He nodded, looking down at his coffee cup. "I've been... busy. Touring, recording, the usual. What about you?"

“Good. Nothing unusual” she said, her gaze drifting to the cherry blossoms. "Life's been quiet, but good.”

"How long are you staying?"

"A month."

"You finally took those vacations," he smiled warmly, fully aware of how much she had dreamed of this much-needed break. The thought of her taking time for herself brought a sense of relief—he had always wanted her to prioritize her well-being, even if their paths had diverged.

Y/N nodded, a grateful expression softening her features. "Yes, finally," she replied, a hint of exhaustion tinged with excitement in her voice. "I needed this more than I realized."

Harry looked at her, noticing the subtle signs of weariness that hinted at the weight she had been carrying. "I'm glad you're giving yourself this time," he said sincerely. "You deserve it."

As they sat on the grass, Y/N suddenly glanced at her watch and then back at Harry, her expression shifting. "I need to get going," she said softly, her voice tinged with reluctance.

Harry looked at her, concern etching his features. "Is everything okay?"

She nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, everything's fine. I just... I have stuff to do."

Harry felt a pang of disappointment but tried to hide it. "I get it," he said quietly, his voice filled with sincerity. “Let me walk you out?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure”.

They stood up together, brushing off their clothes. As they walked side by side through the park, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across their path. The silence between them was comfortable, though charged with unspoken words and hidden feelings.

Y/N looked at him momentarily and she felt like she was in the dream. Like in one of the numerous dreams that she had when they had just broken up.

As they neared the exit, Harry felt a growing sense of urgency. He wasn’t ready to let her go just yet. The thought of not seeing her again gnawed at him, so he took a deep breath and asked, "What are you doing tomorrow?"

Y/N glanced at him, sensing the hesitation in his voice. "I’m not sure yet."

Harry's heart raced as he quickly blurted out, "I’m taking a course on making sushi in the afternoon, and in the evening, I was invited to an art exhibition. Would you like to come with me?"

He winced slightly, realizing how rushed and jumbled his words had sounded. But to his relief, Y/N seemed to understand him perfectly. She hesitated, clearly taken aback by the suddenness of the invitation. Her mind raced with conflicting emotions. Part of her wanted to decline, to remind herself of the pain that still lingered from their past. Yet another part of her, the part that still held onto the connection they once shared, was tempted to say yes.

She looked at him, trying to gauge his intentions. It wasn’t lost on her how much effort he was putting into this, how much he seemed to want to bridge the gap between them. But she also knew that accepting would mean opening old wounds, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

Deep down, she felt a strong need for closure. She deserved at least that from him—an explanation for everything that had happened in those last few months. The questions that had haunted her, the confusion that lingered, all demanded answers. And as much as she wanted to protect herself from further pain, she knew that without closure, she would never truly be able to move on.

She took a deep breath, her mind racing as she weighed her options. Harry’s invitation felt like an opportunity—a chance to finally confront the unresolved issues between them, to hear his side of the story, and maybe even to find some peace.

“Okay,” she said quietly, meeting his gaze. “I’ll go”.

Harry’s eyes lit up with a mix of surprise and relief. “Really?”

She nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah”. she agreed, feeling a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Harry nodded, his smile growing. “I’ll pick you up”.

“Sounds good” She gave him a small nod.

As Y/N walked away, a surprising sense of calm washed over her. She returned to the charming Airbnb she had rented, a place that had captivated her with its traditional decor and tranquil Japanese garden. This trip had been a rare indulgence—she never took vacations, so she had splurged on a stay that offered peace and serenity. Running into Harry had been the last thing she expected, a twist she hadn’t anticipated.

Once back, Y/N found herself reaching for the bottle of wine she had been saving for her last night in Japan. She poured herself a generous glass, savoring the rich aroma, and then slid open one of the doors that led to the garden. Sitting on the edge, she let her gaze drift over the carefully tended landscape, the soft rustle of leaves in the evening breeze soothing her nerves.

As she sipped her wine, memories flooded back—how it all began with Harry, how blissfully happy they had been during those first two years. The laughter, the shared dreams, the moments that had once made her heart soar.

Y/N rushed through the crowded streets, her phone cradle between her ear and shoulder as she fumbled with bags. She was late, as usual, and in the midst of her hurried pace, she decided to call her coworker to confirm a meeting time.

Without looking too closely, she scrolled through her contacts and dialed the number of her coworker. The phone rang twice before a voice answered on the other end.

“Hello?” a deep, distinctly British voice said.

“Hey, I’m running a bit late,” Y/N said not bothering with pleasantries. “But I’m almost there, so don’t leave without me, okay?”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “Um, I think you might have the wrong number, love,” the voice replied, amusement clear in the tone.

Y/N stopped dead in her tracks, her heart skipping a beat. That wasn’t her coworker’s voice. Realization hit her like a freight train.

“Oh my God,” she blurted out, her face flushing with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, I thought I was calling someone else!”

The man on the other end chuckled, a warm, easy sound that somehow made her feel even more flustered. “It’s not every day I get a call like this. I’m amused”

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could disappear into thin air. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, feeling like a complete idiot. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me at all. Don’t hang up just yet” He assured her, his voice still light with humor. “I’m a bit curious now. Who were you trying to call?”

“My coworker,” she replied, still mortified. “We were supposed to meet for a presentation, and I’m runnin —”

Suddenly, the call cut off, the connection lost as she moved through a spotty area of service. She stared at her phone in disbelief, her face heating up with a mix of mortification and frustration.

She hesitated, her finger hovering over the screen, but she couldn’t bring herself to redial. It had been a mistake, after all. He probably didn’t think twice about it, she told herself, brushing off the encounter as nothing more than a fleeting moment of awkwardness.

Little did she know, the brief exchange would leave a lasting impression on him. The first track on his next album would be inspired by that stranger’s call, and it would become a hit record.

The next day, as they strolled through the bustling streets of Japan, Harry noticed the silence that had settled between them. The vibrant surroundings seemed to contrast with the quiet tension that hung in the air. He glanced over at Y/N, who was lost in thought, her expression distant.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Harry remarked gently, breaking the silence. His tone was soft, tinged with concern as he searched her face for any sign of what might be on her mind.

Y/N looked up, startled out of her thoughts. She offered him a small, almost apologetic smile. “Just taking it all in,” she replied, her voice quieter than usual too, as if she were trying to keep something at bay.

Harry nodded, but he could tell there was more to it. There was a weight in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, a heaviness that seemed to grow with each step they took closer to the restaurant he had reserved for their private cooking lesson.

“I don’t want this to be awkward,” Harry said, sensing the tension that lingered between them. He wanted to clear the air, to ease the unease that seemed to hang over them, but he knew that doing so would mean opening Pandora’s box—revealing a lot of things he wasn’t ready to confront just yet.

Harry’s words hung in the air, and for a moment, Y/N hesitated. She didn’t want to make things more difficult, but the weight of unspoken questions pressed down on her, demanding to be acknowledged.

“Harry,” she began, her voice trembling slightly as she forced herself to continue, “what went wrong?”.

The question hung there, raw and exposed, cutting through the fragile peace they had tried to maintain. Harry’s steps faltered, his breath catching as he turned to face her, the streets of Japan fading into the background.

“Y/N…” he started, but his voice trailed off, as if he couldn’t find the right words. Or maybe he was afraid of them.

She looked into his eyes, searching for something—an answer, an apology, anything that could make sense of the pain that had consumed her in the months after their breakup. “We used to be happy until those last few months,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s chest tightened as memories of their past came rushing back. He could see it all so clearly—the late-night conversations that stretched into the early morning, the spontaneous trips, the way she used to look at him with so much love in her eyes. It was all there, and it hurt to think about how they had lost it.

Y/N stood outside the studio, her heart pounding in her chest as she leaned against the wall, trying to stay out of sight. She had only been dating Harry for a few weeks, and everything still felt so new, so fragile. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but when she’d arrived at the studio, the sound of his voice singing had stopped her in her tracks.

She could hear him inside, his voice smooth and captivating as he worked through a melody with a small group of people. Y/N knew she should knock, let him know she was there, but something held her back. She was still shy around him, nervous about stepping into his world, a world she felt she was only just beginning to understand.

The music flowed through the walls, wrapping around her like a comforting embrace. She could hear the passion in Harry’s voice, the way he poured himself into every note. It was mesmerizing, and she found herself leaning closer to the door, not wanting to miss a single word.

She bit her lip, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she listened. This was Harry in his element, doing what he loved, and she didn’t want to interrupt that. But as much as she loved hearing him sing, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place, like she was intruding on something private.

Just as she was about to quietly slip away, the door to the studio creaked open. One of the musicians stepped out, giving Y/N a polite nod as he passed by. She froze, hoping he hadn’t noticed her lingering there like some awkward fan. But as the door swung wider, Y/N realized with a jolt that Harry was looking directly at her.

He paused mid-sentence, his eyes lighting up with surprise and something else—something warmer. A smile spread across his face, and he excused himself from the group, his gaze never leaving hers as he stepped toward the doorway.

“Hey darlin’” Harry said softly, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and affection. “How long have you been out here?”

Y/N blushed, feeling caught. “Not long,” she lied, glancing down at her shoes. “I didn’t want to interrupt… You sounded amazing, by the way.”

Harry chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “You could’ve come in, you know. I don’t bite,” he teased, but his eyes were gentle, understanding her hesitation.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” she admitted, still feeling a bit shy under his gaze.

“Come here. You can never distract me” Harry said, his tone sincere. He reached out, taking her into a tight hug. Harry pulled Y/N into a warm embrace, his arms wrapping around her as if he were trying to shield her from the world. She melted into him, her head resting against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The warmth of his body seeped into hers, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

Harry held her close, his hand gently stroking her back in slow, soothing circles. The tension she had felt earlier began to dissolve in the comfort of his embrace, replaced by a sense of peace that only he could bring her. He smelled like a mix of his cologne and something uniquely him, a scent that was both familiar and calming.

He pulled back just enough to look down at her, his eyes soft with affection.

“You are staring” She murmured, her voice low and tender. Before she could add anything else, Harry leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, his lips lingering there for a moment as if to seal his words with reassurance.

The kiss was sweet, filled with a quiet promise that made Y/N’s heart flutter. When he pulled back, he gave her a soft smile, his eyes filled with warmth. Without letting go of her, Harry reached down and took her hand in his, intertwining their fingers. His grip was firm, yet gentle.

“You tell me,” Harry said, his voice suddenly sharp, cutting through the tension between them. “You were the one who left.” The bitterness in his tone was undeniable, the memory of that night still raw and vivid in his mind.

Y/N flinched at the harshness in his words, the pain of that night rushing back to her as well. “You still don’t get it? “How hard is to accept the fact that I left you because you didn’t deserve me?”. She shot back, her voice trembling with emotion. “You shut me out. You pushed me away until I couldn’t take it”.

Harry’s jaw tightened, the frustration and hurt that had been simmering inside him now boiling over. “I didn’t know how to talk to you,” he admitted, the vulnerability in his voice catching her off guard. “I still don’t know how to talk to you”.

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears, her heart breaking all over again. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “Like I couldn’t do anything right, and that no matter how hard I tried, I was always going to lose you.”

Harry’s expression softened, the anger in his eyes giving way to regret. “It’s here” He said, his voice barely above a whisper as they arrived at the restaurant.

As they arrive at the restaurant, the atmosphere feels almost serene, a stark contrast to the tension that still lingers between them. The restaurant is tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, its traditional wooden façade illuminated by soft, warm lights. The sliding door opens as they approach, and they are greeted by the chef, a kind-looking man dressed in traditional Japanese clothing. His warm smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he bows slightly as he welcomes them.

"Welcome," the chef says in a gentle voice, his English tinged with a thick accent. "It is an honor to have you here today."

Harry returns the bow, his hand still lightly resting on Y/N’s back as they step inside. “Thank you for having us,” he replies, his tone respectful.

The chef guides them down a narrow hallway, leading them into a cozy kitchen space at the back of the restaurant. The kitchen is immaculate, with gleaming countertops and neatly arranged utensils. Fresh ingredients are laid out in beautiful wooden bowls, each one perfectly prepared for the lesson ahead. The smell of fresh fish, rice, and various seasonings fills the air, making Y/N’s stomach rumble slightly in anticipation.

The chef turns to them with another smile. “Today, we will be learning the art of sushi,” he says, gesturing to the ingredients. “Please, take an apron.”

Y/N reaches for one of the aprons hanging on a nearby hook, the fabric soft and clean in her hands. She fumbles slightly with the ties, her fingers a bit clumsy as she tries to secure it around her waist. Before she can figure it out, Harry steps forward, his hands gentle as he takes the ties from her.

“Here, let me help,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet warmth that makes her heart skip a beat.

Y/N turns slightly, allowing him to stand behind her. She feels the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck as he carefully ties the apron around her, his fingers brushing against her back in a way that sends shivers down her spine. There’s a tenderness in the way he handles the simple task, a care that speaks volumes, even without words.

“All set,” Harry murmurs, his voice close to her ear. He gives the ties a gentle tug to make sure they’re secure before stepping back, a small, almost shy smile playing on his lips.

Y/N glances over her shoulder at him, her heart fluttering at the look in his eyes. “Thanks,” she whispers, her voice soft as she tries to ignore the way her emotions are threatening to bubble up to the surface.

The chef, oblivious to the silent exchange between them, claps his hands together, drawing their attention back to the task at hand. “Let us begin,” he says with enthusiasm. “I will show you how to prepare the rice, and then we will move on to cutting the fish.”

Y/N takes a deep breath, trying to refocus her mind on the lesson ahead. But even as the chef begins to explain the process, she can’t shake the feeling of Harry’s hands on her, the lingering warmth of his touch a constant reminder of the connection that still exists between them, despite everything that has happened.

Part 2

[felassan]

"As we go through it we will find fragments of the past, things that Solas did previously that will give us insight into him as a character, and also into the elven gods and their motivations. If you go exploring in the Crossroads there are opportunities to relive some of the memories Solas had during his rebellion. We will actually get to take part in this ancient rebellion."

I cast Summon Flashback Felassan. show me Felassan in Solas' past, helping Solas during his ancient rebellion 🕯️🛐🕯️🛐

[wandasaura]

WHEN SHE LOVED ME

summary — yelena has evaded the subject of natasha’s death for years, but eventually it catches up to her (and you)

warning(s) — platonic relationship, aroace yelena, thunderbolts* spoilers, the red room, mention of past child abuse/neglect/starvation, blood and injury, past chemical subjugation, ohio mission mention, alludes to a history of depression, abandonment issues, mention of ‘graduation ceremony’, suffocation, memories/flashbacks (iykyk), the blip mentioned, vormir mentioned, natasha’s still dead, black widow movie mention, grief/mourning, trauma and trauma responses, slight panic attack, crying on the streets of new york, angst, hurt/comfort, humor at the end (thanks bob), mentor natasha romanoff

authors note — heavily inspired by “i lost my sister again, but forever” so definitely do with that as you will !!

In a single moment, the world stops spinning around you. It seems like the entire planet has halted on its axis; suspended itself at an angle in space that makes your core ache with the effort to keep your body upright on the sidewalk. In the Red Room, when Dreykov would pretend to know the pain of his widows, he’d always mention how the heart beat picks up in moments of true fear. He was a smart man, an aggravatingly brilliant one really, but it was that small little quip that he’d throw around in smugness that opened your eyes to another truth, one he didn’t want anyone to see — General Dreykov was an idiot.

He was an idiot when he paired you with Natasha Romanoff through your first rotation in the Room. Three years younger than Yelena, Natasha was eight years older than you at the time and the perfect model of a Widow for anyone up and coming; but especially you. You, the girl who had stolen a fragment of Dreykov’s eye, the very first one to accomplish such a task since the day she’d been taken fourteen years ago.

Her lashings were the ones to scar your back for the very first time. It was her hands that made you bleed by a force that wasn’t purely accidental for the very first time. General Dreykov was a brilliant, idiotic, sickeningly twisted man that spent the first six years of captivity mending the brains of his victims, not breaking them. It’s light therapy, stimulation therapy, the same Russian and American movies to drill the hardest dialects and accents into the minds of his promising youth. Nobody had ever hurt you before that day. They hadn’t been kind. The Madams and the handlers hadn’t always fed you or taught you how to brush your own hair kindly. But nobody had ever made you bleed. Natasha Romanoff did though.

General Dreykov was an idiot. Not many people knew that though. He hid well behind his power, behind his armies of strong willed women with no other place to turn to anymore. He hid behind Melina Vostokoff, he hid behind Madam B who ruled with an iron fist, but most importantly, where he’d messed up the most, was hiding behind Natasha Romanoff.

It’s sad to think that you’d known nothing about her until she had died. It’s sad to think that for the entire time you’d known her, she’d had her own interests, and her own secret hobbies, and her own plan to find freedom. It was all there, because Natasha Romanoff had never been chemically subjugated to fit the narrative and bloodbath of Dreykov’s expectations. Natasha Romanoff was his shield, his arms and legs without the commitment or workout regimen that kept her abs tight and her womb infertile. Natasha Romanoff was not his brain. Natasha Romanoff had never been anybody else’s brain but her own. Though, she’d been yours for a while too, probably even Yelena’s. Natasha Romanoff never was very good at recognizing how much she mattered to other people.

Natasha was taken from her mother’s arms when she was an infant; six weeks old. Her mothers name was Irena, and while photography was a hard thing to track down in the middle of rubble, you’d found out she had blonde hair and the brightest green eyes. They held no candle to Natasha’s — No, Natasha’s were pure electricity and trauma, a somehow beautiful combination when she wore it with flawed pride for little girls to recognize and protect.

She was eleven when Cuba became a place filled with trauma and triggers and only fourteen when she became your first abuser and the only person to ever hold your hand in the dark, windowless hallways of the Red Room. You went on your first mission when she was seventeen and you were nine. She’d held your hand then too. More than what was probably necessary for your cover as orphaned sisters. You hadn’t even been back on base for two months before alarm bells woke you up with instructions to find your handlers and prepare for a fight. Only, your handler was gone. She was the reason for the alarms, and she hadn’t even sent a whistle down the hallway as a forewarning to her departure.

After that, you’d seen the fall of Natasha Romanoff’s once untouchable legacy firsthand. Tales of her bloodshed had been whispered with so much excitement for a time. Her lips used to quiver when she heard the quips of forbidden storytelling, trying to conceal her pride. It hadn’t occurred to you at the time, but her smile had gotten softer over the years that she’d been your handler, like her pride was becoming guilt, like learned monstrosity was becoming instinctive humanity. Maybe if you noticed it then, she wouldn’t have grown up to be a woman made up entirely of regrets.

Her absence in the Red Room was unexpected and hollowing. The front entrance of Dreykov’s secret prison wasn’t a revolving door. People didn’t just disappear, and when they did, they never stayed gone. You remember Katya went missing once. Two weeks undetected in The Maldives. She’d come back malnourished and wide-eyed, shaking like a leaf. That was one of the first times you’d seen Dreykov genuinely care for his widow. That was the first time he’d ever truly accepted that his training wasn’t enough anymore; that he had to step up his tactics.

That was the entrance of chemical subjugation and mind control in your life. In Yelena’s life. In the chapter that finally wound all of your lives together again, even though you’d never known that for all your life a string had connected you all so fragilely.

Natasha had told you about her little sister, though she’d never used such intimate words. She said there was another widow on her longest mission, and that was enough to know Natasha cared about her, because Natasha didn’t clarify anything unless it mattered to her. If Yelena — that unnamed widow who she’d never given you a description of — meant nothing to her, she wouldn’t have wasted her breath to add her memory to the sentences she spoke to you in the middle of the night when it was practical to be sleeping, not wasting air.

When Natasha left, you were twelve. Nobody would’ve known had Dreykov not kept the last two numbers of your birth year on the top left corner of your file; of every file once he permanently implemented his chemical subjugation techniques in the Red Room. It was the simplest way to assure no widow was prematurely taken out before they proved their worth to him.

You remember Anya. Dreykov tested the younger widows first. They were a less detrimental loss. Dreykov hadn’t put decades of training and unmaking into them yet. They were nobodies. Anya was six. She was two weeks away from beginning her first rotation in the Room. Your first rotation had felt so scary, so big. You’d felt so little. You can only imagine what Anya felt being sent to a premature death for the name of ‘the future’. That’s how Dreykov learned a dose too big can be lethal in seconds. That’s when Dreykov took another thing from you. Your age.

Before chemical subjugation, you’re not sure if widows ever truly knew their age. You were only a child, still months away from what you know now was your thirteenth birthday. You hadn’t known how old you were then, and it didn’t matter. There were never any birthday parties, never any drivers tests, or proms, so what difference did it make if you were eleven and the person on the other side of the room with the same lashing scars on their back was seven. All of you were in the same hell.

Instead, you were grouped by functionally and performance. It was all a range. Some girls advanced faster, others followed the typical age curve. None ever fell behind. If they did, Dreykov killed them himself — the only time he ever got his hands dirty. Sonya was the first widow you’d ever seen killed by someone other than a handler; other than Natasha. She must’ve been a year younger than you. It was hard to tell back then, back before your bodies developed with or without the necessary nutrition. Some girls got their periods. You know because the bloody sheets would be wrapped around their heads until they suffocated in the dining hall at scheduled meal times. Having a period was a sign of failed control. It meant you weighed too much to be useful. The only ones allowed to have their period were the girls that Dreykov deemed ‘in line for graduation’. Those girls were the ones a year away from their nineteenth birthday. Those girls were once Natasha Romanoff a year and two weeks ahead of her involuntary hysterectomy — the ‘graduation’ ceremony.

Yelena was twenty-six when she defected. She’d been your handler up until your graduation, when Dreykov had deemed her your official partner. You were on a mission. She got away. Her absence felt like Natasha’s. At the time, you still didn’t know that a piece of Natasha had been with you the entire time you thought she was just gone, but Yelena knew that Natasha had touched you. That Natasha — at least partially — lived in you. You didn’t know how much peace you brought Yelena subconsciously, even through the thick fog of chemical subjugation, until she was free falling from the sky, willing to die just so that you could live and learn what freedom felt like beyond red mist.

There had never been a way to describe what that sudden blackness looked like. What it felt like to be without Natasha so suddenly, without Yelena. But, then you watched it physically engulf Yelena. Inky, thick, suffocating looking blackness just engulfed her entirely, and every time you’d ever been abandoned ambushed you like it was happening all over again.

The heart doesn’t beat faster in the face of fear. It slows down, stops entirely. Anybody who’s ever claimed to not be a people pleaser, has never known true, unavoidable fear. It turns you into a fool. It corrupts even the parts of your brain that had never been able to undo the years of psychological conditioning and abuse. General Dreykov would’ve killed you himself if he’d ever found out you ran into the face of imminent danger all to save a clearly compromised agent, but he wasn’t here because Natasha had made sure that he died.

Natasha. You couldn’t lose Yelena like you’d lost Natasha.

They’d both disappeared before. Both of them guilty of toying with your heart and your suppressed emotions, both willingly and unwillingly, but they’d always come back. Natasha came back after she defected. Yelena came back after she did too. That blackness had always been temporary, but then one day it wasn’t.

One day, Yelena had missed your call. She’d been on a mission, tying up loose ends with Melina and Antonia, unsuspecting of what awaited her, but most importantly, free. She’d been free of abuse and mind control for the first time in her life, but then Thanos snapped his fingers, and you never heard from her again.

Natasha had found you. She’d brought you back to the Avengers campus with her, and she made you a peanut butter sandwich with tears in her eyes every day for five years while you looked for Yelena who had hollowed the both of you out entirely, not to mention the loss of everyone else. You hadn’t made many connections, but Laura Barton was one that Natasha insisted you keep close, and to also be without her consoling that had initially broken through the residual trauma of withdrawing from mind control drugs… well, it broke you.

You don’t know what you expected the darkness to feel like, but its disappointingly not like the water misters at the amusement park on hot summer days. You only know what those feel like on clammy, flush, sun kissed skin because of your first mission with Natasha, but you’d been chasing the sensation ever since she dutifully brought you back to the Red Room. Grocery store produce departments are the closest you’ve ever come to finding that fond freedom again.

Before your eyes, New York City becomes a purple-sky planet where gravity makes your belly feel like carbonated soda going flat. Your hand isn’t occupied by a hand-gun anymore. There’s a hand in yours. It’s shaking. It’s cold. The mountain is steep, the cliffside narrowing until it meets a deadly point that Natasha hangs in front of.

“It’s okay!” She calls, her fingers wiggling in your grasp. She’s slipping, getting closer and closer to an imminent death as she struggles to escape your hold and finally free yourself and Yelena even if it means sacrificing a life she hadn’t even gotten to live fully or freely yet. She’d never gotten to enjoy a life without the shadow of Dreykov gleaming over her.

After the battle, she’d fled the scene to the Raft, in search of the family she’d accepted as her own too late. She got wrapped up with Thanos, and then body slammed by a nasty depression that even your company couldn’t undo. You’d spent years mindlessly dancing together but in silence until your toes bled, forcing your bodies to accept familiar pain instead of daunting and uncharted grief.

“No!” You sobbed, your hand grabbing onto her wrist. The rocks cut your knees through the tactile suit Tony had designed on a whim, the palm that braced your weight and Natasha’s on the edge of the cliff was bloody. “No, no. Yelena needs you! She needs you! I need you!”

Natasha glanced down, and you don’t think she realizes, but her fingers twitch like she’s trying to find a way to grab onto your wrist and stop this from happening at all. It’s a single moment of doubt, a single moment of humanity that’s always been beneath the surface in her, and then she’s bracing her knees against the cliff, pushing off and extending her knees until the force swings her away from you. “It’s okay.” There’s an echo of a whistle on the way down, too far away to hear the impact, but you think the moment her body meets the ground below sends vibrations shattering through every stunted growth plate in your body.

“No!” The scream splits your vocal chords, you can still taste the blood in your mouth four years later. You reach out to grab her, seeing her fall right before your eyes, but your fingers go right through her and she falls. Over and over again.

The puddle of blood gets thicker, higher. It’s coming over your eyes and out of your ears, you’re swimming in her blood. In all the blood that you’ve spilled, that she’s spilled, that she’s lost — losing, dying without. Natasha is dead.

“Hey.” You can’t hear the voice that’s cutting through the darkness clearly, it’s distorted, far off, but all around you everything becomes brighter. Natasha’s not at the bottom of a cliff, the sky isn’t so black that it reflects your worst fears and memories, Yelena’s not bloody. She’s bruised, dirty, probably exhausted, but the only blood on her body is from superficial wounds, and her eyes are still open and they’re soft, not frozen, cold, or wide will fear that can never be comforted. It haunts you to know that Natasha Romanoff, the fearless Black Widow, died terrified and nothing would ever right that wrong. You’d been enough to bring her comfort in life when Yelena wasn’t around, but not even you could give her any peace of mind before the plunge. You hope she’s not still scared. Haunting that mountain range with tears that fall like raindrops on the bloodstains her bones rest on.

“Natasha! Natasha, she—“ You sobbed, crumbling into Yelena’s chest as you stumbled backwards, desperately trying to put distance between yourself and the place you’d stood when blackness engulfed. You weren’t always this weak. Once, you’d been made of marble. A dry cough barks up your throat, it stings, it brings up blood that evidently wasn’t just a memory.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Yelena’s gone through so many changes. She cut her hair for starters. You’d never been allowed to do that before. Widows only ever got trims. Having short hair was to constantly be at a disadvantage, and autonomy whatsoever was vehemently prohibited. Your hair gave you covers. It gave you the unique opportunity to be somebody entirely different with just one part two inches from the center of your head. Your hair was the first thing you lost control over in the Red Room, not even your clothes or the meals you got to pick. But, Yelena had cut it. She’d chopped it to her chin with a pair of garden scissors at Melina’s. It’s grown since then. It falls over her shoulders now, and the undersides have gone dark with age. Once, it had gleamed beneath the sun, healthy and long, braided in various ways for no other reason than individuality. Autonomy wasn’t allowed, but someway, somehow, there was still a chance to be your own self once you were old enough and skilled enough to do the braids you wanted in the morning. Yelena hasn’t sported a braid in almost a full year.

Her voice has changed too. It dawned on you too late that Natasha’s voice had never found its way to you. You’d heard the thick Russian she could still speak fluently up until the day she died. You’d heard the perfect American, and how it was the slightest twinge sweeter only because of her channeled focused in perfecting the trickiest vowels. You’d even heard her handful of other languages and the tones that she felt it necessary to take just to master the appearance, but she’d never been without a cover long enough for you to know what she sounded like without another person to be. Yelena’s become more Americanized, but there’s still a twinge of Russian in her accent. Her grammar is getting better, her culture references are more niche and situationally fine tuned, but she still slips up sometimes. She’s still the ever imperfect Russian still trying to find herself even when she seems so sure in moments like this.

“I never told her that I forgave her!” Four years later and it dawns on you that you allowed Natasha Romanoff to die without ever explicitly hearing your forgiveness. She knew. You never would’ve spent five years in a cinder block and space metal compound with her if you hadn’t forgiven her, but if she was anything like you, and you know that she was, she never let herself move on. If she was anything like you, you know that even with all the good she’d done, she still went to bed remembering how it felt to wear your blood like gloves. “Natasha! Natasha, no, I have to get to her! Let me go! Let me go! I have to get to her! She’s all a-alone! And it was cold there, Lena! Так холодно. Как в комнате. Она была так напугана, Елена. Мы должны ее поймать.”

You struggle against her, but Yelena doesn’t let you move. Her eyes gleam with tears, the confrontation of Natasha’s death something she’s evaded tactfully for the last three years, but it’s seemed impossible to escape. The memory of rope burns around her neck is haunting. It feels impossible to know her last moments with Natasha were spent fighting. Fighting in her apartment, in the ducts, in the farmhouse, and the sky. They’d reconciled but far too late. Precious hours wasted. They could never make them up.

“She knew, and she would not have let you tell her.” Yelena hates talking about Natasha. She hates that she can’t trust her memory with anybody besides herself, but old habits die screaming in the middle of New York city it seems. You wonder briefly if Natasha had faced this moment of sudden debilitation. When she’d faced the chitauri with Clint, the first ever battle as an Avenger — a hero — had she felt so entirely paralyzed by every shortcoming that led to her growth. You’d never get to ask her. To learn from her how you’d never seen a reason to before. It haunts you how death widens your perspective but narrows the scope of any possible exploration. You’re forever burdened with glorious and sickening what-ifs. “She is not in pain anymore.” It feels like a cheap shot at comfort, but Yelena can’t think of anything to say. You’d never told her it was cold on Vormir. You never mentioned that it reminded you of the Red Room, or that Natasha was scared before she died.

Yelena didn’t know how she pictured the scene beforehand. You’d told her about the purple sky, and the awkward gravity, you’d mentioned that you grabbed Natasha’s hand, that you fought over who was going to abandon her. She hadn’t imagined either of you overly optimistic or enthusiastic, but knowing that in those final moment Natasha went maskless, terrified and somehow still passionate… Yelena didn’t know what to do.

“How do you know?” Either you find the strength to break out of Yelena’s restrictive grasp, or she’s distracted enough by grief to let you go when you pull just enough. Both of you are on your feet, tears in your eyes, emotions blotching your cheeks though the appearance of utter desperation looks different on both of you. “How do you know, Yelena?! She’s on a — I left her at the b-bottom of a mountain in space!”

“We cannot change that.” Yelena breaks, and it’s so quiet that you almost don’t register the utter defeat in her tone as a tear finally tracks down her cheek.

“We’ve never been able to change anything!” Your voice raises and Yelena winces. You don’t yell often, especially not at her. You look so much like Natasha now, with your fists grappling for anything to hold in blinding frustration. The inability to understand and accept your emotions is a dead ringer, tantrums in Ohio diluted with the natural profession of life and maturity, assuredly no help from the repetitive dosages of mind control drugs that suppressed conscious thoughts, but she can remember it if she tries, and she goes back to that place all the time, just never with you. But she does now. She can’t help it. She’s felt so alone since you’d come back without Natasha, she hadn’t been able to see that she was still around. Natasha had raised you, with both kindness and a temper. You’d seen more sides to her than Yelena ever had.

“That is not true.” Yelena shakes her head, and you know that you’re wrong instantaneously. Natasha Romanoff may have never been able to fully separate herself from a life of doing the hard bidding for the little man, you and Yelena may have never learned how to truly heal from the trauma of the Red Room, just suppress and deflect until it either went away or dissolved, but things had changed. Yelena had changed. She’s confident, even if she’s not happier, and it looks good on her. You’ve changed too. The world has changed. Little girls have women to look up to now; more than just one of them. Your lives had already been written in blood and stone, nothing was going to pull you out until death finally came knocking, but you could never say that nothing good had ever come from your misfortunes. “Do not say that.” Her voice wavers, and another tear falls down her face. It’s slow, almost cinematic, but then it takes a sharp right and falls over her lips, pearls of liquid trapped in her cupid's bow. It’s so utterly raw, so real. You’ve both been running from this for a long time.

“I just wanted more time.” It had taken you years to come to that revelation. All you really wanted was more time with Natasha. More time to know her, to learn all the littlest things about her she’d never been able to express when you’d known her before, to ask her all of these impossible questions like how do you possibly step into the light and be a hero when you’ve done unspeakable things even with your freedom intact. She was so young. Eight years older than you. That numbers only four now.

“I know.” Yelena whispers, and she nods her head, knowing that your rampage of pent up emotions has met its tranquil end. There’s rubble all around you. You wonder what Natasha saw when she finally noticed the damage after that first battle. Did she see the bodies of all the girls she’d killed in the Red Room? Because you can see her body in the rubble, right next to Anya’s, taunting you with the reminder that you’re tainted — never truly good.

“It’s not fair.” You glance back to Yelena, seeing the same terror in her green stare as she takes a peak to your direct left. You wonder who she sees — which one of her bodies sticks out the most right now, when you both should be nothing but relieved.

Yelena shakes her head, an exasperated sigh leaving her lips. She looks so much like Natasha right now, so filled with annoyance at the natural order of the world that she can’t even conceptualize what emotion to express physically, so instead she’s resigned herself entirely. You match her on that playing field, just like you always matched Natasha. “It never is.” She sighs.

“Hey, uh, do you guys want to go inside?” Bob comes up behind Yelena without so much as a single sound, and while the both of you are highly trained assassins who still sleep with knives beneath your pillows, you nearly jump out of your skin as he catches you wrapped up in a moment of pure and radiant humanity — the thing Natasha Romanoff had sacrificed her life for you to find and cherish.

“Oh my gosh, Bob.” Yelena rolls her eyes, her hands waving around beside her head. The sun reflects off of the oils that have gathered on her scalp. Neither one of you have been reasonably okay in a long time, but you think you’re finally on the mend as she chews Bob’s ear off. “You do not just sneak up on an assassin like that! I am very dangerous. I could kill you no problem. You do not want that! I just saved your ass!”

“Uh,” Bob gawked, looking between you and Yelena with eyes wide with indecision. He wasn’t sure whether he should defend himself, or back away slowly with his hands raised. A look of utter amusement crossed your features, your arms folding in front of your chest right as Yelena broke, giving away her maniacal amusement as she clapped her hands.

“Oh Bob, you should see your face!” Yelena cackled before she reached back and grabbed your hand, nodding toward the large building that Natasha had once called home. You never thought you’d have a chance to call it that too, but here you are, one foot already inside the door and a clean slate at a reputation in front of you thanks to the redhead you’d never seen anything but goodness in. “Natasha lived here.” Yelena breathed in awe as she stepped inside, and you smiled, finally able to accept that fact with warmth.

“Now all we have to do is follow her footprints.” Optimism was never your strong suit, it had been discouraged since the very first instance of recognizing positivity. But, Natasha had somehow found a way to be positive throughout those five heads without Yelena, and it was contagious even in death.

“Sounds easier said than done.” Yelena snorted, but you could hear the thick emotion in her tone that she was trying to push aside, probably having decided she’d cried enough already.

“I believe in us.” You shrugged, bypassing Alexei on your way to the elevator, rolling your eyes as he irrationally glared down at a portrait of Steve Rodger’s that Valentina had either forgotten to remove, or just didn’t care to touch by the front entrance.

“Why?” Yelena scoffed, her tone incredulous as the elevator lifted you to a floor marked N on the elevator panel. A pang shot through your chest as you recognized the significance and the fact that Tony Stark had gone through the efforts to personalize an elevator panel for his Avengers — his chosen family.

“Because Natasha did.”

[soobnny]

the alchemy — athlete!chan x reader ; established relationship (0.9k words)

where’s the trophy, he just comes running over to me

olympic inspired fic

Chan told stories.

His hands, rough with hard work, held strength and sacrifices. Years of training manifested in his calloused palms, in the occasional cuts and bruises.

They were proof of his passion, his dreams, his ambitions.

It’s almost funny how that entire world he had crafted with tears and sweat and sacrifices all boils down to a single moment, to right now, under the watchful eyes of thousands. Maybe even millions.

On the other side stood a realm, a place he can reap the efforts he’d planted step-by-step. He can faintly see victory from where he’s standing.

The crowd is a blur of color and noise. There are hands with flags waving, faces of anticipation, voices that brewed with support. Chan can feel the weight of the entire stadium pressing against his chest.

There is drumming, and beating, and shouting, and cheers.

And then static.

He breathes in, the space falling away in consequence. There is only the wall of focus he’s just built for himself—only the track, the runway, the pole, the leap.

The bar was set higher than it had been on his first attempt. A podium finish was in his reach with the pole in his hands and the runway in front of him if he would just make this jump.

A sharp breath.

The faintest rustle of the uniform he’s wearing.

And then the low hum of static.

There is nothing but the vault.

His pulse is thudding in his ears, heartbeat echoing a steady beat of anticipation. The sound of his shoes hitting the ground seemed louder than it was earlier.

There was only one thing to do now.

Chan’s gaze falls straight to the landing zone. He zeroes in on the marks, the mat awaiting his landing, the exact moment the pole would bend, how his body should fly above the vault.

That entire world, the callouses in his hands, the roughness of hard work, the countless hours of repetition were all about to be reduced to that one line on the horizon.

His grip tightens on the pole, familiar yet too rigid for comfort. And then he’s at the starting line.

At a last effort of any fragment of comfort, he searches for you where you stand. You were there, always have been, with eyes holding softness, and hope, and comfort. Something no one else could ever replicate.

A flicker of a smile curves at his lips, and then, as if his body has always known the exact timing, his legs start to move. One step, two steps. One after the other. His speed picks up, his hands instinctively tighten around the pole as it digs into the ground beneath him, and then he flies.

Chan flies, and the crowd falls silent in anticipation.

His entire world spins in such a short amount of time, even stills as his body—taught with the thrill of possibility—twists. There is muscle memory in the way he soars in the air, the same air heavy with the taste of victory that wasn’t his yet.

Gravity takes over.

Everything else falls behind him. Flashbacks of late night practices, and crying, and thinking he’s not good enough. Moments when he’d almost given up. Days when he’d felt like his efforts were going nowhere.

You’d always been there to help him back up.

You. You. You.

Thud.

His body hits the mats, and the sound echoes for half a second.

Just like that, it was done. He had done it.

His breath comes back in quick bursts, heart hammering in his chest.

When the mat propels his body back up, he lands on his feet. And before he can really process the victory he’d been working upon, he’s already turning. Sprinting.

The only direction to go now was the stands, the only direction left was to you.

You. You. You.

His legs carried him faster, and faster, and the world moved in a similar slow motion as he was when he was flying. The cheering, the flashing lights of cameras, the explosiveness of the stadium, everything was abandoned in the background.

Chan barrels into you, arms pulling you into the tightest embrace he could muster. For a moment, nothing else mattered—the gold medal, the record, nothing. Except for the fact that he had made it, and you were there with him to see it happen.

“Channie” is the only word you can muster, voice thick as you loop your arms around his neck.

Apparently, it’s also the only word he needs to pull himself back, hands resting on your shoulders as if needing to anchor himself to the moment. His eyes look into yours for a split second.

His eyes told stories too. It was always his most honest and obvious tell. And right now, they were looking at you with so much love.

Yours, with pride.

“Baby—“

Without warning, his lips find yours.

You feel everything in one kiss. The adrenaline, the years of work, his entire world. Chan leans into you, breathing you in, feeling the surge of everything he had accomplished into someone that felt like home.

Fuck, you make him happier than any Olympic gold medal ever could.

Somewhere in the distance, the announcer’s voice rings out his name as champion, but all he can ever see and hear right now is you. It was done. He’d made the vault, now all he needed to do was hold onto you.

There’s plenty of time for the rest later, plenty of time for celebrations, for the podium, for the journalists.

Right now, it was only ever you and the bright smile on your face, and the same smile he’s mirroring on his own.

And right now, in this moment, Chan doesn’t have to jump to know what it feels like to fly.

[eeriesilkworm]

Something Happened to Will in the Bathroom: and it parallels The Massacre at Hawkins Lab

CW: Implications of child abuse or possible CSA (non-explicit)

Will is a subversion of feminine horror tropes:

The Kidnapped Woman/ Damsel in distress

The Haunted Heroine

The Possessed Woman

The bathroom (in horror) is a liminal space to express exposure, transformation, vulnerability, terror and violence—especially for women.

Will has the most scenes of any character in Stranger Things which take place in a bathroom (Nancy is second).

Will's bathroom scenes are always associated with fear

Scene 1) Will + bathroom = scary Upside Down flashback

Joyce expresses concern and Will is dismissive (he lies).

Scene 2) Will + bathroom = The sense that something is wrong.

Scene 3) Will + bathroom = Joyce expresses concern (fear) and Will is dismissive again.

Scene 4) Will + bathroom + evil + "I'm not gonna hurt you" = fear

Scene 5) Will + bathroom + exposure = fear

Secrets and privacy

After Will is possessed by the Mind Flayer, Joyce expresses concern and Will is dismissive (lies) again.

Password = "Don't enter without my permission."

Mike: "Bathrooms are private."

Friends don't lie.

Mike: "Friends tell each other things that parents don't know."

Grooming

El is groomed by both Dr Brenner (Papa) and Henry.

Threat + coercion = a key + secret agreement

"Do exactly as I say."

Hopper: "He had a key, right?"

Joyce: "You think I don't know what goes on under my own roof?"

Secret meeting = "Be quiet." + "It's going to be a bit scary."

"If he finds me, he will find you." = "If I get in trouble, you get in trouble."

(Threat + coercion).

Manipulation + coercion = compliance

The illusion of choice: "This was your choice."

El complies with Henry's wish—but was manipulated into thinking it was her own idea.

El gets the sense that something is wrong (in a tiled room...)

Walkie talkie = communication

Friends don't lie + Friends tell each other things that parents don't know

Mike: "Bathrooms are private."

Confirmation and affirmation that something is wrong.

Henry's hair and appearance changes = "I see you differently now."

The abuser's true colors are known.

"You tricked me." = "He made me do it."

Resistance

El fights back and succeeds (she has superpowers)

Will tries.

1979—The first gate is opened

The doorway (gate) is opened by a key which emits energy.

Gate = wound: opening vs healing

Psychological wound = trauma

Memories are lost but the trauma is still there.

1983—The second gate is opened

El attempts to make contact with Henry (Dr Brenner's orders)

Will has a lightbulb moment (realization, recognition, illumination).

1984—Will is diagnosed with PTSD

Will's reaction when he encounters the Mind Flayer:

Anxiety—goosebumps and the feeling of being “frozen” in fear

The inability to “breathe or talk or do anything”

A sense of evil and impending doom: "I felt this evil, like it was looking at me.”

“Looking at me” = exposure + invasion of privacy.

Will reveals the Mind Flayer does not want to kill him—it wants to kill everyone else.

Henry did not want to kill El—he wanted to kill everyone else.

Homophobia and victim-blaming

Ted: "You see what happens?" = victim-blaming mentality

What happens = "He was probably killed by some other queer."

Lonnie = used to say Will was queer

Lonnie: "That boy was never very good at taking care of himself." = victim-blaming mentality

The implication? This is just what happens when you are queer, and Will should have defended himself better.

El was blamed too (despite being a victim)

"What have you done?" = what she was coerced into doing by an abuser.

The blame is internalized

Will = feels like a mistake. El = feels like a monster.

El's powers alone were not enough to make her feel like a monster:

It's her fragmented memories of the Hawkins Lab massacre (and internalized blame) that made her feel that way.

Is Will's queerness alone enough to make him feel like a mistake? I don't think so, actually:

It's his fragmented memories of the bathroom (and internalized homophobia and blame) that make him feel that way.

1987—The gates will close

The story isn't over until the gate (wound) is closed (healed).

In 1987, Henry/ Vecna and the Mind Flayer will be confronted and defeated.

And when that happens, El and Will will finally have the chance to heal.

Henry abused and killed children. El is going to protect and save them.

(She will not become the monster he is).

Lonnie blamed Will’s abuse on his queerness. Will is going to save Hawkins—with his love for Mike.

(His queerness is not a mistake).

[byhuenii]

The Minds We Had

Pairing Bucky x Reader

Synopsis It’s a love story that outlived war, death, and decades apart — only to reunite for one final goodbye.

(Inspired by ‘Ribs’ by Lorde)

Word Count 1.2k

Themes + Warnings Bittersweet romance, Hurt with Comfort, Memory Recovery, Angst with Hope. TFATWS era + 1940s flashback

— The Minds We Had And I've never felt more alone, feels so scary getting old

“It feels so scary getting old…”

She once whispered it against his chest, when they were both too young to know what that really meant.

But now Bucky knew.

He sat beside your hospital bed, fingers entwined with yours, holding on as if time could be bribed. You were sleeping again, breathing shallow and slow. The machine beeped softly behind you.

He hadn’t let go of your hand since he walked in.

Not when you looked up in disbelief and dropped the photo.

Not when he said “Hi, doll.”

Not when you cried.

Not even when you whispered, brokenly:

“You’re… real.”

You both spoke in quiet, fragmented memories — little shards of a life that should have been.

“Do you remember that rooftop?” you asked. “When we were nineteen?”

“I remember you telling me we were gonna live forever,” Bucky said, smiling despite the tightness in his chest.

You laughed, soft and small. “We’ll never be those kids again, huh?”

“The drink you spilt all over me… still feels warm.”

You said it like a memory, not a lyric. Like you could still feel the fizz of cola on your blouse and the burst of your laughter echoing across the fire escape.

“You were wearing my jacket,” Bucky whispered.

“You gave it to me,” you said. “Even though it was freezing.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t feel cold. Not with you next to me.”

A long pause.

The sun was setting outside the hospital window. Your eyelids fluttered. Bucky leaned forward.

You were tired. He could feel it in the way your grip softened.

“You’re not scared?” he asked, quietly.

Your eyes barely opened. “I was. But not now.”

“Why not?”

You smiled, the faintest thing.

“It feels so scary getting old…”

You echoed yourself from so many years ago.

“Until you showed up.”

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, voice catching. “I should’ve found you sooner. I missed your whole life.”

You reached up, trembling fingers brushing the side of his face. “You missed the hard parts. The loud ones. But you came for the quiet.”

And then:

“This dream isn’t feeling sweet.”

You didn’t say much after that.

Your breath slowed. Your fingers stilled in his. And then, after a long, shaky pause, you exhaled — the kind of breath that doesn’t come back.

The kind of breath that takes everything with it.

Bucky stayed.

Until your hand turned cold. Until the nurses gently asked if he wanted more time.

He didn’t answer.

Because you were gone.

“It drives you crazy getting old…”

—

At your funeral, Bucky wore a black suit and a look that aged him more than the war ever did. Sam was there, silent beside him. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

Bucky placed the photo back in your hands — the same one you’d kept by your bed for seventy years.

“I found you,” he whispered.

And then, even softer:

“I want ‘em back… the minds we had.”

Later, in Jamie’s home, she handed him a letter — and Bucky read the words like scripture.

“I always believed you’d find me, even when I didn’t believe in much else.

That’s what love is, right? Something you never stop carrying, even when your hands are empty.”

He closed the letter, breathing like a man who hadn’t in years.

Then he looked at your granddaughter, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a blanket around her shoulders — and he saw you.

He saw hope.

And somewhere, as he walked home under the streetlights of a world too fast and too loud, Bucky could swear he heard you — laughing again.

Like back then.

When everything felt endless.

When you were still spinning under a sky full of fireworks, barefoot and seventeen, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward forever.

FLASHBACK

The party was loud — too loud for how heavy Bucky’s heart felt.

Everyone was laughing, crammed shoulder to shoulder in the tiny Brooklyn brownstone he shared with Steve. The air smelled like warm whiskey, cheap perfume, and summer sweat. Someone was dancing on the coffee table. Someone else had spilled beer on the phonograph.

Bucky didn’t care.

He only had eyes for you.

You were leaning against the kitchen doorframe, sipping cherry cola from a chipped mug, wearing his button-down shirt like it was yours. It hung past your thighs, and your legs were bare, and you were smiling at him like he hung the stars.

And in that moment, he believed it.

Because he’d never seen anything — anything — as good as you.

You tilted your head, catching him staring.

“What?” you grinned.

He walked over slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets, trying not to let the sound of his own heartbeat drown everything out.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured.

You blinked, half-laughing. “For what? Wearing your shirt?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, dipping his head until his lips hovered just above yours. “For making me wish I could stay.”

You kissed him.

Soft and slow, like a promise he wasn’t allowed to ask for.

His hands cradled your waist.

Outside the kitchen window, fireworks from someone else’s celebration popped in the sky — flashes of gold and red across your cheekbones.

And then you whispered, against his:

“It feels so scary, getting old…”

Bucky stilled.

You looked up at him — eyes wide, heart already breaking.

“Everything’s changing now, don’t you feel it?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he did feel it.

The ticking clock. The war looming. The fear of not coming home — or worse, of coming home wrong. Not the same man. Not the boy you loved.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“We’ll never be this young again,” he whispered.

“We’ll never have this night again.”

You reached up and touched his cheek.

“We don’t have to be young,” you said. “We just have to find our way back.”

“From what?” he asked.

You smiled, eyes glassy.

“From the dream that stopped feeling sweet.”

You stayed up until 3:00 a.m. with him on the roof, lying on a blanket, fingers linked between you.

The city hummed below.

And in that perfect little bubble of time, you dared to dream.

“You’re the only friend I need,” you whispered sleepily, “sharing beds like little kids…”

“You remember when we were little?” he murmured. “And you said you’d marry me if Steve didn’t grow tall?”

You grinned. “You were always going to be mine, Buck. I just said that to scare you.”

At sunrise, he kissed you one last time.

Harder than any kiss should be, like it had to last a lifetime.

“I’ll write,” he said.

“I’ll wait,” you answered.

Then you hugged him like you were memorizing the shape of him.

And Bucky… Bucky looked at you like he wanted to stay in that moment forever.

“I want ’em back — the minds we had…”

And in the present — all those memories come flooding into his chest like a breaking dam.

That last kiss.

That soft promise.

Your voice in his head, whispering:

“It feels so scary getting old.”

And now he’s old.

But he remembers.

And he finally knows the truth.

You were the home he was always trying to get back to.

“And laughing 'til our ribs get tough

But that will never be enough…”

(You’ve got mail!) YOURE THE ONLY FRIEND I NEED! SHARING BEDS LIKE LITTLE KIDS, WE LAUGH TIL OUR RIBS GET TOUGH! BUT THAT WILL NEVER BE ENOUGHHH. I’m in my angst mood lately sorry, BUT I LOVE THIS SONG SMSMSMSMMS

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101

[general-brain-rot]

It's Beebo time again, this time Haunted House flavored!

I love dissecting how magic systems and worldbuilding shenanigans happen, so imagine the catnip of a story I was given when I got to figure out the Detective Beebo timeloop mechanics and some larger possible implications,,,,,,I am in shambles thank you Bwob, anyway, here are some ramblings about the first “organic” timeloop I’ve seen in media as well as what I think the deal is with the haunted houses!

The Natural Volatility of a Haunted House:

While I’m sure the biggest factor for dialogue changing between loops is to give the player more stuff to read/interact with, it is INCREDIBLY interesting just what all of it changes to!

Here’s a list of some noteworthy stuff that changes just from the first to second loops:

+ Right after the first loop, if you interact with the alcohol on the table in the main room Beebo says “I don’t think this is the best place to get trashed”, which is EXACTLY what Angel says after the shared drink in the first loop.

+Beebo suddenly has commentary on the paintings in the main room that he didn’t before, like in ‘Endless Decay’ where he thinks about the cycle of life and death (very on the mind if you just freaking died) where before he just said he wasn’t into it all that much.

+ When Angel bursts in and we get our first taste of what the timeloop has to offer, Beebo remarks that Angel “does seem familiar” thinking they maybe have “talked once or twice”.

+ We get to talk to Coli a little bit in this loop and Beebo immediately thinks “…Why do I feel uneasy?” and while he chalks it up to the class difference, the player knows that it’s likely because he just got dang murdered.

+ When Vivi gets back into the hallway with the switch for the electricity, her new commentary on the windowless room is that it’s “eerie and dreadful” as opposed to how she actually claimed to like the aesthetic the first time around.

+and finally,

the all constant post-loop ghost pain. I’m very normal about this one I prommy.

It’s all of this little stuff that shows even more in depth how volatile the Haunted House is! During Beebo’s deduction in loop 5, he figures it’s because of Ángel “glitching” the loop by being outside when the loop starts at 8pm, but inside the house when someone dies and forces a reset. Ángel keeps his memories and other party goer’s subconscious memories involving him in any capacity start to bleed through to them. Of course, we learn later that touching Vivi’s photobook can return people their memories in their entirety, giving the whole debacle another huge loophole (haha, get it?) for our cast! We also get some indicators, mostly from how loop 4 ends and ending 5’s dialogue, that intense emotions allow fragments of memories to remain in the victim’s minds, such as how Mari and Nina confessing their love for each other made them think to try to find each other in the next loop, or in ending 5 when we see that those who died from Coli have new fears that seemingly sprung up out of nowhere. These are all indicative of what I’ll call an organic timeloop from here out, because from what we learn later about the biology of the house, it’s pretty accurate. The organic timeloop's existence is actually the entire reason this is about to go off the rails about the existence of haunted houses! Speaking of, hey why are the walls breathing?

Biology of the House:

At the end of loop 4, we finally get to the anatomy of the House of Vera as told to us through Nadia, Beebo’s traumatic flashback, and the piecing together of information during loop 5 from Ángel and Beebo together before we mess with the endings. Nadia talks to us about how a house can live, can breathe through its ventilation, can eat those who wander into its doors, can fall ill and can age and can get hungry, has bones and muscle and skin as scaffolding and walls and paint. Once eaten by a house, you can become part of it, and we see this happen in a few different ways throughout the game. With the case of “purpose”, we have Dr. Diaz writing about his senses melding with the house from when he was alive or in endings 9/10 when Beebo gives the House of Vera a new purpose and experiences the same thing. With the case of people being “eaten” by the houses, we see this in Beebo’s flashback to getting trapped in the gallery and we see it now with getting trapped in the House’s organic timeloop. Nadia compares those who reside in a haunted house as “Its cells”, extremely reminiscent of how mitochondria work, having once been their own single celled organism and were eaten by another single celled organism a long time ago, but for symbiotic need the two entities combined and now suddenly you have multicellular life (thank you Lynn Margulis <3). This idea is further strengthened by ending 10 titled “Endosymbiotic Theory” which is the theory that simple prokaryotic cells evolved into more complex eukaryotic cells (essentially the same situation). Nadia goes on to make the comparison to how DNA can tell an organism what to do/be, and that people can give that to a haunted house too, can provide it with a “purpose” with enough emotion. In endings 9/10, we learn that the emotion the haunted houses feed on is grief.

This grief is applied to a “heart”, an object within the house that structures the purpose and maintains whatever supernatural ability it has. The House of Vera had two hearts before, first a shield mantle on the wall to ensure it wouldn’t be destroyed or damaged, then the grandfather clock in the hall to ensure that everything within the house would reset once the clock struck 8pm. If the heart is destroyed then the house can no longer read its purpose properly, but interestingly it doesn’t quite die. If you get endings 9/10 then Beebo can give the house a third heart to bring back Ángel and keep him safe, happy, and alive. A haunted house can get another heart and come back with a new purpose. If we want to think about it in organic terms, it’s most likely akin to a heart transplant. We don’t know if there is a time limit between when a heart is destroyed and when the haunted house dies for good since we don’t get to see that explored much in game, but if we assume that there is a time limit given the organic nature of haunted houses, then this fits perfectly with how we already know them to function! A haunted house could survive for a little while without a purpose but would eventually officially “die” if left without that purpose, that heart, for too long.

Another fun thing is that haunted houses lure people in, we’ve seen it with both houses! Now, the art gallery was far more subtle but flashback-Beebo does think about how he “needs to get in already” and is so curious, like a sudden wash of curiosity. Not of needing to find the missing cat he’s being paid to look for, El Wiwi isn’t mentioned at all once he’s at the door, it’s this curiosity instead. For the House of Vera, it’s unsettling how much Beebo’s inner dialogue is about how warm it is inside and how cold it is outside and that he “needs to get inside”, either if you interact with the door to the house or the lamppost outside, he is insistent on going through that door. Both dialogue prompts are laced with this “need”, and the biggest question is why? Well, I’ve got two ideas. My first inclination is that a haunted house might behave like a fruiting plant does, luring a creature to come and eat a sweet fruit for the purpose of spreading its seeds and making more of itself. The other option is acting more like an angler fish would, luring in prey with a bright light or something else prey wants so that the organism can feed itself. I provide these two options because they imply different things, that haunted houses could be either utilitarian or predatory, trying to survive for natural selection purposes or trying to survive out of an active hunger. The first option is much less terrifying than the second, but both are pretty grounded when looking at haunted house behavior. (we'll figure out which one I think it is soon)

For the utilitarian argument, we’ve got some dialogue to work with. Though, we need to take Coli’s arguments with a grain of salt because his pride has overshadowed a lot of the house’s actual mechanics, like how he isn’t actually aware of the memory loophole or what happens in other edge case conditions with people dying on the property. It’s mostly his assumption, but he has been experimenting with this haunted house, so maybe he has some knowledge that the investigations didn’t reveal from firsthand experience.

There are some interesting things that feed a bit into the predator idea though. If the artist from the gallery wanted people to “never want to leave after seeing how amazing their art could be”, then the house could’ve gone about any manner of ways of persuasion to get people to stay and maintain the means of fulfilling its purpose. If everyone dies, then no one gets to see the art, and it feels a little counterintuitive and suboptimal for the organism to just trap them until they die in around four days due to lack of water. For the House of Vera, why does the house claim the inhabitants’ memories when they die instead of leaving them with the knowledge to defend themselves in the future? Wouldn’t that seem like a far more utilitarian and logical thing for the house, with the purpose of giving people another chance to live through lethal events, to accomplish? Well, it would be if all the haunted houses need to do is fulfill their purpose like a script, and not like a life cycle. If it were predatory instead, and it needed to take something from those it ate to maintain itself, then it stops looking like a flowering plant and starts looking more like a venus fly trap, more like a real threat.

Speaking of threatening, I’ve gotta talk about the eyes. Now, the eye imagery could just be for spook points which is already an amazing thing and the effect lands incredibly well, but this gaze feels a bit more important than that. It’s the connection to the divine that intrigues me the most, because we don’t actually know why the hell haunted houses are a thing, the game doesn’t go into it and leaves it vague for the audience to explore. And while the argument could be made that they are some creations born from eldritch means, that’s not what I think is happening. What I think is that this feeling of “divinity” is just an energy so tense, heavy, and powerful that it feels like being hunted by something far stronger than you that you cannot hope to escape unscathed. The connection to the divine is just how the people involved interpret it and it’s not necessarily an accurate reflection of what is really happening. Someone isolated and deeply afraid could look into the eyes of a tiger and think it divine if only for the sheer force of emotion they are feeling in that moment. Also, I think Oliver only makes the “divine” comment because that’s how the doctor described it and he’s grasping for any logic he can in this moment. We never get to see the birth of a haunted house, only the continued existence of two, but we established earlier that a heart is given to a house in moments of intense grief, which may imply that every house is inert in some way and just needs to be woken up somehow. It’s what Coli believes is happening considering the lengths he went to with his factory in order to manufacture a haunted house and considering the research he put in prior to the game’s events, his plan in theory could be feasible. It’s more of a Frankenstein’s monster idea rather than some divine birthing situation, but Coli wouldn’t have gone to such lengths in his factory if he had reason to believe that he could’ve instead prayed to a deity to bring a house to life, he went full mad scientist speedrunner instead because that had to have been what his research had shown him could work. He’s a prideful idiot, but if he’s been using Nadia as his personal diary for his findings for her entire 17 years of life, he’s got at least 17 years of knowledge in this topic to fall back on, and there’s some merit to that.

So, if the house is a predatory entity, then luring people into its walls must do something helpful for its continued existence, and it clearly needs to eat. This is shown by seeing how ruined the art gallery was in the flashback since considering how decently far from civilization it was, there likely wouldn’t be too many people wandering around close enough to even realize it was there. The gallery looks abandoned and trashed, almost emaciated, but not dead. The House of Vera is in great condition though, and it could be because of how popular the house is despite the surrounding village’s low population. This house is a notorious landmark, essentially having been the main hospital for the area for around a century while Dr. Diaz was still around, so the house would have plenty of people to “eat” to keep itself going. But they’re not eating the people really I don’t think, the houses not only need grief to manifest properly, but they also need it to continue to exist. The reason the art gallery doesn’t use any other method of keeping people inside its walls is because while the “purpose” of a house tells it how to be (like DNA), that doesn’t feed it. The house puts the people who go inside under extreme amounts of stress, exhaustion, and hopelessness as dictated by its purpose in order to increase the amount of grief those people feel in order to feed itself on that. The House of Vera doesn’t let anybody keep their memories in order to outsmart any dangers they might be subject to because as long as they keep dying for the first time within its walls, and never get used to the idea of dying, then it can keep feeding on the most intense version of their grief as possible.

The haunted houses are predators, not plants. They may not be able to feel, but they behave in ways dictated solely by the purpose their heart has, and that purpose gives them the means to feed on other people’s grief as long as they are within its walls, as long as the cells continue to produce what it needs to continue living.

So, to recap: While there is evidence for haunted houses to be either more plant-like or predator-like, I’m firm in my belief that it leans more predatory considering that the houses need to eat to survive somehow, they get their “food” by luring people inside using some freaky house magic inclination, and that they get their nutrients from the grief of people that get trapped inside. The people act as its cells and those cells provide sustenance akin to how mitochondria work, the heart and “purpose” tell the house how to behave like how DNA would. The organic timeloop is so volatile because not only are the people exceptionally random variables in this house’s system, but the house is also a complicated living predator that goes to great lengths to maintain itself. The fact that the organic timeloop exists at all is irrefutable proof that the haunted house is what’s alive here. The birth of these predators is extremely up for interpretation, but I believe that Coli must’ve had some reasonable (kinda) idea of how to birth a haunted house through essentially waking up a normal house with intense human grief. Any connections made to “the divine” are just made to truly represent how oppressive the force of the haunted house feels rather than actually being linked to any godly entity.

Aaaaaand that’s the end of my speculation! The haunted houses are fascinating and once I got thinking about why the timeloop even exists if it’s so organic and error-prone, then I got so far in the weeds about the haunted houses themselves that I ended up with like, 3k words of speculation by the end that I needed to make sense of haha. I’d love to hear other people’s thoughts about the houses and I’m excited to see if the currently in-progress train comic that’s being worked on ends up having any commentary on that. If it does and my ideas become definitively incorrect then,,,,,,I will just have to deal with that when it comes.

[the-penguin-of-baskervilles]

Chapter 32: On Hold

Summary: Princess struggles to rebuild her life after quitting her job and breaking ties with Lloyd. Zach offers her a new opportunity, but her reluctance to re-enter Lloyd’s orbit holds her back, but then an unexpected meeting offers her a glimpse of what could be.

Word Count: 3,294

Masterlist

Warnings: This chapter contains themes of emotional distress and a scene with a nightmare/flashback.

Chapter 32: On Hold

Friday, April 25th - 03:20 AM

You jolted awake, the memory crashing over you. Breath caught in your throat as you flailed against damp, twisted sheets. 

Two months had passed since your breakup with Lloyd, but your body still couldn’t tell the difference between past and present. Again and again, it replayed that night, tricking your nervous system into reacting as if it were happening all over again. It wasn’t a nightmare—that would suggest it was imagined. It was a flashback. A vivid, unrelenting replay of the night Lloyd ended everything. At least three times a week, sometimes more, your brain used the soft vulnerability of sleep to ambush you with every ugly detail of that final dinner, in sharp technicolor. Maybe the dreams were supposed to act like exposure therapy. The problem was, your reaction never dulled. Each time, the devastation felt as sharp and new as the first. You sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed your fingertips into your eyes, as if you could scrub away the memory. 

The basement of your parent’s house was too large, too open, for comfort. It was twice the size of your old apartment back in D.C. On the nights when you had flashbacks that coziness was desperately missed. 

After quitting Bishop & Howard, you’d gone to your parents, had an embarrassing emotional melt down in front of them, which earned you an official invitation to move back in. You shoved everything in boxes, put the apartment on the market, and ended up with three offers on the place by 5 o’clock. Then you ran back to Virginia, past the outskirts of suburban D.C., to the safety of your childhood home where you’d taken up residence in their recently finished basement. On the upside, the bathroom was super nice with a dual showerhead and heated flooring. On the downside, the expansive room made you feel lonely, your thoughts bouncing off the walls and echoing back at you, as though there was too much space and nowhere to hide.

Lloyd had dismantled your relationship, but dismantling the rest of your life had been your own doing. He ended things so swiftly, unexpectedly, that it still felt as if the earth had been pulled out from under your feet, like gravity had been turned off. You’d come to accept that to some extent, Lloyd had been your gravity. He’d been at the center of your orbit. First as your best friend and then as your partner. Now you were spinning out of orbit, untethered and heading… who knew where. You certainly didn’t. You didn’t have a plan, or even a concept of a plan. All you wanted was to get away from everything that you knew. 

Everything had been dismantled—most of it by your own hand. Now you were left living in the wreckage of it all.

You wished you’d fought him on it that day, but even as you thought it, there was no real hope behind the idea. Lloyd had always held his convictions with a resolve you couldn’t begin to match. But still, you hadn’t done anything to stop him and that was almost like a moral injury that lingered, a perpetual thorn in your side that continued to bleed. It was one thing for Lloyd to dismiss your efforts to fight, but another thing to contend with—that there had been no effort to fight at all put up by you. You’d let the relationship slip away without fighting for it. 

Leaning forward, you wrapped your arms around your knees, curling into a ball. You laced your fingers together tightly and squeezed until your knuckles ached. Your heart raced like someone was chasing you. Fragments of thoughts and flashes of memories spun through your head, a relentless blur you couldn’t shut off. You should be coping better than this after two months, shouldn’t you? But you weren’t.

The dream—the memory—came back, night after night, slicing open the wound over and over. Lloyd had taken something from you. Something more than love or friendship, something essential and you couldn’t figure out what it was, and therefore couldn’t dream of replacing it. You were afraid you’d never stop missing him. He’d ripped you in half and it felt like you were destined to continue on, only half of a person, forever. 

Your eyes burned, but no tears came. With your heart racing, sleep felt impossible. Besides, your head was a minefield when you closed your eyes. Lloyd had made his choice and you’d let him make it. Why hadn’t you done more? Why hadn’t you fought harder, made him see that this relationship was worth saving? That question haunted you, sometimes a few times a day, sometimes hundreds.

Maybe he thought ending things was what you needed. It was the only explanation you could come up with, based on the cryptic things he’d said that night. But it had felt so sudden, so inexplicable. He hadn’t explained. He hadn’t let you plead your case. He’d ended things on his own terms, of his own volition.

In his own broken way, maybe that was Lloyd’s idea of self-sacrifice. He’d claim he wasn’t capable of such a thing, but you knew better. If he believed he couldn’t be what you needed, he would have ended the relationship—if only to set you free.

Or maybe he’d simply gotten bored. He wasn’t the relationship type. You’d both agreed it was a fling at the start, so maybe he was just seeing it through to its natural conclusion. Maybe you were the crazy one, losing your mind over it.

With a deep breath, you unfolded yourself and lay back down, turning to face the alarm clock. 3:30 a.m. In an hour, you’d need to get up for work. You knew you should try to sleep, though you didn’t have high hopes. Lately, once your mind got tangled up in these thoughts, there was precious little you could do to quiet it. 

Still, you buried your head in the pillow, willing yourself to stop thinking.

For once, sleep came

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Friday, April 25th - 02:17 PM

Your father’s construction company had excellent benefits. That was why you had a job, at least for the time being. His regular bookkeeper, Chelsea, was out on maternity leave, and you were filling in. Full-time for now, then part-time once she returned in mid-May. 

Bookkeeping was insufferable, but it was a job. Your father was an easy boss. He didn’t micromanage, or hoover, just let you get on with things. Most of the time he was out of the office, visiting job sites and keeping an eye on his crews. The bookkeeping work was straightforward and the secretarial part of your duties was practically mindless. You’d found a rhythm and by the second week, realized you could do this job in half the time allotted. Instead of mentioning that to your Dad, you stuck around for the full eight hours, pretending to be busier than you were.

Every day, you sat at the wobbly desk in the trailer office, shuffling through invoices and timesheets, wondering what you were doing with your life. There was nothing wrong with being a bookkeeper, but if you could finish the work on a part-time schedule, Chelsea would probably be even faster. Once she returned, there wouldn’t be enough work to keep you on, and you couldn’t justify staying and taking advantage of your father’s generosity.

You rubbed your temple, glaring at the computer screen where numbers were already sorted into neat columns. Maybe it was time to look for another job. Something real, something in your skill set, something that actually mattered. The thought of jumping back into the paralegal world—or shifting to a lobbyist group, since they always seemed to be hiring—settled in your stomach like a lead weight. D.C. was a small legal circle. You’d run into people who knew what had happened with Lloyd. You might even run into Lloyd himself. The thought made you shudder.

The sound of heavy boots echoed on the metal steps of the trailer. You groaned. You knew who it was before the three-rap knock.

“It’s open,” you called.

Your visitor stepped in, shoving dark lensed Ray-Bans up onto his forehead. Sunlight slanted through the door, brightening his sandy hair to gold for a moment.

“Hey, Zach. How’s it going?”

Your eyes fixed on the tray of coffees in his hand. It contained two iced lattes and one Frappuccino.

“You pick up an extra by accident?”

“No. It’s for your Dad.”

“How do you know what kind of Frappuccino my Dad prefers?”

“His Instagram’s public. I cyberstalk it sometimes. It’s been my most reliable source of info on you of late—since I barely see you anymore.”

“Aside from your weekly visits to my workplace?”

Zach set the iced latte on your desk. “I’m considering renovating my offices. I need a quote.”

“We’re booked through November.”

He took off his sunglasses and hooked them onto his shirt collar before dropping into the chair across from you with a mock-sigh. “Shame.”

You leaned back in your chair, ignoring its squeal of protest. “Zach, I’m at work. I’m busy.”

“Are you? Because the last edit on that spreadsheet was at 10:27 A.M.”

“Fine, I’m not busy. I’m bored out of my mind. What do you want?”

His grin widened. “To see you doing something more productive than balancing books you finished yesterday.”

So he’d noticed the date, not just the time stamp. Your cheeks warmed. He wasn’t wrong, but the jab got under your skin. “Don’t you have your own company to run?”

“I do. That’s actually why I’m here.”

You crossed your arms. “Don’t make this about your savior complex. Lloyd and I didn’t work out. I trashed my career at B&H all by myself. You don’t need to rescue me.”

“I’m not trying to rescue you. Okay, maybe part of me feels oddly guilty that I didn’t at least try to warn you off of him, or ask you to think twice about getting involved with someone as complicated as Lloyd. But that’s not the only reason I’m here.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve hired a new investigator. He starts in May.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I think the two of you would work well together. If you come on board—even if it was temporarily—it’d make his orientation easier.”

“Landon handles all your training.”

“He’s getting married in May. You should know, you’re invited to the wedding.”

“Right.”

You’d been trying to forget about the upcoming nuptials. Seeing Lloyd there wasn’t something you wanted to ponder for too long.

Zach hooked an ankle over his knee, studying you with an intensity that made you feel like a bug under a microscope.

“You’re bored.”

“And?”

“I can fix that.”

Fixing your boredom would put you back in Lloyd’s orbit, which was a price you weren’t sure you were willing to pay.

“I’m good. Thanks for thinking of me though. I’m flattered.”

“Come on. The job starts in May. Your dad’s regular girl will be back by then, and you’d be free to start with us. Perfect timing.”

“Why me? There are a dozen people who’d jump at the chance to work with you.”

“I don’t like those people. Besides, you’ve already worked with my new hire, and he’s a little high-strung. Not everyone can handle him.”

You frowned. “Who is it?”

“Marco Lattimer.”

“Huh.” You didn’t want to be intrigued, but you were. You stared at Zach, torn between wanting to roll your eyes and feeling the pull of half-burried ambition.

“You’re good at investigations. We need someone who can handle some of Jake’s simpler computer work.”

The yearning sharpened. You tried to shove it down, but failed. Zach smirked.

“I know you. I like you. We work well together. I don’t have to figure out how to fit two new personalities into the firm because I already know you. And I trust you to work with Marco, even though he’s kind of a judgy son of a bitch.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“He’s a boy scout,” Zach said.

“So is Landon.”

“Yeah, but he’s not as high and mighty about it.”

“Are you asking me to take this job so you don’t have to deal with Marco?”

Zach snorted. “I can handle Marco. I just prefer him in small doses. Also, I think you need something to pull you out of this funk.”

“I don’t want to work with Lloyd anymore. Not for a while.”

“Perfect. I’m not about to put him and Marco in the same room.”

“Really? They’re that bad?”

“I have no idea. They haven’t seen each other in ten years.”

You glanced down at your desk—the neatly stacked timesheets, the untouched calculator.

“I’ll think about it.”

Zach stood, smoothing his shirt. “Alright. I’ll be back on Monday. I expect an answer then.”

You watched him leave, the door clicking softly behind him. A thick suffocating silence settled over the room. You dropped your head onto the desk and groaned.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Saturday, April 26th - 01:20 PM

You sat in the parking lot a block from Café M, debating whether you were up for coffee or if your social battery was tapped out. Jen had enticed you into a Saturday morning Pilates class but had to leave right after to pick up her son from baseball camp. That suited you fine because it meant you got to see Jen, hang out, all while avoiding uncomfortable questions, or updates about Lloyd and the rest of your old coworkers at B&H. According to Jen, Andy was pissed you’d quit and was needling Lloyd about it at every opportunity. You hated thinking about the trail of drama you’d left in your wake.

Jen was worried. The subtle glances she shot you before and after class spoke volumes, though she hadn’t said anything. You were grateful for her restraint; it was the polar opposite of Zach’s ham-handed approach to managing your life. At least with Jen, the concern was quieter, less invasive. Going to Pilates with her felt like proof you were doing okay, that you weren’t sinking too far into the spiral of doom, and losing all of your social connections.

Since you’d already driven into the city, heading straight home felt wrong. Stopping at your favorite café gave you a chance to clear your head before returning to your parents’ house. The thought of the long drive felt suffocating. You ducked into the café, ordered your usual iced vanilla latte with a shot of espresso and claimed a small corner table by the window.

Your mind wandered as you stirred the drink, tracing circles in the condensation pooling on the table. The buzz of voices and hiss of the espresso machine filled the small room but none of it drowned out the memories. You thought of the afternoons when you’d worked on Lloyd’s cases at the corner booth and the couple of times when you’d met him here on Sunday afternoons. Why had you decided to come here? You should’ve gone straight home.

“Figured I’d find you here, dah-lin’,” a voice behind you drawled.

You recognized the stretched vowels, the near-absent ‘r’—not clipped like a Boston accent, but softened and slow. That Tidewater lilt turned everything smooth and a little formal, like it was dialogue in a black-and-white movie. 

"Marco. How’d you find me?"

“I wouldn’t be much of a private investigator if I couldn’t track down one law-abiding citizen on a Saturday afternoon, now would I?”

He stood in front of your table, coffee in hand, a black Henley stretched across his broad shoulders, and a sly smile curving his lips. Casual clothes looked good on him. 

“Why did you hunt me down?”

He pulled out the chair opposite you without asking, settling in like you were old friends meeting up instead of him ambushing you out of the blue. 

“Zach said you’ve been dragging your feet accepting his employment offer,” he said.

Heat crept up your neck. “So you decided to stalk me?”

“I prefer the term ‘reconnaissance.’ It sounds friendlier. I wanted to find out what was holding you back.” He leaned in, forearms on the table, his voice dropping so only you could hear. “I heard you’re playing bookkeeper and bored out of your mind. What’s the problem?”

You wrapped your hands around the cold glass of your iced coffee, eyes lowering. “I’m still weighing my options. I don’t know if it’s the right move at the moment.”

Marco laughed, his disbelief clear. “Liar. You’re avoiding Lloyd. Can’t blame you for that—I get the same urge. Still can’t stand him, no matter what affinity Zach feels towards him. But don’t let his mistakes dictate your future.”

You raised an eyebrow, realizing Zach had shared with him more than you’d thought. Marco’s bluntness was like a slap, but his expression was fond, almost amused.

“I’m not scared of seeing Lloyd,” you said, though even you didn’t believe it.

Marco sipped his coffee and said nothing.

The silence tightened around you. He studied you the way Zach had yesterday, like you were a bug under a microscope and he was trying to figure out what species you belonged to. His head tilted. “Landon’s wedding’s next weekend, right?”

“Uh… yes. Why?”

“Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

Your pulse kicked up. You opened your mouth, but he cut you off.

“Don’t look so scandalized. I’m asking because it’d be more fun with a date. Besides, Landon and I go way back. It wouldn’t hurt to show him I can clean up and be civilized.”

Your cheeks flushed. “That’s presumptuous of you, Marco.”

He leaned back, draping one arm over the back of his chair. “Come on, Princess. It’s a win-win. I get a date, you get a buffer against Lloyd.”

The idea twisted your stomach. It was ridiculous, and yet the thought of showing up alone, knowing you’d have to face him again…Perhaps Marco was onto something. 

“I’ll think about it,” you said.

He grinned, rising smoothly and sliding a napkin across the table. You glanced down at the scrawl of blue ink. His phone number. “Do that. And think about the job, too. I’m not waiting forever.”

You watched him leave, climb on a jet black Harley-Davidson motorcycle and disappear into traffic. 

Irritation and intrigue wrestled for dominance. Marco was just as domineering and annoying as Lloyd, but he went about it with less abrasiveness. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe it was time to stop spinning your wheels. Time to stop hibernating and branch out. Accepting Marco’s invitation would certainly make Landon’s wedding easier. You picked up the napkin, typed the number in and saved a new contact.

On the drive home, you thought about his offer. About the possibility of accepting the job with Zach’s firm.

An hour later you pulled into the driveway and parked behind your mom’s faded Subaru, then called Zach from your car’s bluetooth. 

“What’s up? Make it quick. I’m on the seventeenth hole.”

You laughed. “Alright. I don’t want to work with Lloyd, if it can be avoided. I know there might be a time when it can’t be prevented but for now…I’d rather not see him. Also, I’d like to work with Marco. I’ll accept your job offer if we can be partners.” 

“Perfect. I’ll have my lawyer send you a written offer Monday. We’ll talk details later.”

He hung up without a goodbye.

You opened Marco’s contact and tapped out a message.

I accepted Zach’s offer. We’re finalizing Monday. Also, my dress for the wedding is pale green. Don’t wear a tie that clashes. Pick me up at nine. I trust you can find my address...stalker.

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