#little tag to hint to project I'm making

[k1b0cyberspace]

Their so in love with each other

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 17

Word Count: 32.3k

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

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

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

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

Check my masterlist for the previous parts!

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People always did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Given immediately of course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were out there, somewhere. Alone. Pregnant.

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

Then, he finally heard it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You fucking basta—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was himself that he was truly mad at.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do I do next!?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The feeling of calm was very short-lived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Waaaah! Waaaaah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No pressure, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren't ready to hear his voice again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought made you scowl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hadn’t named her yet.

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

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

And that was terrifying.

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

Maybe then you’d both be free.

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

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

Maybe it was the only choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t finish the sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then his attention snapped back to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you woke up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But were you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Xavier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The nursery.

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

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

His child.

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

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

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

His daughter. Was alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s right, isn’t she?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The game was far from over.

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

And he was getting closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, everything went black.

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

[romanofftherealest]

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔅𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔰 𝔏𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℭ𝔬𝔩𝔡

Chapter 2: Wrong Move | 5.2k

Summary: Once you were given a chance by the Ice Queen, you must not fuck it up because once you made a wrong move, you'll get killed—figuratively and literally.

Pairing: Mob boss Natasha Romanoff x Mob boss Female Reader

Tags | Warnings: +18 bickering, sexual tension, smut, switch reader & Natasha, cunnilingus, fingering & strap-on (r), death threat, frustrated murder lol

Author's Note: 👋

⧗

"Ice Queen."

"Black Widow."

Insufferable–it had been insufferable between you two since your meeting with Dr. Bruce. Since he'd made his little comment.

"Please don't fuck in my office."

Natasha had taken the comment in stride, though she was unable to shake off the feeling of embarrassment entirely. But she couldn't afford to be flustered—she had an image to uphold.

You, on the other hand, maintained composed throughout the rest of that meeting, keeping your expression impassive and unreadable. Your gaze never averted from the path ahead, and you avoided even a single glance in her direction—the walk out of the office and the wait for your respective escorts.

The Black Widow hadn't seen you since then until today.

"You have always been ruining my time."

"I had an emergency."

You huff, "Again?"

"I'm sorry." Now, that was shocking coming from her, you didn't realize someone in your line of work is actually capable of apologizing. "How's business?" she now inquired, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. She sat across from you, hoping that her attempt at nonchalance was convincing.

"Steady." You answer shortly.

Natasha resisted the urge to tug at her tie as she leaned forward to sign some of the papers you presented her.

"How's Red Room?" you now asked, in return of respect.

This was all feeling a little too familiar—de javu. The redhead gulped, glancing up. It proved to be a mistake, she realized as you tucked your hair behind your ear that exposed a hint of your cleavage, the soft fabric of your dress gently pressed against the edge of the desk. Your movements were deliberate as you signed the document. You two had a business to sign together after Bruce had set you up, but if you actually weren't in that room together that time, and he did not make that comment of his, there is no business to sign right now. And you wouldn't take the blame being in the room with her, she was the one stealing your time of appointment.

Natasha finally gave her tie just a little tug. "Quiet."

As she took the paper from you, you couldn't help but notice her usual rolled-up sleeves, revealing the ink-adorned sleeves on her arms. But something was different today—the tie. Normally, her top was slightly unbuttoned, highlighting the intricate designs that crept up towards her shoulder. Today, however, the top few buttons remained firmly done up, leaving you wondering how extensive her tattoos were, and how much of it was simply golden skin.

Despite your attempt to be subtle, your eyes remained fixed on her. Natasha could feel your gaze, a heavy weight on her skin. But she made no comment about it, instead choosing to remain silent. Perhaps she was trying to be a gentlewoman, although knowing that being a gentlewoman hadn't worked out so well for her the last time around.

Natasha has the kind of sculpted physique that came from countless hours of training, complemented by the intricate ink that adorned her flesh. And her face? It is capable of morphing from a radiant smile to a deadly glare in a mere second.

While you possessed your own distinct image, a counterpoint to her rough edges. With your carefully crafted lace, the shimmering satin clothing that hugged your form, and the cold, stoic demeanor you projected, you cut a striking figure of elegance.

Then there was the ever-present knife strapped to your thigh.

Natasha's gaze followed your every move as you adjusted your shawl, her eyes tracing its soft trail as it covered your delicate skin. She found herself missing the bare sight of your skin, the way the white fabric clung to your form. She tugged her tie again.

"What are you wearing that for?"

"What?" you rolled her eyes. You weren't one for unnecessary words, let alone small talk. But you just wanted to know, so you had asked. "I have never seen you wear a tie in all the years you've been in town."

"I've worn ties before."

"Not unless it's to conduct business." You scoffed at her quick retort.

"This is business."

"I am not a mark." You narrowed your eyes at her like a cat watching its prey. "There is no need for formality."

She huffed through her nose, and you looked just as affronted as she felt. She gripped the knot, "I'll take it off then, Ice."

"I didn't say you had to take it off."

"Then why'd you bring it up?"

"All I did was ask." You huffed and stood from your chair, uncrossing your legs and resettling your shawl again.

Natasha finished her last signature in a rush, tugging her tie looser and looser. What was with her? "There."

"Pleasure doing business," you offered the typical and polite placation at the end of any business dealing in your line of work.

You walked over to her, your lace around your shoulders, caressing its way down your arms and then just brushing your hips on its way down. It was like an embrace around you, teasing and beckoning all at once. Your dress had a slit to allow the room to cross your legs when sitting. It revealed a slim, pale calf and killer stiletto heel.

Natasha managed to drag her eyes back up the leg and to her offered hand somehow. She grasped it in her, always making sure to be soft with it. She knew that you wouldn't like knowing she was trying to be careful with you, but…she couldn't help it. Your hand was so small—so light—whenever she got to hold it in you.

Not that she looked forward to it or anything.

"Pleasure."

You averted your gaze as Natasha raised your hand, her lips gently planting a kiss to your fourth knuckle. You knew she was intentionally skipping over your rings, choosing to kiss your bare skin. You made sure at your best efforts to conceal the shiver that occasionally ran down your spine whenever she did this, not wanting her to know how it affects you.

"Pleasure indeed."

Fuck. You were aware of your own allure and sexiness, it's something that was impossible to ignore. You know that you are driving her crazy—you just had to.

Natasha tugged at her suit jacket and her tie, attempting to distract herself from the effect of the woman in front of her. The same woman who can kill her with just a slip of a knife, she had to remind herself.

"Well," Natasha managed to snap herself out of her trance-like state, clearing her throat. She was unable to resist the urge to continue tugging at her tie, untying it completely and letting it hang loose around her neck. She looked at you, her gaze lingering for a moment before she spoke again. "Until next time, I guess."

"Leave the tie at home."

"Okay," she snorted in response, still keeping the tie barely on and popped open the stiflingly tight collar. She turned to you with a confused frustrated glare, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "What's your problem?"

"My problem?" you growled right back at her.

She let out a smirk, that familiar smirk that always seemed to get under your skin, like when she called you, Printsessa. "Flustered?"

"Why would I be?" Cold as ice.

"It was your fault, you know, Banner's little comment."

"My fault?!" Oh, there it was–the Ice Queen's temper. All the frostiness is gone and is now replaced with a fuel raging fire. "You were the one trying to kiss me!"

"Okay, fine," she shrugged, and you froze back up again. That easy? She would concede that easily? You didn't expect that from the Black Widow at all. For all her reputation, the one and only bounty hunter conceded herself to the Ice Queen. You were expecting her to argue that it was you trying to kiss her, but she didn't really care who was trying to kiss whom. It was you who'd gotten pretty close all on your own as you'd stormed over to her, she just moved a little closer that time—not even an inch. "So?"

"So?" your jaw tightens as you shake your head, trying to keep your composure in front of her. You were caught off guard by her sudden surrender, let alone for it to be about that.

You couldn't stop replaying that incident in your mind, over and over again—each time so that you'd be able to defend your innocence to the end, adamant that you didn't initiate the kiss. You didn't lean in, you didn't reach out to pull her closer, you didn't allow her intoxicating scent to cloud your judgment and all your reservations and up until you get home.

And you definitely didn't think about fucking her in someone else's office, you didn't. Not at all.

Natasha let out a soft moan when you firmly gripped what was left of her tie and pulled her in closer. She had been yearning for this moment, her mind consumed by the thought of her lips meeting yours. She even started keeping tulips on her desk at her office, their sweet scent reminding her of you. No one dared to ask her about the change, and she would have been too embarrassed to confess that they were there simply to bring back memories of the Ice Queen's fragrance.

You couldn't help but gasp as Natasha moved swiftly, her tongue lightly tracing your lip in a silent request for more. In that moment, your defenses crumbled and you granted it, perhaps a bit too early, eagerly and willingly. But there was no room for overthinking or analysis now, because it was already happening. She was a damn good kisser, and you found yourself lost in the intensity of the moment.

You tossed her tie aside, your fingers deftly unbuttoning her shirt as if you were on a mission. Natasha refused to be outdone—didn't want to be found lacking. Her hands moved with grace and gentleness as she eased the delicate lace fabric away from your skin. She wound it around her hand, only to release it, replacing its tender touch on your skin.

As her hands glided over your frame, tracing a path from your shoulders to your arms and finally coming to rest on your waist, you found yourself involuntarily gasping her name.

"N-Natasha…" without any visible effort, she effortlessly hoisted you into the air. Your arms instinctively wrapped around her neck, seeking support. Despite the considerable size of your hands, they couldn't find a firm grip on her muscular shoulders. She has incredible strength, like a wall of muscle against which you feel both secured and at her mercy.

A moan of pleasure escaped Natasha's lips as your tongue tangled with hers. She spun you around with effortless strength and lowered you onto the edge of your desk, her focus now on your exposed neck.

Your breathing grew heavy as Natasha continued her ministries, successfully banishing any coherent thoughts from your mind. Her mouth relentlessly explored the sensitive skin of your neck, while her hands began to delicately loosen the straps of your dress, letting the fabric slide down your shoulders. At the same time, her fingertips traced a teasing path down your spine, gradually heading south.

Natasha's voice was a low, possessive growl as she pressed her lips to the flat plane of your stomach, her hands hurriedly tugging and rearranging the shimmering fabric of your dress, exposing your thigh holster in the process. Her touch was firm but gentle as her fingertips skimmed over your inner thigh, tracing an intimate path that sent shivers down your spine—and you cannot hide that shiver this time. She lifts her gaze to meet you, her eyes filled with admiration and something deeper.

"Do you have any idea...how beautiful you are?"

Despite the rush of sensations coursing through you, you resisted the urge to let out a gasp as Natasha released your holster, letting it fall to the floor. Unexpectedly, her fingertips were incredibly soft and tender when she gently massaged the area where the holster's clip had left marks on your skin, soothing the redness. The contrast between her touch and the ruthless image of the Black Widow intrigued you. It awakened an unexpected fondness within you, something you couldn't help but find charming about her that is entirely against your will.

"No."

"No?" Natasha chuckled softly, not condescendingly. Her head dipping lower to press a gentle kiss against the sensitive skin of your knee. She knelt down at your feet, her gaze locked on yours, her eyebrow arched in an amused manner. "Shall I show you then? My Queen?"

Your face flushed with a combination of desire and irritation, and you avoided her gaze, pressing your heel against her shoulder in a subtle attempt to maintain some control. You refused to give in to her attempts to fluster you, but God she did, and you think she already knows that.

"Ah, ah," Natasha issued a reprimanding retort, catching your heel between her fingers before you could even touch it. She delicately and teasingly unfastened the strap, using her teeth to extract it from its securing position. Glancing back up at you, "let me work, your Highness."

Pleasure coursed through you as Natasha's tongue followed an intimate path up your ankle, lavishing kisses on the back of your calf. She left a lingering lick on your knee before continuing and you felt yourself becoming increasingly disoriented, the papers beneath your fingers crumpling due to your trembling grip.

She gripped your hips firmly, helping to ease you as she pressed soft kisses to the mark where your holster had been placed. Her fingers trailed up along the seam of your dress slit, running them along the sheer edge between your legs, her touch light yet deliberate.

As you bit your lip again, trying desperately to hold back a whimper, Natasha's fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your panties. She rubbed slow circles over your clit through the thin material, feeling how wet you were already. You tried pushing her by the shoulders again when she soothed her fingers up and down where you needed the most, but at the same time you were more ready to wrap your legs around her and lock her in place until you were good and finished.

"More."

What the Queen wants, the Queen gets.

She was the commoner, worshipping at the altar of your body, her Queen. Each moan and whimper from your lips was like a royal decree, commanding her to continue serving your pleasure.

Without hesitation, Natasha pushed your panties to the side and her tongue quickly delved between your folds, pressing flat and firm against your clit just as she had promised. Your hips lifted off the desk involuntarily as she held you steady with one strong arm wrapped around your thighs, keeping them spread wide open for her mouth's access.

"Fuck!" your screams turned into incoherent pleas as she pushed you right to the edge of pleasure. Natasha doubled her efforts, adding two fingers to the mix while her tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. She curled those fingers just right, hitting that magical spot inside you over and over.

She closely observed your responses, attuned to every subtle movement and reaction your body betrayed. Her grip on your thighs was firm but tender, so that it would keep them from crushing her head completely. Not that she really minds you wanting and needing to crush her head because that is some way to die and she would thank you, the Queen, after it with what remains in her dying breath.

"Natasha…" your whimpers and pleas grow louder and more desperate. She loved the sound of her name on your lips, loved how your voice cracked and broke as she pushed you higher and higher. "Please, oh-yes!"

And finally, you reached the high of your throne. And Natasha held your trembling legs with a gentleness and possessiveness, feeling like the most fortunate commoner in the kingdom. The Queen had given her the chance to taste her sweet nectar, and Natasha was drinking it up greedily, savoring each drop as you shook and moaned on the desk.

Natasha moved slowly, savoring the taste of your pleasure still on her lips as she carefully put your legs down. "You good?"

Oh, you were so much more than good, that word is a freaking understatement. But she could never ever know that, ever! You nodded, not trusting your high self to speak just yet. It was bad enough that you were going to have that glow after not having a release like that in God knows how long and Natasha could ever know that one either.

Natasha, from what you've heard, is ruthless in business and deadly in combat. But she is a good lover, that was for sure…and you didn't hear that one…

You experienced it first hand.

Natasha carried you effortlessly to the plush couch in your office, ignoring your half-hearted resistance to being held close. She sat down first, then pulled you onto her lap so your head rested naturally against her chest. Her fingers carded through your hair absently as she let you catch your breath.

Her breath hitched slightly as she felt your fingers deftly working at her shirt buttons. She had to admit, your sleight of hand was as impressive as it was seductive as she even realized you'd started until her shirt was half-unbuttoned and slipping from her trousers.

"Ready for more?"

"I don't leave debts unpaid."

"I don't—!" Natasha gasped as you suddenly sank your teeth into her earlobe, biting down with a playful intensity that made her arch against you. The immediate soothing lick and gentle kisses down her neck had her melting into your touch, realizing you were mirroring her earlier actions. Fuck.

"Sh," you breathed against her skin, letting her sweet time get nice and riled up. If she has turned you into an absolute mess, then you are going to melt her into a puddle of desire. Completely wrecked in your hands.

"Y-you." Natasha's voice came out as a guttural moan, her hips rising instinctively to meet your touch. She was utterly at your mercy now, every fiber of her being focused on the exquisite sensations you were creating.

The Black Widow, the deadly assassin, was now reduced to a whimpering mess beneath you.

"Let me," you whispered against her skin, your lips brushing against her collarbone as you traced the intricate patterns of her tattoos. Your hands unbuckled her binder revealing more colors of tattoos on her breasts, you pinched and swirled your tongue on her nipples before you moved down and down and down…until you felt an unexpected bulge.

"The Black Widow indeed," you purred into her ear, your voice low and sultry, as you watched the flush of red spread from the base of her neck up to her cheeks. It was a heady sight, knowing you had reduced the formidable Black Widow to this state of arousal. Her eyes fluttered closed as you unbuttoned and slipped your hands inside her pants, finding the strap-on she had been wearing. "Do you want this?"

"Yes," she choked. Her hands immediately returned to your hips, gripping them tightly as she guided you closer. The heat between your legs was unbearable now, the tip of strap-on pressing insistently against your core.

You leaned in, kissing along her jawline until your lips found hers again. Your eyes locked onto hers as you played teasingly with the tip of her strap-on, rubbing it with your entrance just enough to make her shudder.

"Do you want me?" you asked with your hooded lustful eyes.

"Yes." Her whisper came out breathless, needy—a sound far removed from the ruthless mob boss she usually played. Her hands moved with purpose, pulling you close as she arched up to meet you. The strap-on pressed firmly against you now, and she could barely control herself.

"Y/N."

Natasha gasped your name, the sound escaped her lips in a beautiful, almost reverent tone. But you yearned to hear her stripped of words, reduced to nothing but breathless moans. You wanted to see her utterly undone, rendered incapable of forming a single syllable, let alone your name. So you began to move in her lap, your hands roaming over her back and your lips finding their way over her cheeks and down to her neck, Natasha's body responded beneath you. You could feel the firm muscles of her pecs tensing and flexing with each of your movements, the contact between you growing increasingly delicious.

"Fuck, you," she panted, enjoying herself entirely as you moved on bounced of her.

"Tell me how much you wanted me."

"So bad," Natasha panted in response, her lips eager to find the little spot between your jaw and neck again. "Fuck, so bad. Y/N, please…so bad."

You gasped, your nails digging into her shoulders. "Tell me you want me now."

"More than anything," she growled, her hands snaked over your back for the purpose of supporting you but then, she finally—finally! found the hidden zip of the dress and she immediately pulled it down. "I want you, I need you."

Your eyes flew open as Natasha swiftly dragged the zipper of your dress down, tearing the fabric literally and letting it fall to the floor in a heap. You pulled away from her lips, a low growl escaping your own as you watched the remnants of your dress being discarded without a hint of remorse.

"You—!"

Natasha withdrew, you gasped, caught between the conflicting emotions. She swiftly lifted you off her lap, effortlessly flipping your position so you now lay across her on the expansive sofa. "I'll buy you a new one."

"That's not the point!" you barked at her. You weren't angry about your dress being torn apart and discarded. You were frustrated about the way she'd stopped fucking you just to manhandle you, flipping you over just to change position. And you were deeply irritated with the way she had sat up and away from you just to stare. "What?!"

Natasha ignored you, running a hand through her hair as she took a few breaths, both of you in your naked glory under your office light. She ignored you, taking a moment to run a hand through her tousled hair as she caught her breath. The soft glow of the office light casts shadows across your naked bodies.

Fuck, she is beautiful. You watched as her chest rose and fell with each breath, the light accented the shadows and angles of her muscles, and all of the human curves in between.

"Do you always stop in the middle of fucking just to catch your breath."

She looked down at you like a wife who was nagging her about something. So she kissed you like she was trying to prove a point—that she could still dominate you even when you were being mouthy. Her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling and pushing it around as she liked, just like how you pulled her by the tie.

"No, but I do want to savor every minute of making love to you."

God, this woman thought she was so cute–she thought she was so charming. So you kept kissing her, so she wouldn't see the look on your face as you felt each flutter of the butterflies.

She tore her lips away from yours, enjoying the pout that formed on your mouth as you tried to follow hers. She left one last kiss on your lips before trailing kisses over your cheeks to your ear.

"Are you ready for me, koroleva?" (Queen)

You pinched her thick arms, wondering if it actually hurt her but whatever, you had been ready before she interrupted the two of you just to use some sappy line on you and change positions.

"Right away," she chuckled, her breath on your neck as she pushed the strap-on into you again, "your Majesty."

"Natasha!" you let out a deep, guttural moan as she started moving again, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist. Your hands gripped her shoulders tightly before dragging down to the thick muscles over her sides, fingers digging in as she thrusted against you.

She buried her face in your neck, kissing and biting the sensitive skin as she continued to move against you. She nuzzled closer until she could kiss you again, "Shit, baby, you gotta come soon."

Oh, you were much closer than she thought you were. Your whimper was almost silent, but she heard it. She just made love to you now like how she called it, but she knows that sound. Her thumb found your clit without warning, pressing hard circles that matched her thrusts. She captured your bottom lip between her teeth.

"Natasha, I-I'm so close…" you were completely lost in sensation, your back arched, legs trembling around her waist. Your hands clawed at her back, leaving red marks. You were making those high-pitched whines that always drove her wild. She knew you were right there, so she did something she knew would push you over. She knew you were a hair trigger right now—no filter, no control.

And just like that, you shattered. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your body convulsed, legs shaking violently as you came undone in her arms. She felt your inner walls clamping down on her fingers, pulsing with your release.

You clenched your eyes shut, allowing a few moments for clarity to slowly return. Eventually, your office ceiling came into clear focus, and you became acutely aware of the weight of Natasha's body pressing against yours, your limbs wrapped around her body like intimate vines. A part of you wanted to just walk away.

Cold as ice.

You couldn't even if you really wanted to, your mind was still hazy, and your body was utterly spent. Your knees trembled, their stability compromised, and you knew you wouldn't be able to move for a few precious minutes.

Natasha's head gently turned, her mouth finding its way to the sensitive skin of your neck. With soft, tender kisses, she made her way up until her lips found yours once more.

"Hey."

"Hey." You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as your body slowly came down from its high. Natasha didn't give you much time to recover though—her kisses were insistent and hungry, like she couldn't get enough of you. Your hands found their way back into her hair without hesitation.

"So?" her voice was soft but with a hint of playful tease. She kept one arm wrapped securely around your waist, her chin resting on your shoulder. Her other hand slowly started smoothing down your mess of hair, deliberately avoiding your bruised lip.

You peeled your eyes open, doing your best to glare at her for interrupting your tranquility. You raised a brow at her bright grin, practically giggling with glee. "So what?"

She was even more undeterred by your prickliness, though. She traced your cheekbone with her thumb, gently smoothing away a smudge of make-up. "Do you know, now? How beautiful are you?"

She thought she was so fucking charming–damn this woman, and that heart of her. You allowed her one more kiss, soft and slower. You were beginning to think she liked kissing you or something.

"After one round?"

"One and a half," Natasha corrected you urgently, her pout deepened into something almost childlike—adorable even though she'd just wrecked every inch of your body. "And I thought they were pretty good."

Oh, they were amazing. Maybe the most amazing you'd ever had in your life. But she could never ever know that, ever.

All of a sudden, you bit the inside of your cheek, trying to hide your expression when your gaze went down on the discarded strap-on on the couch. Does she wear that all the time? Were you the first one she used that on? Because if you fucking weren't you better get yourself tested, that's for fucking sure. So now you had to ask to make sure if you had to get an appointment, and definitely not because you wanted to know if she had been with someone else.

"Do you wear that all the time?"

She chuckled softly, her smirk growing wider and now you're beginning to hate that look and what she's about to say.

"Yeah, so whenever I see a woman I'd like to fuck—"

"Get out." You won't let her finish or else you will finish her.

Her face fell completely flat, the cocky smirk disappearing as she registered your actual anger when you tore away yourself from her. "Hey, hey—" she stood as well, missing the warmth of your body together, "Wait, koroleva, I was joking."

Oh and you weren't.

"Get. Out."

She looked like a scolded child—all that confidence and swagger gone. As soon as you started walking towards her again, she scrambled to gather her jeans, binder, and top. She fumbled with the buttons of her jeans, while you stood there naked as you walked her towards your office door. She was terrified—not of the naked woman in front of her, but of your sudden coldness and the fact, that you can kill her with your bare hands.

"Detka, please wait, wait—hey, hey…" but you didn't listen, she was clearly trying to calm you down, but you are so calm in case she missed that because you haven't thrown her the knife you had been toying in your hand. You continue to walk her out while she stumbles backward, staring at you and the sharp thing you're playing. "Koroleva, I was joking!" she pleaded once again.

"Call me stupid nicknames and this knife will go straight to you, Black Widow."

Oh, Natasha didn't like that at all. Back with the titles again? After everything that had happened just a couple of minutes ago? Clearly, Natasha is now aware of the wrong actions she did and in the next few seconds, she's about to make one again…

"But, detka—"

You threw the knife straight at her and if Natasha wasn't able to grip the doorknob and get out fast, that knife would've gone straight to her left eye. She didn't even realize she is now outside breathing hard, the buttons of her top not in the proper places—while your guards, with their big guns, looked at her soul like they're ready to kill her as well. Luckily, Kate and Yelena was fast to get to Natasha to mediate the situation, kind of.

She turned to the door and knocked desperately while fixing her top buttons, "Y/N, please!" All the shame, all the title was long forgotten now as she beg for you.

"The hell happened?" Yelena, her sister asked while Kate eyes the guards carefully, not provokingly.

And you surprisingly opened the door.

All eyes were on you, but your guards immediately turned their backs as if they already knew what to do, as if they had already seen you like this before.

"Oh fuck." Kate drops her mouth at the sight of you, still naked.

"Goryachiy ad." (Hot hell) Yelena mutters before she turns around. When she sees that Kate was still gawking, she immediately hissed at her practically drooling for you. "Belova!" the tall girl groaned at the sight of you for the last time before she painfully turns around.

While Natasha really fought herself to grab your whole body so she could hide you from all the eyes that are solely on you. Or maybe tear the eyes away from the skull of those people who had already seen you like this. She just couldn't stand the thought of people seeing you this way, maybe some did—already did, but they would never make you feel what she made you feel just moments ago. She wants to hide you from the world and keep you in a place where she and only her can see.

"Y/N..." she fought her very best not to call you russian petnames, "I-I was..." she trailed off when her eyes went to your hands, holding the harness of her strap-on. She also fought her very damn hard best for her gaze not to go further down—she almost did, but the sound of you retrieving the knife from the doorway made her flinch and return her gaze on you.

Your eyes were killer and sharp, and so is your knife. You didn't tear your angry orbs away from her while you cut her strap-on harness with your knife in front of her, you threw the remaining ruined pieces on her feet before shutting the door close.

Nothing Burns Like The Cold: Masterlist

[rootedinrevisions]

More Than a Game

SUMMARY: When you join Glen Powell for a night under the bright Texas stadium lights, you expect an evening of football and fun—but what you don’t expect is the sting of an offhand comment that shakes your confidence. As Glen’s world of fans and flashing cameras surrounds you, he’s quick to remind you of where you stand: by his side, as the one who holds his heart. With every protective gesture, from offering you his jacket to placing his prized Stetson on your head, Glen shows the world that you’re not just another face in the crowd—you’re someone special.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I couldn't see the way Glen was looking at the Texas football game and NOT write something about it. I combined a little bit of my idea from seeing him at the game last night with a request I received for protective Glen defending you. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. Hope you all enjoy it!

WARNINGS: Some body shaming/slight bullying. But mostly this is fluff. Implied smut happening later.

WORD COUNT: 3.1K

TAG LIST: SEE COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists or be tagged for a specific character please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

The drive to the game felt like it had gone by in a blur, but your heart was still racing. You kept sneaking glances at Glen, who was effortlessly steering his truck down familiar Austin streets, humming along to the country song playing softly through the speakers. The sight of him in his burnt orange jacket, his dark brown Stetson resting on the dash, made you smile. He was so deeply Texan, so deeply himself, and you loved that about him.

But today was different. Today wasn’t just another day at his place or one of your quiet, private dinners. Today, you were stepping into his world, a world filled with football fans, media, and curious eyes.

“You sure about this?” Glen’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you turned to see his warm, brown eyes on you. There was a hint of concern in his gaze, even though his usual confident smile was still there. His hand was resting on your thigh, his fingers gently squeezing you.

You nodded, but the butterflies in your stomach refused to settle. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready, you know that, right?” His thumb brushed back and forth against your leg, a soothing motion that made it hard to focus on anything but his touch.

You exhaled, trying to release some of the tension you’d been carrying all morning. “I know, but... I want to. I’m just a little nervous.”

Glen’s hand shifted, his fingers intertwining with yours now as he brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “You’ve got nothing to be nervous about. You’re with me, okay? It’s just a game. And no matter what, I’m right here.”

The simplicity of his words, the steady calm in his voice, grounded you in a way that nothing else could. Glen had a way of making everything feel right, even when the rest of the world felt chaotic. You smiled at him, feeling your nerves slowly easing, though a small part of you still wondered what it would be like to step into the spotlight with him.

“I’m right here,” he repeated, giving your hand another reassuring squeeze before resting it back on your thigh. 

The warmth of his palm was a quiet reminder of the man beside you—the man who’d chosen you, wanted you in his life. Even with his hectic schedule, the endless stream of filming projects, press tours, and interviews, Glen always made time for you. No matter how chaotic things got, he’d find a way to carve out moments that were just yours. Whether it was late-night phone calls when he was halfway around the world or surprising you with a weekend getaway after a grueling shoot, he never made you feel like you were competing with his career. He always made you feel like you mattered.

And today, with everything on his plate, he was still here—hand in yours, offering you the steady reassurance that, despite all the noise of his world, you were the part that grounded him.

As you approached the stadium, the sight of fans in burnt orange, waving flags, and cheering already filled the air. Glen’s hand never left you, and as you pulled into the parking lot, he gave your leg one last reassuring squeeze before turning off the engine. He flashed you that signature smile, the one that made your heart skip and leaned in slightly.

“Let’s do this, yeah?”

You nodded, your nerves still there but softened by the fact that Glen was beside you—steady, calm, and exactly the kind of person who could turn an overwhelming moment into something that felt safe.

The hum of the stadium grew louder as you and Glen made your way through the corridors, his hand never leaving yours. Each step you took, the anticipation in the air grew thicker. The faint sound of a band playing echoed through the concrete walls, the roar of the crowd amplifying with every turn.

And then, you stepped out into the open.

The sight was overwhelming at first—the sea of burnt orange stretching as far as the eye could see, flags waving proudly in the stands, the stadium alive with energy. The lights beamed down on the field, casting a golden hue across the manicured grass. The sheer size of it, the passion radiating from the crowd—it was more than you had imagined. 

For a moment, you stood still, taking it all in, the magnitude of where you were sinking in. This was Glen's world, and it was as vibrant and electric as he’d always said. You felt his eyes on you before you even turned to him. When you glanced up, you found him smiling at you, a look of quiet pride and happiness on his face. He loved this. It wasn’t just the game, the culture, the tradition—it was sharing it with you. Seeing you take in the thing he loved most with such wonder lit up something in him.

His hand gently squeezed yours, pulling you closer as he murmured, "You alright?"

You nodded, smiling as you glanced back out at the stadium. "Yeah. This is... it's incredible."

He chuckled softly, his voice warm with affection. "I told you." His gaze lingered on you, his eyes soft as he watched you soak in the moment. "I'm glad you're here with me. Means a lot."

You looked up at him, feeling that familiar warmth in your chest. You meant a lot to him. Even in the midst of all this—the noise, the chaos, the spectacle—his focus was still on you. Glen Powell, the Texas boy with a larger-than-life career and a love for this sport, was standing here, looking at you like you were the most important part of this moment.

Your heart swelled, and as you shared a quiet smile with him, you knew—this was more than just a game. It was a part of who Glen was, and you were honored to be a part of it, a part of him.

You could see the players warming up, coaches barking orders, and media personnel buzzing around, all while the game raged on. It was an atmosphere you could only describe as electric.

But then, the attention started to shift. One by one, people began noticing Glen. A few fans from the crowd above called his name, waving enthusiastically as they snapped pictures from their phones. It wasn’t long before a group of people nearby on the sidelines approached him—some familiar faces, others eager fans who clearly recognized him. Glen responded with his signature easy charm, greeting each person with that warm, affable smile you knew so well.

But through it all, he never let go of your hand.

If anything, his grip tightened slightly, reassuring you that even in the middle of the excitement, you were his priority. As he talked to a couple of reporters who recognized him from past interviews, he kept you close, standing just a step behind him, your shoulder brushing his arm.

Every so often, Glen would glance back at you, as if to check in, his eyes softening every time they met yours. His hand would occasionally shift to the small of your back, that familiar warmth spreading through you as he kept you grounded in this whirlwind of activity.

"Hey, I want you to meet someone," Glen said, his voice filled with excitement as he turned to you. 

He introduced you to one of the assistant coaches, and a couple of old friends from his time at the University of Texas. Each time, he spoke your name with quiet pride, like he was sharing a part of his world with them. And every time he did, you felt your nerves ease a little more.

As the two of you made your way further down the sidelines more and more people seemed to start to recognize Glen. Glen shook hands and greeted them warmly, but never let go of you. Even as more people started to crowd around, he kept you close by his side, his hand drifting to the small of your back when someone leaned in to say hello.

But as the attention on Glen grew, so did the whispers. At first, it was just a few curious glances, the kind you expected when people recognized a celebrity.

But then, as you stood by Glen’s side, a voice behind you made your stomach drop.

"Wait, is that his girlfriend?" a girl whispered, her tone laced with disbelief.

"Yeah, I think so," someone else replied, not even bothering to lower their voice. "I thought he'd be dating someone… prettier."

Your heart sank, the casual cruelty of their words cutting deeper than you expected. You tried to keep your face neutral, but it was like the air had been sucked out of your lungs. For a moment, the excitement of the game, the energy of the crowd—all of it faded into the background, replaced by the sharp sting of their comment.

Prettier. The word echoed in your head, twisting your stomach into knots. You swallowed hard, trying to push it away, but the insecurity started creeping in, faster than you could stop it. You suddenly felt out of place, self-conscious in a way you hadn’t before. Here, in this world that Glen seemed to fit into so effortlessly, you couldn’t help but feel like you didn’t measure up.

Glen must have sensed the shift in your demeanor, because he turned toward you, his smile faltering as he noticed the look on your face. His hand slipped from your back to your arm, gently tugging you closer. 

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, his voice soft and full of concern.

You hesitated, your eyes darting to the ground as you forced a smile. 

"Yeah, I’m fine," you said, trying to brush it off, but your voice came out smaller than you intended.

But Glen wasn’t buying it. He tilted his head, his brows knitting together as he looked at you with that gentle but piercing gaze, the one that always seemed to know when something was bothering you. "What happened?"

You swallowed, debating whether to say anything. It felt silly, childish even, to let a stranger’s comment get under your skin. But it did, and Glen could see it.

After a beat, you sighed and leaned in, lowering your voice. "Someone made a dumb comment," you murmured, barely loud enough for him to hear.

His brow furrowed further, his hand gently rubbing your arm. "What did they say?" he asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and concern.

You bit your lip, your pulse quickening as you replayed the words in your head. "They said…" you hesitated, the words feeling heavy on your tongue. "They thought you'd be dating someone prettier."

For a second, Glen didn’t say anything. His expression hardened, his jaw clenching ever so slightly as the meaning of your words sank in. You could see the protective instinct kicking in, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area behind you, searching for the source of the comment. It was subtle, but you could feel the shift in him, the way his body tensed, ready to defend you.

But instead of turning to confront the person, he took a breath and refocused on you. His hand moved from your arm to your face, gently cradling your cheek as he leaned in closer to you.

"Look at me," he said quietly, his voice steady and full of warmth.

You blinked up at him, the noise of the stadium fading into the background as you met his gaze.

"Don’t listen to them," Glen said softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "They don’t know you. They don’t know us. And they sure as hell don’t know what they’re talking about."

You felt a lump rise in your throat as his words washed over you. It was hard to shake the doubt, but Glen’s presence, his unwavering confidence in you, made it easier to breathe.

He smiled a soft, affectionate smile that was just for you. "You’re the most beautiful person here, and not just because of how you look," he continued, his voice low but firm. "But because of who you are. And I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side. Ever."

Your heart swelled at his words, the weight of the earlier comment slowly lifting. Glen leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes sparkled with that familiar warmth that always made you feel safe.

"And just so you know," Glen added, a teasing grin tugging at his lips, "if anyone says anything else, they’ll have to deal with me."

"You’re too good to me," you whispered.

Glen’s grin softened, his hand sliding back down to your waist as he pulled you close. "Nah," he said, pressing another kiss to your temple, "I’m just lucky to have you."

As the crisp Texas air settled around you, Glen’s attention shifted. He could feel the slight chill in the air, and without missing a beat, he glanced over at you.

“You cold?” he asked, his voice soft yet full of care.

You shook your head at first, but Glen wasn’t having it.

“Here,” he said, shrugging off his leather jacket, the scent of him—spice and something distinctly Glen—filling the space between you. “Put this on.”

You hesitated for a second, but he was already holding it out for you, his hands poised to help you slide your arms through. As you slipped into the warmth of his jacket, Glen’s hands rested lightly on your shoulders, adjusting it to fit just right. He stepped back, eyes scanning you for a moment with a satisfied smile.

Just when you thought the gesture was over, Glen reached up, taking his dark brown Stetson off his head. Your eyes widened in surprise—this was Glen’s favorite hat, the one you knew he was almost possessive over. It was a custom one that was a gift from his parents a few years back. It had a "Hook 'Em" logo on the back. He never let anyone wear it. So when he carefully placed it on top of your head, tipping it just so, you couldn’t help the confused laugh that bubbled out of you.

“You... you don't let anyone wear this,” you said, your voice full of disbelief as you adjusted the brim.

Glen’s smile widened, his hazel eyes gleaming with amusement. “You aren’t just anyone,” he replied, stepping closer until there was barely an inch of space between you. “You’re someone special.”

The warmth in his voice matched the flutter of your heart, sending a rush of heat through your body despite the cool air. Your fingers tightened around the lapels of his jacket, pulling it closer to you, feeling the warmth of him linger in the leather. The smile that crept onto your face was involuntary, the way his words wrapped around you more effectively than any jacket could.

Glen’s hands found your waist again, tugging you closer until you were wrapped up in him. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered just for you, his breath hot against your skin. “You remember what it means to wear a man’s cowboy hat, right?”

You couldn’t help but smirk at his words, the playful challenge clear in his tone.

“Oh, I remember,” you murmured back, glancing up at him with a glint in your eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll fulfill my end of the deal... back at your place.”

Glen chuckled, low and satisfied, pulling you into another hug before stepping back. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said, winking as he tilted the brim of the Stetson down slightly, casting a shadow over your face. It was such a simple, playful moment, but the intimacy behind it left a warmth simmering between the two of you.

With his arm around your waist, you both continued walking down the sidelines, navigating through a sea of fans and sidelong glances. Glen kept you close, his hand secure around your hip as he smiled and waved at familiar faces. 

But his grip on you tightened a little when you both overheard a comment from a nearby fan. “What does he see in someone like…her,” the girl muttered to her friend, her voice loud enough for you to hear, but quiet enough to think she could get away with it.

The words hit you like a jolt, and you instinctively drew in closer to Glen, trying to brush it off, but the sting lingered. 

Glen must have felt your reaction, sensed the shift in your mood, because before you could even fully process the comment, his hand slid protectively to the small of your back, gently pulling you even closer.

“Because she’s gorgeous,” Glen said, not loud enough for the girls to hear, but just for you. His voice was full of certainty, leaving no room for doubt. “Don’t ever forget that.”

His words were a balm, softening the sharp edges of your insecurity. You smiled up at him, thankful for his ability to ground you with just a few words. Glen grinned back, and then, as if to solidify his point, he reached up and adjusted the Stetson on your head again, a playful reminder of who you were with.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, his thumb tracing comforting circles against your side.

You nodded, mustering up a more genuine smile now. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He looked satisfied with that, giving you a light squeeze before glancing around the stadium again. “You know,” he began, his tone shifting to something a little more casual, “we don’t have to stay down here. The suites are up top, and we could have a little more privacy. What do you say?”

The idea of some quiet away from the lingering eyes sounded appealing, especially if it meant getting to spend more time with Glen without the constant buzz of onlookers. “That sounds perfect,” you said, leaning into him slightly.

Glen’s grin widened as he pulled you in closer and guided you toward the stairs. “Good. Let’s go before you get too comfortable in my hat,” he teased, his tone light, but his hand on you steady and reassuring.

As you made your way up toward the suites, the tension from earlier slowly melted away, replaced by the warmth of Glen’s unwavering presence. You might have been in the middle of a crowd, but with his jacket around your shoulders and his Stetson perched on your head, it was clear to anyone watching—you were his, and he was yours.

[staravyz]

︖﹖ㅤㅤMelatonin

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ❕️ㅤclick4rules—4masterlist

ㅤㅤ🔭ㅤㅤ—ㅤ(Dr. Stone) Ishigami Senku x gn!reader

ㅤ﹑tags ... fluff/small fic/insomniac!reader/sfw/they/them prns used/teacher!reader/3rd person fic/definitely ooc/wrote at 3 am/probably corny/implied r-r-r-r-r-romance.../senku is bad at feelings/i'm bad at writing fanfics/first actual finished fic/partly proofread

ㅤ౨ৎㅤ—ㅤa/n﹕as a tragic victim of insomnia, i would like to present this funny little fic about senku reinventing a melatonin alternative for reader just to find that his company makes for a good enough sleep drug for them ^_^

ㅤi projected my overthinking onto senku way too much here

ㅤOn the makeshift chalkboard with a makeshift chalk—Senku finished drawing out the roadmap for a melatonin drug.

ㅤEven long before the petrification, Y/N was diagnosed with insomnia and occassionally took melatonin when nothing else was cutting it.

ㅤFinding a temporary solution to their insomnia shouldn't have been such a high priority as it was, but Senku wasn't blind. After spending what felt like half of his life with Y/N, he could tell when sleep was becoming a bothersome topic to discuss again.

ㅤIt shouldn't have been as high of a priority, then again—if Senku were to lose his prized science partner to something as trivial as a little bit (a lot) of sleep deprivation, production would significantly slow down. For a reason unbeknownst to the others in the Kingdom of Science, Senku could not afford such a case.

ㅤAnd so, here goes another science project speedrun!

ㅤFirst Task: Obtain valerian root.

—ㅤNo, melatonin cannot actually be reinvented in the Stone Age. Do you have any idea how difficult it would be to figure that out???? Instead, we utilize the traditional medicines made from natural herbs that have similar effects as modern day drugs!

ㅤThe roadmap was... actually short? After being intimidated to death by Senku and Y/N's overcomplicated plans, the Kingdom of Science had collectively developed a fear of the faint mention of a roadmap. This is a miracle.

ㅤSuika raised her hand, as taught by Y/N in her teaching lessons. "What is... ka-no-ko-so..?" she pronouced each syllable of the word, hesitance in her voice.

ㅤJapanese literacy is one of many vital pieces of the modern world that should be brought back to the stone age. Y/N had been in charge of teaching lessons to the village.

ㅤ"Kanokoso, or valeriana fauriei is a plant that makes you sleepy, Suika," Senku briefly explained, skipping the scientific details of why and how. "They aren't really considered common around the area here, but it's easily recognizable and can't be that hard to find. In the meanwhile, Y/N will be resting in the observatory, so—"

ㅤ"Hold on," Kohaku paused. "If Y/N is already sleeping, then what's the point of this?"

ㅤ"They're sleeping in the day like a nocturnal animal," Senku deadpanned, not a hint of apology in his voice as he glanced at the observatory. "And even so, Y/N's abnormal sleeping habits aren't a temporary situation. We should stock up on the valerian root just in case."

ㅤ"Wow, when did you get so nice, Senku?" Chrome teased.

ㅤ"Me? Nice?" Senku responded. "I'm just looking out for the level of productivity in the kingdom. Can't have anybody slacking." He shrugged.

ㅤKohaku and Chrome side-glanced eachother with a look.

ㅤMajority of the people were working on the Perseus, and that should have included Senku and Kohaku especially, but a little sidequest to help bring Mx. Y/N back to the classroom shouldn't damage the development too much. Gen's attempts at hypnotherapy weren't quite working anyway.

ㅤThe small scout team went off to find valerian root in the meadows. The sun was up and shining when they began their search, and it was nearing sunset when they finally found some.

ㅤ"SSSEENKKUUUUU!!!" Kohaku and Chrome rushed towards him, holding light pink flowers in their hands. The petals drifted in the wind.

ㅤSenku didn't particularly care for pretty views. He cared about how light works and how physics is applied in weather, but flowery meadows and a sunset? That's something he would rather pass up to Y/N. He wondered for a moment if they'd been to this place before, and if they would like it.

ㅤ"ARE THESE THIS IT? THEY MATCH YOUR DESCRIPTION PERFECTLY THIS TIME!" Kohaku shoved the roots in his face, eagerly awaiting his answer. Senku examined the plants they had collected. He tossed a few away.

ㅤ"Nope, nope, no—" Senku paused, closely observing the features of one specific plant. "Valerian root. Finally," he smiled at Kohaku, Chrome, and—Suika? "Where's Suika?"

ㅤ"Somewhere over there, I think," Kohaku pointed in the distance, though the sunlight made it annoying to look. "I'll go get her. You guys head back and start making the melontin or whatever."

ㅤChrome singled out the rest of the valerian roots and bunched them up. "This is all we need?"

ㅤ"Should be more than enough. We need to dry up the roots and make some tea. It'll be quick. We can get it done before the moon rises and so does Y/N," Senku explains.

ㅤ"Great! If we have extra, I'll store them in the storehouse for later use."

ㅤThe two walked in silence for a moment, until it became unbearable for Chrome.

ㅤ"So, uh, you and Y/N, huh?" he starts.

ㅤ"Stop talking."

ㅤ"Were you guys close back in your world? I kinda see why you would, I mean—you're both insanely smart."

ㅤ"Yeah."

ㅤ"...Yeah?"

ㅤ"Why are you so interested all of a sudden?"

ㅤChrome scratched his head. "'Yeah' isn't really an answer, Senku."

ㅤSenku sighed. "I've known them for a long time. You should ask them about that, not me. Whatever they say is my answer too." He shrugged. He and Y/N weren't something he took much interest in labeling or defining.

ㅤIt was more or so Y/N who was the interesting one. A person who could keep up with him, a valuable asset, a priority? Unsure. Senku was unsure. He didn’t let trivial things like that bother him, and mostly tried not to let it bother Y/N. Whatever label they wanted to put on it, he was fine with, as long as it wasn't enemies or strangers.

ㅤSenku spotted the observatory nearby, then stared at the valerian root in his hands. Was this indirectly putting a label on it? Did he mind?

ㅤAfter one or two hours in the lab, Chrome ditching Senku to meet Ruri for something, Kohaku leaving to assist the others with the ship, Gen coming by to request more cola and telling him Y/N was awake, Senku had made a batch of dried valerian root, specifically made to be brewed as tea. Assuming Y/N was still back at the observatory, he kept the roots in a sort of tea bag and carried a small cup of hot water up.

ㅤ"Y/N?" he called out, in a quieter voice than he intentioned.

ㅤAlong with a yawn, they called back. "Senku?" They were positioned by the window, a blanket over their shoulders and dark circles under their eyes. "Gen told me you were making drugs."

ㅤ"Heh, not exactly, but sure." Senku sat across from them, placing the cup in between and dropping the tea bag into the water.

ㅤ"Drugged tea?"

ㅤ"It's valerian root. Didn't take that long."

ㅤY/N gave a nod, their delayed processing evident in their face, which Senku smiled at. He was more than happy to elaborate.

ㅤ"For your sleep. Valerian root holds similar properties to melatonin. This is just the first batch, so if you get the bad side effects, we got more for a second attempt."

ㅤY/N's eyes drifted away to the sky. Senku followed their gaze.

ㅤ"Pretty sure everyone's holding some campfire or something near the Perseus construction site. You gonna go?" Senku said, unconsciously trying to read their mind, or maybe he just wanted to talk more.

ㅤ"No, that's okay." Y/N took a sip of the tea. They gagged.

ㅤ"Bitter?" Senku chuckled.

ㅤ"Very." Y/N shivered. "But if it helps me sleep, so be it. I'm so tired." They yawned again. "Shouldn't you get going? I'm sure they'll need you over by the ship."

ㅤ"Ehh, no thanks. I'm exhausted." Senku shrugged, his eyes returned to Y/N, somewhat fixated on them more than usual.

ㅤ"Weird," Y/N muttered. Senku mentally agreed. He did feel weird. Weird about them? Weird about himself? Y/N was better at putting things into comprehendable words. Maybe he should bring it up—

ㅤ"I feel sleepy now. Does the tea work that fast?" Y/N's head was drooping, their voice just above a whisper and laced with fatigue. Oh, that's what they meant by weird. "Thanks for coming, Senku."

ㅤ"Hey, Y/N? Do you think we're close?" he asked, hoping they hadn't fallen asleep just yet. Senku poked their shoulder. Y/N's head leaned on the wall by the window, their hair cascaded over their face. Senku cringed at the way he was thoroughly analyzing the situation. Should he let them sleep or force an answer out of them? Be nice... or get what he wants...

ㅤSenku sighed and sat next to Y/N. He pulled the blanket over them. Does he need to bring it up? They are close, that's nothing but a fact. They've done this before in a different setting. Late nights in his room translating messages from Dr. Xeno into Japanese. Stargazing on grassy hills challenging each other to memorize all 88 constellations. Pulling all nighters for exams because they were so focused on other projects for the entire semester. And this time, there was no particular reason Senku felt the need to stay. There wasn't something to accomplish here besides getting Y/N to sleep. Was it only him thinking about this too much?

ㅤMaybe he'd bring it up later, whatever.

ㅤSenku pulled one knee up to his chest and rested his head in his arms, head towards Y/N's sleeping figure. Their soft breathing filled in the silence. Eventually, Senku reached over to share the blanket and sleep.

©️ staravyzㅤ(¬_¬") do not steal, translate, or repost.

[amaikute]

cheer up, baby!

SUMMARY&TAGS: nerd, unistudent !gojo x fem unistudent! reader. established couple, the reader is stressed out abt a grp project, fluff, kissing, petnames: baby, lovely

authors note: A bit self-indulgent lawl my novel study group refuse to read the book which we get graded on our discussions for.. n e ways thank u for the love on my last fic, I love love uni toru with my heart so more to come for sure!

It's freezing. Snow fell all over the campus, dusting the trees and sidewalks in a white blanket. She trudged through the big uni campus, bundled up in her puffer coat, thick scarf, earmuffs, feeling the weight of her frustration in every step she took. There's a project due next week, after sending who knows how many emails to her groupmates about the project, politely reminding them about the deadline for their parts. Yet, she's been in a monologue this whole time, being met with silence.

Her feet led to a stop right in front of Sartoru’s apartment, fixing her thick scarf and trying to ignore the tears building on her lower lashes. Her classmates weren't making it easier for her while already trying to balance her classes, her part-time job, and now this stupid project.

With a soft sigh, she presses the buzzer to her boyfriend's apartment. After a few seconds, the entrance unlocks. She walks in slowly, her footsteps heavy and her shoulders slightly hunched from exhaustion. Her eyes were already glossy, the first hint of tears pricking the corners of her eyes as she looked at him. A soft pout sat on her lips, trembling slightly as she bit down on them, trying to hold it together.

When she reached his floor, his door opened with a click, as if he were waiting for her. There, Satoru was, barefoot in grey sweat pants and a hoodie with some dumb obscure math pun on the front of it. His black rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and his messy white hair had a pencil tucked behind one ear. She must’ve caught mid-study.

“Toru..” she murmurs, a little broken. A quiet sadness is present in her voice.

He pauses, his eyes scanning over her: the puffiness around her eyes and how her head seemed to hang. She never showed up at his place with a look on her face like that, or a defeated air that appeared to replace the more playful air she usually carried. He quickly stepped closer to her.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs gently, stepping aside to let her in. “C’mere.”

She steps inside, shaking off her boots as he shuts the door behind her. He turns to her, helping her unwind her scarf, brushing strands of her hair out of her face before removing her earmuffs. The last to go is her coat, which he zips down with careful hands. As her arms are freed, she wraps them around herself. Satoru hung her jacket in the closet, then reached for her again, cupping her cold cheeks, his thumb softly brushing under her eyes. “Baby, what happened?” he whispers, every word dripping with concern. She tried to speak, but her voice faltered. Her lips trembling before she sniffled, finally choking out, “I’m doing this project, and all my groupmates aren't answering my emails, messages.” She hiccups. “I've been doing everything by myself, and it's due next week, and I'm so exhausted, toru.”

“Shh,” He hums, pressing a kiss to one corner of her lips, and one to the other. “I got you, breathe, lovely.”

“But–

“Nuh uh,” He kisses away a tear. “Worst case, you email your prof and explain what happens if it isn't done in time. I’ll help you draft it, or better yet, I’ll vouch for you myself if I need to.”

She blinks up at him through wet lashes.

Satoru grins, trying to lighten the mood. “We can even attach text receipts and the ghosted emails if we want.”

“But…” she mutters softly. “What if he thinks I'm just blaming them?”

Satoru shakes his head slightly, gently nudging her with his hand on his back until they reach the couch. He sits down, pulling her down, and she drapes her legs over his immediately. “Then try reaching out one more time. Only once, though. But it's Friday night, why let this ruin it?”

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her flush against him. She melts into him, face buried into his hoodie, inhaling the faint scent of his ridiculously expensive cologne, detergent, and something sweet that always clung to him. His chin rested on the top of her head.

“You deserve better groupmates,” he whispers. “You’re intelligent and hardworking, and even though you're extra pretty when you cry, cheer up, lovely.” She lets a muffled sound into his chest, a half-laugh, half-sob.

“I'll always be here for you.” He murmurs quietly.

“I just wanted to do good on this project,” she sighs, fingers curling into his hoodie. “I don't want to fail.”

“You won't. You just need a break. You've been going at it nonstop.” He whispers back, tightening his arms around.

Her sniffles start to halt, her breathing steady as she sinks into him.

“And in the meantime,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair. “You're staying right here with me all night.”

“But I didn't bring anything over to sleep in?” She mutters.

“Good think I bought you a emergency pair huh?” he smirks, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She titled her head at him, puffy brown eyes meeting sharp blue ones. “You're weird, Toru..”

“Incorrect, I'm just prepared for anything s'all.” His words earn a soft giggle, a smile sitting on his lips.

“There's my girl,” he coos, a stupid grin on his face. “Missed you.”

She looks up at him, something genuine and warm sitting on her face, “thanks toru.”

He leans down to press a kiss to her lips, slowly and carefully. “Always, lovely.”

© amaikute '25

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 8

Source for pic

Imperfect 8

Word Count: 4802

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I'm so eager to share this chapter with all of you that I may be making a mistake by uploading it early! I only have half of chapter 9 written, and I was hoping to write a little bit more before posting this. But, hey, I'll do it! *singing* Besides, which you see, I have confidence in me!! Anyway, please enjoy the emotional whiplash you're about to experience with this chapter. Love you all! Small Warning: suggestive content, I don't think it warrants a specific NSFW, though.

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

You get a text from your dad saying he’ll be out for the day helping Makino’s niece assemble furniture at her new home in town, and that he might not return until dinnertime. He also asks if you’re alright and lets you know that morning chores are already taken care of.

Looking at the clothes you’re currently wearing - Kid’s - it’s actually a blessing he’s not home at the moment, or you’d have some explaining to do. 

The rest of the day goes by in the blink of an eye, and around five o’clock you stop by Sanji’s café to buy some donuts and coffee, not wanting to show up at the garage empty-handed. You can’t contain the tingle of anticipation or stop the silly smile from curving your lips when your car comes to a full stop in front of Kid’s shop. 

“Heeey, I brought sustenance!” you shout as you step into the garage. Your brow rises, and you set your stuff down on the nearest workbench before heading further inside. It’s all so quiet. No music, no curses, no tools rumbling in the background. 

And then you see him. 

Kid is hunched over another workbench. His prosthetic lies discarded in front of him, and he’s gripping the edge of the counter as if it’s all that’s keeping him from falling. Sweat dampens the collar of his shirt. His hair is soaked, and fat droplets of perspiration drip down his scrunched brows and heavy grimace. Everything in his posture, including the tautness of his muscles, screams pain and suffering. 

And it’s one you know and understand very well: phantom pain. 

“Kid,” you start, one hand raised as if you were approaching a wild animal. 

“Don’t,” he growls the word, and it hits you like a slap. He doesn’t even turn or open his eyes to acknowledge you. It’s like you can physically see the walls going up and all around him. Again. 

“Let me help–”

“Get the fuck out. I don’t need ya.” The poison in his words sucks all the breath out of your lungs. He’s lashing out.

“I can–”

His face snaps towards you, a feral growl shaking his lips as he grits his teeth. “No, you can’t! This ain’t a fucking novel, sweetheart. I ain’t some broken project for ye to fix! Ye can’t fix what’s irreparably broken! Get the fuck out.”

You try to swallow past the giant lump in your throat. His eyes are cold as ice, without a hint or a trace of the warmth he showed you in the morning. This is just another hurdle that you have to overcome. 

You want to succumb to the prickling of tears behind your eyes, but you can’t, because weakness won’t get you anywhere with Eustass Kid. He’s trying to scare you away.

He’s not going to fucking do it. 

“I’m not trying to fix you!”

“Bullshit!” Kid slams the workbench, and everything rattles with his fury. “Ye think just because we shared some nice moments, I’m suddenly fixed? That I ain’t fucked up? Broken? That we can have a fuckin’ happily ever after with birds singin’ and butterflies dancin’ kinda shit? It don’t work like that!”

“That’s not what I was–”

“Yer not the first pretty face that thinks she can fix me! And ye ain’t gonna be the last.” Kid snorts, and you bite your lower lip to stop it from trembling. “Guess what, sweetheart? Yer about to be just as disappointed as all of ‘em. Ye ain’t special!”

That blow stings like a cut in your chest. You take a trembling step back, averting his cold gaze, and shake your head. “Earlier–”

“Earlier meant nothin’!” His voice doesn’t even waver. “It was just a distraction, and yer a pretty distraction, I give ye that. But it ain’t happenin’ again. I don’t need this - I don’t need ye.”

The silence that follows is crushing. 

You finally look back at him, your chest heaving and chin trembling, eyes glazed with unshed tears you’re trying so hard to push back. You’re so angry at him. Rationally, you know he’s pushing you away again, too afraid to be vulnerable, too afraid to reach for help. Irrationally, though, it feels like you’re not enough.

And like you’ll never be able to reach him.

And then you see his eyes tremble, his teeth grit, and his muscles contract in torment. He’s drowning in pain, no matter how hard he’s trying to hide it. 

Raising your chin and fighting every instinct that tells you to turn around and leave, you walk past him. Then you fight another instinct telling you to throw a wrench at his stupid, stubborn head, grab the first aid kit, and take out the muscle relaxer cream, throwing it on the couch carelessly. 

“Sit on that fucking couch, Kid.” Good. At least your voice still sounds steady. 

“Didn’t ya listen to–”

“I don’t give a fuck. Sit. Down.” Your eyes harden like steel as you bore them into his. 

“I don’t want ye here,” his throat bobs, and you can tell that’s a blatant lie. One he’s willing to lash out for, over and over again, even if it makes you both bleed. 

“Tough shit!” you grit your teeth and shove him towards the couch. “I’m not leaving! You’re hurting, and I’m not going to turn my back on that. I’m not running away, Kid. You don’t scare me!” You shove him again, and he stumbles back, probably too stunned or in pain to fight back your advances. “It doesn’t mean I’m not fucking devastated by what you just said. I’m pissed and I’m hurt, but I’m not running away. Now sit the fuck down.”

He reluctantly sits, still unsure about what you’re going to do. When you sit next to him and start rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he jerks his stump away from you.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

“Kid—” You reach again and he pulls away with more force than before. 

“I said don’t! Yer not seein’ this part of me, for fuck’s sake! I ain’t yer charity case.”

God! Why is he so infuriating? Why can’t he just give you a chance? A small opening? Something!

“I never said you were! I just want to help! Let me—”

“Don’t touch me!” He’s not yelling, but it feels pretty damn close. The intensity of his words forms more lumps and clumps in your throat, and your breathing comes out in ragged, hurtful gasps.

At least your tears are still safely tucked away.

You grit your teeth and will some command into your voice. “I will fucking touch you because it will help.”

“It won’t help!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! It never fuckin’ goes away! It’s here to remind me of how I failed ‘em! Fuck!” Kid drops his elbow to his knee, face buried in his hand. His shoulders contract and twist in agony, his whole body coiled in grief.

Silence spreads its tendrils around you again, sinking its claws into your chest, reminding you that Kid is indeed as broken as he claims to be. And that only makes you care for him more. 

“Fine. Maybe it won’t go away, but I know I can make it better. And I’ll stay with you through the worst of it. Even if you continue to be an asshole.”

You don’t wait for a reaction, don’t even allow him to reply. You just roll the rest of the sleeve up and get straight to work. Lathering your hands with the muscle relaxer, you start to massage the stump slowly, yet firmly. Your muscle memory is kicking in and reminding you how you used to do this for your dad, all those years ago. 

Kid flinches when your fingers touch the scarred tissue, and he looks away, seemingly too embarrassed for eye contact. But you don’t miss the way he lets out a deep breath after a minute or two. His shoulders sag softly, and his brows relax from the everlasting scrunch he has them in. 

You keep working the knots slowly, ignoring the way your feet are already becoming numb because you’re sitting on them. You’re too afraid to break this fragile moment.

Kid drops his head back to rest on the couch, and his breathing evens out. You don’t think he’s sleeping, but at least he’s relaxed enough for a small reprieve. Your fingers tremble for a small moment, your breath catching in your throat.

Before you realize or manage to stop it, tears start spilling down your cheeks. Just when you thought you’d made progress, that you managed to break down those stubborn walls of his, he pulls this stunt. 

His words hurt much more than you care to admit. Of course you’re not special. Why would you be? But that’s not even the point, you don’t have to be special, you just want him to let you in. To open himself to the possibility of something else. To let someone care for him, to allow himself to be cherished. 

It’s like you take one small step forward and two back. A never-ending, frustrating dance. 

It’s only when you feel his calloused hand on your cheek, wiping the trail your tears left behind, that you realize Kid’s eyes are open and he’s staring at you. Trembling, you stop massaging him, waiting for another outburst of hurtful words. 

It never comes.

He softens his gaze, working his throat and jaw as if he’s trying to free the unspoken words he has trapped there. His mouth finally parts, like he’s about to say something, but you beat him to it.

You don’t want to hear the wrong words now.

“Take off your shirt.”

His brow furrows, and he removes his hand from your cheek, leaving only cold and emptiness behind. 

“I need to work on your back and chest muscles, or the pain won’t go away. Take it off.” You lace your words with indifference and command, and he obeys for once; doesn’t argue or grunt in disapproval, just follows your request.

As he’s busy taking the garment off, you swiftly wipe your wet cheeks on your arms, erasing any evidence of your earlier weakness. 

You make him turn slightly to the side as you start working between his shoulder blades and neck. He’s stiff as a board, his muscles tight and tense from too many years of holding everything in his shoulders. No wonder the pain won’t ever go away.

After a long stretch of silence, where the only sound comes from his soft, relieved grunts, Kid speaks in a voice so quiet you have trouble believing it’s his. “How d’ya learn how to do this?” 

You pause for a breath, then answer. Your eyes never leave the junction of his neck with his shoulder, applying soothing pressure with the pads of your fingers. “Shanks.” Kid hums, and you continue.

“I was just a child when he lost his arm, around ten, I think. Luffy, our neighbor, had a habit of sneaking out of his grandpa’s house, and he would get into all sorts of trouble. This time it could’ve been fatal. Except my dad was there.”

You sigh. There’s much you don’t remember about your childhood, but you clearly remember the day your father was left bleeding out in the field while the ambulance was on the way. Your tiny heart beating out of your chest, not knowing if he’d make it or not…

“The plough was working in the field, and Luffy got in the way. Dad saw it and jumped in to save him. Lost his arm in the process. He used to have phantom pain all the time back then. Mom used to do this to ease him through it, and it worked.”

Kid hums again, so you know he’s listening. 

“When they started to fight like they had nothing better to do with every waking moment of their lives, Dad was too proud to ask for help, and Mom got tired of offering. I could see him trying to suffer through the pain with gritted teeth and venomous words.”

Kid stiffens, and you know he’s relating to that bit a little too much.

“So I took over Mom’s place and learned how to help. It became our own thing.”

You move a bit, leaning closer and pushing his back against the couch, focusing on the planes of his chest now, where the scarring is so visible and the scar tissue is pulled so tight, it’s a wonder he’s not in pain all the time. 

You can feel Kid’s gaze burning holes into your face, and you would give anything to know what’s on his mind. If he would just let you. 

Your thumbs work slowly, kneading the flesh carefully but with firm strokes. You can already feel how much less tense he is. 

His question catches you by surprise. “Don’t ye find it disgustin’?”

You stop and stare at him, but he avoids your gaze like the plague, his lips twitching and frowning into an embarrassed grimace. 

“Why would I? It’s part of you. It’s just flesh, muscle, and skin. It’s not disgusting.”

Kid tilts his head slowly, catching your eye for a moment before turning away again. You continue massaging his chest until he speaks again. 

“Ye should. I’m a fuckin’ monster.”

Somehow, you realize he’s not just talking about his physical scars. 

“Stop,” you state with finality. Reaching for his face, you force him to face you. “You’re not a monster. You’re not this ugly, unlovable creature. You’re Eustass fucking Kid.” That draws a small smirk from his lips, but it barely lasts. “You’re just… wounded.”

“I’m broken…” he rasps out, the shadows in his eyes spreading further, dimming its brightness.

“Yes, you are.” He jerks his face away, but you hold it steady, forcing your gaze into his. “And I want all of those broken pieces. The anger, the sadness, the pain, and all of the things you don’t tell me… Kid, I’ll take it all and share that burden with you. I don’t want perfect. I want you.”

He stares at you, his chest shaking with uncertain breaths, looking torn between wanting to push you away and to hold you against him. 

It’s a make-or-break moment, you can feel it.

So when he presses his hand against your cheek in a mimicry of his earlier gesture, you let out a relieved breath. 

“I don’t know how to be anythin’ else. I don’t know how to be… good.”

You cover his hand with your own, while you lower the other one until it presses against his heart, feeling it beat erratically, madly.

“Then we’ll learn together. You just have to let me in, Kid. That’s all.”

Kid’s gaze burns. He looks torn, restless, like he’s fighting a war he’s tired of losing. Maybe this time, though, he has too much to lose and he’s finally willing to risk it. 

You know you are. 

With a tentative breath, Kid’s hand finds the curve of your neck and climbs until his fingers curl in your hair. He leans forward, hesitates, and the world stops. He’s gonna pull away. He’s gonna flee again. I’m gonna lose him—

Then he exhales a trembling breath, pulls you gently and presses his lips against yours. It’s a stark contrast to all the other heated kisses you’ve shared. This one feels fragile and precious, just a whisper of a touch. 

It’s everything he can’t seem to say to you.

When he breaks the kiss and pulls you gently to his lap until you’re straddling him, his hand stays on your hip, its slight tremble, reminding you how delicate this moment is. You cup his face, and he closes his eyes, your foreheads touching for a moment while the weight of everything settles between the two of you. 

When his eyes meet yours again, it’s like you can see a crack in his walls. It’s slight. It’s small. But it’s there. 

“I didn’t mean…” he starts, stumbling over his words, brows scrunched so tight you fear they’ll leave permanent marks. “My words, I… fuckin’ hell.”

“Kid—”

“No. Let me get this out.” Kid sighs heavily, his hand gripping your hip harder and harder, his eyes still avoiding yours. “Ye are special. Ye are!”

A choked sob dares to climb its way up your throat, so you steel your emotions, bite your lower lip to stop its trembling, and caress his cheekbones with your thumbs in a comforting gesture. 

“Much more than that, I…” It’s painfully clear how much he’s struggling to share the extent of his feelings. His eyes meet yours, and there’s so much emotion in them that you understand all he wants to tell you, even without words. 

He really likes you. 

And it’s scary as hell. 

“Fuck it,” Kid mumbles, then his mouth claims yours again, and this kiss is a far cry from the tentative one you shared before. It’s all-consuming, it’s raging, it’s fire and desire melting into something hot and unbearable. 

Kid’s hand slithers below your top and up your spine, eliciting a shudder and a muffled whimper. You respond by rolling your hips against his hardened length, and my God, this just needs to happen. Your hands greedily map the planes of his pecs, scraping your nails hard across the same spot you had been massaging just moments ago.

Your top comes off, your bra comes next, and so does an unwanted thought: you’ve been here before.

Except this time, you don’t let any doubt cloud your judgment. Yes, you’ve been here before, but never has the intimacy felt so raw and vulnerable. This is it. 

Your lips collide again, and as you open your mouth to gasp when Kid rolls his fingers over your nipple, he claims your tongue. Your heart and soul go next, and you don’t even fight it. 

You’re his.

You’ll always be his. If he lets you. 

“I want ye… fuck! I need ye,” Kid drawls between kisses and licks to your neck.

“Then take me.”

And he’s about to. Kid’s fingers trail the waistband of your pants, hover over the button, and—

“AGAIN?” Killer’s outraged scream reverberates off the wall and bounces in an endless, indignant echo. Kid pushes you flush against his chest to shield your breasts from view. “I can’t believe I have to see this again!”

Killer’s stomping footfalls thud around the garage in an angry tirade, and a bottle of pills hits Kid on the head. He growls, but Killer is on a rampage.

“Here are your fucking pills! The ones you were in too much pain to grab! Forgot to ask for condoms too? Fucking shitwipe, there are locks on—” Killer’s angry gaze lingers on the spot you’re both on as he approaches.

Why is he approaching? Has he gone mad?

“That is a fucking communal couch. I take naps there, goddamn it! I’m gonna have to bleach the whole fucking thing!” An exasperated growl escapes his lips as he stomps past you towards the office. “Maybe I should just bleach my own eyes while I’m at it!”

The office door slams shut, and you and Kid sit in silence for a beat, too stunned to say anything at all. 

Then Killer opens the door again, hands pressed together as if in prayer against his bandana-covered mouth. “I’m sincerely fucking happy this—” he gestures towards you, “—is happening. But for fuck’s sake and Jesus’ balls, take it somewhere else! You fucking live upstairs, you moron!”

The door bangs shut again, only to fly open a microsecond later. Killer looks at you and tilts his head. “I ain’t mad at you, love. Just at the fucking asshole who can’t keep it in his pants. Now, if you both could kindly take that elsewhere so I can fix the car Kid towed earlier, I’d appreciate it very much.”

When the door bangs shut again, it nearly comes off its hinges. You can’t help but feel bad for Killer. He really didn’t need to see this. Still, the hilarity of the situation makes you muffle your laughs against Kid’s neck, in an almost perfect replay of what happened once before. 

Even Kid’s lip quirks into a small smile. “Fuck’s sake… that FUCKIN’ HYPOCRITE should keep his fuckin’ mouth shut! HE’S MADE OUT A MILLION TIMES on this couch before, so he—”

“NEVER WITHOUT CLOTHES ON!” Killer bangs his hands on the inside of the office door, and you keep giggling. “I SWEAR TO GOD, KID! If I sit my ass on something sticky or disgusting on that couch… I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

“CALM YER TITS, DIPSHIT! Nothin’ happened!”

“I’M GONNA BURN THAT FUCKING COUCH!”

“THEN YE BUY A NEW ONE!”

“YOU’LL JUST DEFILE IT AGAIN!”

Laughter booms from your lips as you can’t hold it in anymore. The moment is long gone, but you can’t even be mad about it. Kid stops yelling at Killer and hands you your bra and shirt. When you’re fully dressed, his hand lingers on your hip, his thumb brushing soft strokes across your skin. 

“We can go upstairs… if yer still up for it.”

Hell yeah, you are. 

You’re about to reply with a teasing comment, but then you notice the slight sheen of sweat on Kid’s forehead. His neck is tense with pressure, and his stump twitches now and then. 

“You’re still in pain, Kid.”

You rise slowly, pick up the bottle of pills Killer brought, take two out, and place them in Kid’s hand, despite his barely-there objections. 

“Take the pills. Rest. We’ve got plenty of time.”

At least, you hope you do. It’s a feeling you hate, but unfortunately, one you’ve experienced more times than you’d like to admit when it comes to Kid. That hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, always accompanied by a massive wave of doubt. 

Every time you walk away from a charged moment - whether sparked by desire or something far more vulnerable - you leave your heart in Kid’s hands. So far, you’ve come out the other end bruised, battered, but not defeated. 

But this time feels different. So maybe walking away is the right step.

Kid reaches for the water bottle you retrieve from the fridge, but instead of taking it, he wraps his hand around your wrist and tugs you gently until you tumble onto his lap with a soft chuckle. 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t want ye to leave.” Kid’s warm breath tingles your neck as he leans in to whisper those words to you. 

It’s all the reassurance you need.

But he still gives you more. Kid presses his lips beneath your earlobe, then along your jaw, and finally at the corner of your mouth, until you sigh, and he drinks it in like oxygen to a dying man. 

You’re glad his hand stays steady on your lower back, because without it, you’re sure you’d melt straight into the couch. There’s no strength left in any limb of your body. 

The kiss ends abruptly when he pulls back with a groan, muscles tightening. Your gaze softens, and you massage his stump for a few minutes while he takes the pills and downs them with water.

“The pills and lotion will kick in soon. Go to bed and rest, Kid. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

God, you don’t want to leave him. 

But you know he needs rest. And the worst is definitely over; he’s no longer at war with himself, no longer trapped in a maze of self-loathing and doubt. He just needs time and sleep to recover.

Which won’t happen if you stay. 

After a few more stolen touches, he lets you go, and you drag yourself away from him, somehow feeling lighter than when you walked in. The events took a turn you weren’t expecting, and even though they were painful and pushed both your limits, you can’t help but feel like barriers were overcome and walls were demolished. 

Now it’s time to rebuild. One step at a time.

-*-

“Is it safe?” Killer opens the office door and comes out with his bandana tied over his eyes instead of just his mouth.

Kid can’t help a disgruntled, although bemused, sound escape his lips. He’s reclining on the couch, his arm draped over his eyes, muscles taut, and eyes scrunched. The pain has ebbed from fucking unbearable to moderate.

And he has you to thank for it.

You, whom he insulted, pushed, and harmed with venomous words; you who took them with a raised chin and open defiance; you who poured your kindness, your goodness, and your warmth into him - someone so undeserving it should’ve driven you away immediately. 

You, whom he definitely cares more for than he should; you, who he cannot relinquish; you, who will be his downfall.

No. Lies.

He’s sure he will be your downfall. 

“How are you feeling, man? You were down in the dumps when you called. I could hear the strain in your voice.” Killer sits on the couch next to him, grimaces, and gags loudly before getting up and sitting on a stool instead. 

“The couch is clean, dumbass. We were just…”

“Making out like horny teenagers? Yeah, I saw. Oh, was that what happened? You were dying from pain, and she was performing CPR on your dying ass?”

Kid chuckles again. Dumbass Killer, always trying to lighten the mood and alleviate the tension. 

“I fuckin’ care for her, Kill.” Kid can’t face him, not yet.

“Well, duh! Haven’t we cleared that already? Because it was pretty damn clear when you returned from the beach date—”

“Not a date!”

“—With lovey-dovey eyes, swooning like a girl—”

“The fuck, man?” Kid finally lifts his arm to stare directly into Killer’s amused expression. 

“You more than care for her. And it’s alright to admit it. It’s not like your other arm’s going to fall off because of it.” Killer ducks when Kid throws him a wrench that was wedged between the couch and the arm of the couch. “Missed.”

Kid’s arm returns to act as a shield over his face as he lets out another groan. 

“I’m sorry I interrupted you again. In my defense, I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to leave the door unlocked a second time, plus I really thought I was going to find you incapacitated.”

“It’s fine,” Kid slurs. The pills are starting to kick in, finally. He was close to resorting to more booze. “I… we better slow down, anyway. I ain’t aiming to do somethin’ stupid, so I gotta do things right.” 

He sighs and shakes his head. It’s so fucking hard to expose what he feels, to just get it out there. Why the fuck is it so fucking hard? With Killer, he can be truthful, he knows that, but still…

“That’s… actually wise,” Killer interjects with surprise. “Maybe my interrupting you was divine intervention.”

The bemusement in his tone is clear, but Kid can’t share the sentiment. 

“I stopped believin’ in divine anythin’ a long time ago, Kill. I ain’t about to start now…” 

Killer slumps in his stool, his back hitting the workbench where he supports himself with his elbows. His eyes fall to the corner where Kid keeps the army photograph. It’s already tucked behind an oil can, forgotten again, like it never saw the light to begin with. 

“They wouldn’t want—”

“I know what they want, Kill. I hear ’em. Every fuckin’ second of every fuckin’ day!” Kid gets up, his head feels light from the pills, and he really should take your advice and rest. But they are always there, he’s not lying about that. And their appearances always hurt the most once he starts enjoying himself, once he starts to believe he can be happy.

“They’re always blamin’ me, they’re always laughin’ at me! I know I fuckin’ failed ’em and I need to suffer for it! FUCK!” Kid kicks the couch and grunts in agony, but he welcomes the pain again. The one in his arm is already numbing, and he doesn’t exactly deserve a reprieve.

Killer rises, too, trying to placate his anger. “Come on, Kid, you know they would never do that. They would’ve forgiven you… They have.”

Kid swallows his anger and his pain alongside the rock-sized lump that suddenly forms in his throat. He doesn’t push it further. Killer wouldn’t understand.

“Aye. Whatever. I’m gonna lie down.”

He’s already stomping up the steps to his apartment, not giving Killer a chance to add anything else to this pity party.  Killer wouldn’t understand, but it’s not because he didn’t know them or wasn’t there; it’s because they’re his ghosts to bear, and Kid is the one to blame for their untimely deaths.

Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha @theloserqueen @mapachito @shamblespirate @ibuch7

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|Chapter 9|

[aritsukemo]

The Oddities of Human Nature | Kabukimono

Kabukimono x Feminine Male Reader

Warnings: Wooo, where do we start? Major character death ( Reader ), implied suicide ( It's up in arms, but there are hints in the fic that reader may have drowned themselves in a lake ), self harm implied, sexual assault is loosely referenced ( only one sentence mentions it and I don't go into detail at all as to not trigger anyone ), themes of depression is referenced all throughout this fic, lots of blood is mentioned towards the end and I go into depth ( or try to ) in describing death so gore warning, the timeline is all fucked up but for the sake of the fic making sense, this takes place before Wanderer's three betrayals, reader uses they/him pronouns, finally, long story ( around 10k words ) under the cut. With all that said, happy reading!

A/N: This was a big hill for me to cross, but I'm glad I managed to do it! I juggled a lot of elements that I'm not familiar with so I'm sorry if this is all over the place. That aside, I found that a lot of the songs I listened while I was writing matched this fic pretty well! ( ..I also realized out that I maaaayyy have spilled a a little bit of myself and my personal struggles into Y/n, but don't read into that too much, okay? Okay. ) This fic is on the darker side of what I normally write, but I hope all who peep will enjoy themselves! :D ...Now I'ma go finish this finals project I got before I fuck up my grade-

Tagging: @nursedflowers / @kazusys, and @saioratral

Humans are odd creatures. They do things that may otherwise inconvenience them for absolutely no reason.

They could have a broken leg, but will still find the time to entertain friends by going out. They could be holed up in their room doing important work, but will still stop and greet their beloved when they arrive home. They could stumble upon a body in a lake and still fish it out and attempt to resuscitate it. It's strange, but what's even stranger are those humans. You know, the ones who would do things like that for a complete stranger without batting an eye.

"Are you alright?" A soft chirp echoed—one like a feather that surprisingly didn't get swept away by the harsh winds.

It was nothing like her voice.

Upon looking up, indigo hues fill with intricate floral patterns weaved delicately in a circle. Its varying colors twist and intertwine, filling the circle and providing shade and leaving those who fall under it to marvel at its beauty—which didn't soil or gray despite the downpour of rain that hit it.

That said, having been completely consumed in the art of the umbrella, it took another soft call to snap out of the trance..only to be sucked right back into it upon gazing up.

 "I noticed that you have been sitting in the rain for quite some time now. That isn't healthy, you know?" Their voice matched their features; smooth like a porcelain doll, but not nearly as tough as one; gentle, just like the silk that covered their body.

 "Do you have nowhere to go?" Upon hearing the question, the boy’s lips—which were formerly tucked into a neat line—dipped. It was unnoticeable against his pale skin, but the tender eyes that stared down at him seemed to be sharp like a hawks' and noticed it right away.

 "I suppose that means yes."

Their hand reached out to him after saying that and he found himself leaning away instinctively, making him susceptible to the sky's sorrow which drowned his already slick hair in even more chilling rain.

He's immediately saved again, and this time, he was able to watch his savior in action as they tilt their hand, tilting their gorgeous artwork forward enough to completely shield him again albeit at the cost of their own protection.

The rain took pleasure in dousing their hair, deepening it's color a little from the sheer amount it intakes. Ultimately, it's unable to take all of it and falls down on all sides, dripping down their skin, their eyelashes, nose, and lips, to where all the water meets at a point at their chin and drops from it to the wet soil at their feet like a leaky faucet.

Nevertheless, he watched a smile stretch across their face. A sight that he had begun to believe could only look so beautiful on a wandering snow spirit.

 "Please, young sir. Come with me. I have a place that could shield the both of us from the rain for the night.."

And in a trance, he—though tentatively—reaches forward and puts his hand in theirs. The warmth that touched him in that moment immediately shattered the illusion that hypnotized him and he blinks upon finding himself being tugged along by the hand. It brought on a perplexed swirl in the abyss he called a stomach and spurred him to ask the golden question, "Why are you doing this?"

And that question earned him another golden smile, unfortunately only for a quick second when they glanced back at him. It was never answered, and despite that, it didn't bother him.

Nothing did in that moment as the only thing he could focus on was the heat that spread throughout his hand which radiated from their palm.

Humans are odd creatures. They go against the purposes given to them at birth for the simplest reasons.

 "You're a man?" Was the question that filled the silence, his words filled with his almost accusing tone at the face of their casual confession.

You didn't mind, putting on the smile of a saint as tanzanite hues scrutinize and judge you as if you were some complex painting in a museum.

 "Yes, I am," You answered simply, and he once again, eyes you up and down with eyes full of disbelief. As if you had just revealed that you had a second head or something. You weren't offended. Compared to the other stares you've been given in the past, his seemed rather merciful.

 "Why do you dress like that if you're a boy?" He asks after a while; another rather offensive question that he asks with utmost innocence.

 "Because it makes me feel nice," You reply simply, and to that, your new friend looked utterly perplexed. As if you had just given him intricate, complex instructions on how to defeat the shogunate. From that reaction, you assume he was probably raised in a rather conformist household.

That said, his genuine confusion felt like a breath of cool air hitting your face after venturing days in a scorching desert, as sad as that is to admit.

 "Where are your weapons? Your armor? Your mannerisms and speech let me know you come from a noble home, so where are your servants and concubine? What do you do for work?" He shot out questions as if he only had a few grains of sand left in his hourglass. It was like he feared that if he didn't ask all his questions now—and all at once—he'd never get an answer to them. Not that you'd be so cruel as to leave your curious new acquaintance so bewildered.

"I'm sorry to disappoint, but I don't have any such means of protection," You start off slowly, but as your eyes trail down at the two needles in your slender hands—needles which had thin threads of silk woven around the points of them—you found yourself chuckling to yourself, "Though if you'd ask my father, he'd tell you that my reason for that is because I lack the determination and courage to tread the path of a proper warrior — He was a high-ranking samurai for the majority of my youth, you see.."

"As for the servants and..consorts…they're really not my thing. I find bossing someone around and using people to flaunt my own status and wealth to be rather brutish. Though, I will admit I'm quite familiar with the practices. Heh, I was practically raised by my fathers' wives and female servants growing up. Maybe that's why.."

You pause, and in the end, you shake your thought away instead of voicing the rest of it aloud. It wasn't important to the conversation at hand anyways.

 "Digressing from that, my ways of making money aren't as noble as my family's either. In fact, one would say it's quite pitiful in comparison; once a week, I go out into the nearby town and I sell my creations. Stuffed animals, knitted clothing, excess crops, and the like. I don't make all the money in the world, but I make more than enough to get by as you can see," And you flick your wrist absentmindedly at one of the corners of your room, mindlessly gesturing at whatever filled the space to better prove your point.

Your guest had been struck silent once again. It seemed he was still rather muddled. You understand it. Like many you've encountered, you were probably an enigma to him, one willing to go against all that has been taught and practiced for centuries just because of simple ideations and pleasures that someone such as yourself should never enjoy in the first place.

..Or so you thought. As you gazed up at your guest, his face made you unsure of what he was truly thinking at that moment. It was something you hadn't seen before—unlike those judge-filled, disgusted, and even pitiful gazes you had been given by many in the past. It sparked your curiosity, causing you to ask him the golden question that had laid dormant at the back of your mind.

 "Does any of this.. Do I bother you?"

His response came delayed, but you found his answer that came more valuable than actual gold. More relieving than any cool breeze or sweet treat. More rewarding than any war won or title granted. More comforting than any of the stormy nights that distracted you from your whirlwind of thoughts.

And, oddly enough, such a response was quite simple. Only three words, in fact.

 "Not at all."

Humans are odd creatures, but they can be patient and forgiving at times. Plus, being the warm-blooded creatures that are allows them the blessing of a naturally-warm, comfortable body.

 "Crap," The cursed utterance left the lips of a mouth who's felt nothing but the bitter tang of frustration coat its tongue all afternoon. The uncivilized profanity did nothing to soothe the taste in his mouth nor did it smoothen out the crinkles made by his furrowed brows. It didn't even relieve the tremble of anger in his blood-pricked hands or the aggression of his movements as his fingertips worked a string of tangles with the needles he was holding.

Knitting is awful. How do people find this relaxing? Ever since he's started, he's felt nothing but vexation, pain, and embarrassment! Not only that, but he's made zero progress after so long that he's practically forgotten what he was supposed to be making in the first place! He hates—no, despises this with his entire being!

 "Having a bit of trouble?" He heard you ask, and somehow, half of his stress fell away like a slab of rock on the side of a mountain just from hearing your voice. He doesn't get why you have such powers over him seeming as you're a complete stranger. ..Was your voice charmed by some kind of magic perhaps? Were you possibly a god in disguise?

Whatever the reason was, he found himself praying that you never stop talking if he were to ever find out.

 "Here, let me show you a trick," Your breath was fanning his ear before he knew it and your skin was warming his shortly afterwards. He froze in place, still and quiet unlike the noisy rainwater he can hear descending from the skies outside—the rain that has kept him trapped here for literal days now.

He's not complaining.

It was only when your palms found place against the back of his hands that his body relaxed. Your hands were soft unlike the many generals and the blacksmiths he had met before his forced abandonment of his previous life. It felt nice. As if flower petals were cradling his hands.

You smelt just as good as a flower too. He had never been this close to you before so he hadn't noticed it, but now that his back is to you like this..it was as if he was laying in a flowerbed.

Do men always smell this good? He doubts it. Most likely, this scent was completely unique. A fragrance only you could naturally produce. Archons does he wish—

 "—and that's how you do it," He blinks, snapping back to reality where he stares down at the cloth now weaved together with expert precision to form a bunny's ear.

You had helped him make a breakthrough at last..and he had been too busy daydreaming about how it would feel to be hugged by you to watch and learn how you even did it.

..But he doesn't feel regret looming when the realization comes nor does his annoyance return. Or maybe it has and it just hasn't set in yet. He can't tell right now, not when he's feeling as if he had just been warmed by the sun after being frozen for a millennia.

 "Alright, now you try," He hears your words, but they don't process as fast as your hands leaving him does. Nothing really processes quicker than that. Not his frown. Not his disappointment. Not anything.

But not processing something doesn't make it unclear to others. Upon seeing his downcast expression, your brows quirk up in confusion.

 "Is there something on your mind, my new friend?" You inquired, but your question is never answered. Instead, you watch as his saddened eyes turn owlish and his head spins in the opposite direction of you as he mutters something under his breath.

 "I'm sorry, but can you repeat that?" You asked softly, leaning closer in order to hear him better.

 "Can you..show me how to do that again. Please.." He repeated, and in doing so earned the harmonious gift that was your chuckle and the warmth of your hands on him once again.

 "Sure. So what you do is.."

Humans are odd creatures. They'd sacrifice countless hours of their already short life, go to ridiculous lengths doing things, and even put aside their fragile well being to do things that are completely irrelevant just because of their belief that what they do will make someone happy.

 "I'm back!" The sweet chirp of your new housemate—which you and the villagers of the neighboring town have begun to call Kabukimono— echoed through the small abode of your now shared home after not having the pleasure to in about three days or so.

After moving in a week prior, Kabukimono had been adamant on pulling his own weight to prove that he was worth keeping around despite you having the compassion to allow him to be a freeloader otherwise. That said, after your own clumsiness in the field left you with a sprained ankle, your kind new friend had offered to go out and sell all of this week’s goods on your behalf and how could you refuse such an offer when he looked so happy and eager to help out little ol' you?

Well, the real answer to that was that he gave you no choice in the matter, but you digress.

 "I'm in here," He heard you call from the kitchen and he immediately set off in that direction, just barely remembering to slip off his shoes at the door from how eager he was to see you.

If it wasn't obvious already, it had taken some time—both the journey to and from the village and the actual process of conversing with people and getting them to buy everything—but he believes he did pretty good. At the very least, everything was sold. He even managed to make enough to buy you something with some of the excess money!

 "Y/n! I got—! ..Huh?" His words died as quickly as his pace as he stilled to a full halt at the entryway. His eyes grew wide bit by bit as he took everything in.

Banners of silk and thread had been strung along the walls, flashing their abstract patterns of blue and purple at anyone who'd spare a glance. Candles—which are usually set alight atop your nightstand and bookshelf in our room—now clumped and coddled on the table like one big sun with the varying foods surrounding them posing as the stars that helped light up the wooden sky they sat on.

But such a beautiful display was only given a moment's glance as Kabukimono seemed more interested in what you thought was a less-than-average sight; yourself.

Nevertheless, the adoration you felt seeing the sparkle of surprise in his eyes—even if for only a second or so—made you crack a smile as you recited the line you had gone over just about a million times during the time you spent waiting for him to arrive.

 "Welcome home, Kabukimono."

He was at a loss for words and not for the reason you wanted him to be. With the intent of easing his perturbed shock, you walked towards him, steady and slow, but all that proved to do was snap him out of the spell your heavy eyebags and dreary, drooping eyes had put him under.

 "What is all of this? And more importantly, why are you standing? You're not supposed to be putting pressure on that ankle!" He quickly met you the rest of the way, and to your dismay, he had beat you to the comforting, his hands shooting out to grip you by the hips and ease your bandaged leg of your body's weight.

Ignoring his other questions, you began explaining, telling him, "It's a celebration feast. You told me yourself that you, along with not having a name, you haven’t had a home to call yours yet. I thought it would be good to make an occasion out of you finding one at last."

Kabukimono felt bad to admit this even in his own head, but your words were going in one ear and out the other. Yes, he had asked, but you weren't giving him answers to the other questions he simply found more important at the moment, and because of that, it caused his face to look rather tense. Certainly not cheery like you had hoped.

It seems you have made a mistake. It wasn't a surprise, it was you after all, but the thought still hurt considering how much time it took preparing for this moment.

And so, in an attempt to lighten your thoughts and the overall mood, you ask him, "Aren't you happy?"

And unfortunately, your dear housemate didn't answer in the way you had wished he would, instead replying with, "Why would I? You look like you're about to drop dead!"

 "I'm fine," You said; a futile attempt of reassurance when you probably looked like a Sumerian Akademiya student who just finished pulling an all-nighter to write a one-hundred page research paper.

 "As if!" Kabukimono said. That's when he slung your arm over his shoulder, forcing your bodyweight onto him without your permission, and began trudging you along in the direction of your room.

 "What're you doing—" "Taking you to your room so you can lie down like you probably haven't been doing!"

 "Seriously, you should take better care of yourself! Don't tell me this is normal for you.. If it is, I won't be able to let you out of my sight from now on!"

In the end, both the feast and Kabukimono's gift for you had been forgotten. Even though you ended up enjoying it later, your sadness about the initial surprise being ruined was hard to get over even with the delight of a new hairpin being added to your collection..

Humans are odd creatures. Their inability to do much makes them become overawed by the simplest things. Their eyes shine just from seeing a coin flipped in an unorthodox way and they clap and gasp watching the stars twinkle overhead. It’s so nice to see stupid.

 “You know how to dance?” The excitable question left your usually composed lips as you stared at Kabukimono with stars in your eyes.

 “Well...I used to perform sword dances so I suppose yes,” He clarifies, arms crossed as he stared off at the wall to his left with full interest. His azure eyes darkened as if someone had pulled wool over them only to light up like a room to an oil lamp at the question that followed his response.

 “Can you show me?” The way you asked him reminded him of a little kid asking their mother to buy them a toy; full of innocent expectancy. It made his lips thin into a line just hearing it.

It had been ages since he’s danced, and in the past, there weren’t many who gawked at or praised him for his moves. Not his mother. Not any of her servants or soldiers. Certainly not her familiar. At the time, he hadn’t cared about their reactions much at all, seeming as the purpose of his dancing wasn’t for frivolous entertainment, but you, however, were different. You weren’t his mother who had abandoned him. You weren’t the servants or soldiers who never spoke to him. You aren’t his mother’s glaring familiar. You’re you, and the thought of seeing such a lackluster expression painted on your face puts a bad taste in his mouth. It makes him gnaw at his bottom lip from the feeling of a wave rocking unsteadily in his stomach cavity. It made him feel..anxious.

 “Ah..” His mouth felt like chalk—uncomfortably dry—as he spoke and his eyes couldn’t remove themselves from the walls he was surely burning holes into with his nervous glare as he tried to find something—anything—to refute you. He, at last, does and sputters it out in an uneven tone, “But..you aren’t going into battle though.”

You hum in acknowledgement, and for a moment, he thought he could successfully negate you from the topic, but then your lips move to say, “Sword dances are to summon strength, right? Though they’re performed for battles, war isn’t the only thing that requires strength. Farming, cooking.. Even getting out of bed in the mornings needs some strength to complete. When put in that way, don’t you think I’m in need of just as much strength as one of the Shogunate’s men?”

 “We- Well, a typical sword dance requires a sword and a fan and we don’t have anything like that lying around the house,” He shoots out. His brows knitting at the odd feeling of his skin damp with moisture he wasn’t aware he could produce before now.

 “I do have a fan,” You retort, “It’s mainly preserved for hot weather, but it'd be perfect for this occasion! And for the sword..ah! Would a wooden stilt suffice? It’s a little longer than the typical sword, but if I were to shave it down a bit..”

 “I..” He looks at you, face uncharacteristically spooked as he repeats himself, sounding like a broken record at this point, “I.. I..” but you don’t pay it much mind as your excitement gets the better of you and you chalk up his reaction as pre-performance jitters before running to find the items needed, leaving Kabukimono no choice but to watch helplessly like some baby kitten.

In the matter of an hour, he was outside. His body donning one of your many creations while holding a summer fan and wooden stick that didn’t come close to matching anything he was wearing. You—smile etched on your face despite feeling as though you were being stabbed all over—sat a little aways from him on the white cushions that had completely covered the green grass, patiently yet eagerly awaiting for the invisible curtains to rise and for his feet to begin to move.

Despite the biting cold, his hands were slick with sweat, forcing him to grip the wood and fan with inhumane force as to not drop it. His breath came out thick and labored, freezing over immediately upon leaving his lips and ultimately coming out as puffy, white clouds. His only saving grace here was that his feet were firmly planted into the dirt circle you paved out just for his little show. It was even rid of the transparent icy layer; an astonishing feat to be done in so little time.

Even from where he stood, he could see the reddening of your face and hands. The slight tremble of your limbs.. You were freezing to death, that much was certain, but you didn’t care. That’s just how adamant you were to see him perform.

And so, feeling as though he had no other choice, he began. His feet started to glide, starting slow as did his arms—languid and mesmerizing—before it began to pick up just a little whenever he’d twirl or spin or hop. He was sure his movements were sloppy, that his improvision to the original dance he was taught shone through like a stain to white cloth..but as he snuck a glance your way, he found himself uncaring.

..Because the way you looked at him was as if you were gazing up at a god who had just saved your life; amazement brightened your hues like comets in the sky as you followed his every move, utterly enraptured by him. He had managed to evoke that from you. Only him.

Ironically, he had found he himself charmed by your expression and microexpressions. Completely hypnotized as he slid and flowed around the small circle, his clothing–the clothing you had gifted to him—fluttering like angel wings which only further added to the beauty of each swing he took with the stick.

But alas, as the dance went on, Kabukimono found himself going into autopilot. Simply going about the motions as he took every chance possibly to glance your way, his eyes like a distant memory—a past life—whenever they locked with yours..

Humans are odd creatures. Deceptive by nature too. Without a perceptive gaze and trained ears to catch onto their lies, they could make you believe anything as the truth.

 "Hey, Kabukimono, could you pass me the carrots I cut up over there?" You asked, using your head to gesture over in the direction of where you had left the cut carrots on the low table. Kabukimono jumped to your request; crossing the kitchen, picking up the bowl, and walking back over to where you sat comfortably at the kotatsu in record time.

He hands it to you, and with a flick of your wrists, the orange delicacies had joined the rest of the vegetables in the boiling pot on the table. Kabukimono sits back on his knees as you do this, taking comfort in propping his elbow up on the wooden surface before laying his head on his fist as he watches the slow travel of white steam erupt from the pot into the air. His eyes like staring on like a dormant beast at the boiling vegetables crackling as he sighs dreamily at the smell of heaven they produce.

He didn't need to eat. He had told you that at some point in time along with other things, and yet, you had somehow trained him to yearn for food regardless—to salivate when he saw a tasty-looking dish and even grow excited at the thought of what to cook for dinner. It was such a mundane thing that was once so foreign to him. Such a human pleasure and yet he so eagerly partook in it regardless. All because of you. All for you.

Another thing he does because of you now is small talk. Before, if there were silence between him and another person he'd embrace it without a second thought and wouldn't leave that comfort unless forced to—and even then, only a select few would actually elicit a response from him. Nowadays though, it seems he grows quite restless whenever words aren't filling the air. Though, this applied more so with you than anyone else.

 "How did it go in town?" He asked, "You were selling those new cat-shaped stuffed toys you worked yourself ragged making..so? Did anybody like them?"

To such a simple question, your reaction was bewildering. The way your grip tightened on the ladle, the narrowing of your eyes and brows, the tut of your lip.. It all gave a bad vibe.

And so he frowned and asked, "Did they not like them after all? ..Or did something—"

 "It's nothing," And you presented him a closed-eyed smile, both your expression and your grip on the ladle relaxing as you went on to further say, "I just..thought about this girl I met at the villager. I assume she was an orphan from her attire and the way she followed me around without a care.. Anyways, she ended up tripping and hurting her knee pretty badly so I gave her one of the cat plushies, free of charge.”

 "Anyways, the food is ready so let's drop this topic. After all, we don't want it to get cold," The topic changed as suddenly as it came. Odd, seeming as how you're usually rambling all afternoon and evening about your travel to the village, sparing absolutely no detail about even the tiniest things.

The thought lingered for a time, but as he watched you stuff your mouth and saw your eyes shine joyously at the wonderful flavor that coated your tongue as you began to ramble about your relief about the dish turning out good despite this being your first time trying out the recipe, that thought eventually fluttered away with the wind that came through the crack in your sliding doors that allowed more of the evening oranges and yellows to seep into your home.

You were probably just really hungry and eager to eat, he thought as he finally took a bite of the potato he had picked up with his chopsticks, his eyes closing as he hummed out in delight at the taste.

Unbeknownst to him, your face dropped as soon as his eyes closed, your eyes uncharacteristically fogged and dull, as if it were displaying the thick fog that shrouded your mind, your thoughts, your heart. It was a fog that Kabukimono never caught on to, blissfully unaware of what stained your mind, body, and soul.

Humans are odd creatures. Their outside appearance never matches how they feel or the thoughts that poison their mind. They never voice those thoughts either, making it impossible to guess what’s truly going on with them. There are some who’d bless you with a morsel of their inner world—give you a crumb of the turmoil that constantly leaks in their head—making you feel as though you’ve truly come to understand them when in reality, you haven’t even scratched the surface.

It was the middle of the night. The once navy blue sky that had overcasted the world when the sun first fell was now dark due to even the stars going into hiding to slumber, leaving the moon as the only beacon of light to shed away the shadows. It was pitch black everywhere you turned and cicadas buzzed loudly outside, likely complaining about the sweltering heat of the summer, making it impossible to even hear yourself think. It was like some mundane hell.

So why were you out here?

It happened by chance. He had heard some odd noises and went to investigate it. Not expecting to see a silhouette walking out of the door. Thinking it was some thief, he followed after the person, and as the sounds of the cicadas grew distant and an earthy smell invaded his nostrils, the silhouette became less and less obscure. Becoming as clear as day by the time the person had reached their destination.

That person was you.

 “..What is this place?” The question came tumbling out before he could stop himself, his words loudly piercing the quiet of the night. It alerts you of his presence at long last and has your head spinning in his direction.

 “Oh.. It’s just you, Kabukimono’.. Heh, you scared me,” You said. Your head turns forward once again as you force your shoulders to relax, allowing the basket on your back to slide down your arms and to the ground. As you slowly set yourself atop the gentle grass, Kabukimono takes a step forward. Then another, and another, until he’s right beside you, who was digging for the items in the basket.

After a moment of silence allows you to, at last, gather everything needed out of the basket, Kabukimono decides to ask his question once again..or he planned to. As he opens his mouth to let his words free, your voice breaks the silence.

 “There used to be a small village here,” You told him, your hands beginning to twist two long stocks together, “If you go the opposite way of the path we usually tread, you can still find the remnants of what it used to be.”

 “The village's main source used to be this lake. Everyone relied on it for everything. To drink, to cook, to bathe.. Even some of the oddest ways of entertainment came from here..” You laughed, but it was drier than any desert depicted in the novels in your room. It felt wrong to hear—kinda like hearing a baby’s cry come from a grown man—and it felt almost unnerving to have it come from someone like you, who he’s come to associate with the sun itself.

But you were probably really tired. Looking at you, the deep bags that hang your eyelids down indicates you probably haven’t gotten much sleep lately which makes sense seeming as you’ve been running around and, as you told him, ‘preparing’ for something really important.

He wonders what it is you’re preparing for. Whenever he’d ask, he’d never get an answer..

 “This lake, though bound by the earth to this one place, saved that village so many times that the townsfolk began to believe that some powerful being was secretly living in the depths of it and protecting them. They began to idolize it, nurture and take care of it, and spoke about it as if this little lake was some otherworldly deity which created tall tales and legends that they’d go on to tell their children…believe it or not, I once took part in such absurdity.”

 “So..what happened to the village?” Kabukimono hesitates to ask. After all, the obvious context clues pointed him in a tragic direction, but he couldn’t resist his own curiosity in the end. Not when the look in your eyes—that were lit by the lantern of the water’s ripples—reflected nothing but pure sorrow.

At his question, you took a glance his way. As you broke away from the lake that practically glowed in the moonlight, your eyes were stripped of the illuminating gleam of the waves and casted into the darkness of the night. In fact, if it weren’t for the lake, he probably wouldn’t have been able to see your face at all.

Part of him wished that had happened. If it did, he wouldn’t have been forced to stare into the abyss that had overtook your hues for those small handful of seconds.

 “The lake failed them,” You finally spoke shortly after returning your gaze to the water, “A fire of unknown origins enveloped it in the dead of night. It wiped out half the village and forced the other half to flee for safety..some of which came to me, who lived on the outskirts of town.”

 “No one knew how it started. After all, fire wasn’t anywhere close to being the most accessible resource they had. It was a luxury, even. It also never spread past the village and by sunrise, it ceased to exist altogether. The oddity of the situation made the survivors believe that it was some punishment from their lake deity,” As you went on, you had been weaving the strands until one end had connected to the other in a circle—though your sloppy craftsmanship caused it to look more like an oval in your opinion.

As eyesore of a sight it was, you persisted. Your hands reach for the clipped flowers beside you, "That thought clouded their minds and the thought of disappointing their all-forgiving god drove them mad,” Kabukimono watched as you spoke, sticking flowers in one by one and twisting it into the circle, making the dank green pop with each pristine white you carefully placed around it.

 “Convinced that it was their fault everything was lost, the surviving villagers went about the rest of their days repenting by praying to the lake from sun up to sun down...until the waters rose and they disappeared while being enveloped by the deity's embrace."

The story seemed like something straight out of a fairytale. Nonsensical like a myth that he usually wouldn't believe...but the same could be said about his very existence. With that in mind, who is he to be so narrow-minded? He decided to keep his thoughts to himself, locking them tight behind his lips as you continued.

 "The lake failed them. It made a fatal mistake. Saved not one villager from that fire, yet nothing changed. Not their love nor their devotion..if anything it only made them see this lake in an even more divine light...so why didn't the same happen for me?"

The tail end of your sentence made him perk up with unease and as his brows knitted together, Kabukimono opens his mouth as he worriedly asked—or rather, attempted to ask, “What do you mean—” but you shifted the topic faster than he could get the full sentence out.

 “ Do you remember the tales I would tell you about my childhood—my brother specifically? ..I ran into him some time ago while I was out selling in the village.”

 “Whether they wanted to seize from me the goods I was selling that day—or perhaps mistook me for a woman and wanted to have their fun with me as some men have in the past—they began harassing me quite aggressively,” You started, “They bothered me for quite awhile and grew progressively violent the more I tried to politely get them to leave me be—one of them even snatched me up by the wrist. That’s when he intervened.”

 “He didn’t recognize me, not that I’d expect him to. After all, I’ve changed a lot since we were kids..and it seems the same went for him as well,” After placing all the whites of innocence, you went on to grab your smaller, yellow sundrops, your hands meticulously working them in between the white flowers as you continued talking in a cheerful tone. 

 “Though it’s only been a decade or so since I’d last seen or spoken to him, he’s already been through so much. He told me himself, you see, that he had just returned from the war and was passing through villages trying to find a suitable gift.. Can you guess for what?”

 “I don’t know..maybe your parents?” Kabukimono guessed; the wrong answer. You didn’t give him another chance to theorize.

 “It was for his wife and daughter,” You corrected, and if once wasn’t enough, you repeat yourself, “He was returning home to his wife and four year old daughter and wanted to get them something special.”

Gaining the courage once again, Kabukimono attempted to question the point of this conversation in the first place by asking, “What’s wrong with that?” He grew hopeful at first when you allowed him to get his words out. Maybe, at last, he could get his questions answered, he thought.

He thought wrong.

 “He’s really tall now, you know? —I mean, he was always taller than me, but now he’s like a tree! When we spoke face to face, I had to crane my neck all the way back to look up at him,” His question is, once again, ignored as if he never asked it. He began to frown, not liking the thought of you possibly ignoring him, but that crease in his skin quickly grew less prominent when he caught a glimpse of your joyful smile.

 “He’s also got big muscles and a handsome smile,” You add, “That paired with his headstrong, chivalric nature..I’m not surprised that he’s made a name for himself and started a family in such a short time,” Your voice then drops to a murmur as you turn you creation left then right, inspecting it as said, “In only a small handful of years, he’s achieved someone’s dream and so much more.. He’s managed to exceed even the impossible and make everyone proud..he’s truly amazing..”

You grasp at pink petals—deteriorated by the chilling weather—as you fit them as you see fit. Filling in each space like a piece of a puzzle.

 “That encounter made me think back to the lake. It made me realize how similar we are. We’re both fragile and delicate and were surrounded by people who’d still expect us to give away our bones despite already relinquishing our flesh and blood…so what went wrong with me?”

 “Wh.. What?” He stammered. You lift your handiwork into the air, presenting it to the moon for judgement before you finally repeat yourself..

 “What went wrong? I made mistakes just like the lake, so why wasn’t I given the benefit of the doubt? Why did my family–my father–abandon me?”

Abandon. That word stuck to him like a burn to his skin and it felt as if he had just opened his eyes for the first time in a century. It made him realize all the little things at last; how tense the air was, how dim your eyes were, how often your brows twitched, how your eyes seemed like glass balls, how forced your smile seemed.. The illusion he had absorbed himself shattered in that instant, allowing reality to set in like a heavy weight. The person who sat beside him, the one who he’s come to view as the sun that brightened up his day, had looked so different in that moment that he could mistake them for an entirely different person. Did they always look like that? If so, for how long? How long has his sun been this dim? And why didn’t he notice it sooner?

 “I’m sorry, that was cruel of me to ask you that,” You profess in a raspy whisper before turning to him, plopping the finished product—a tri-colored flower crown—atop his head as you mutter, “There’s no way you can answer that.. It was my mistake..”

Kabukimono blinks, his eyes looking up as he tries to peer at the crown to no avail. It was like watching a kitten play with a toy; adorable. Kabukimono didn’t catch it, but upon seeing such a cute sight, you bit down on your bottom lip as your eyes narrowed—damn nea glaring—his way. Luckily, you catch yourself before he notices, trying to laugh it off as you look over at the lake once more. Though your laugh was even drier than the previous one that left your lips and came tumbling out of your mouth like gravel.

 “You know, you remind me so much of my brother,” You said, “You have so much potential to live whatever life you want, to make everyone happy and still keep yourself intact..I almost envy you.”

Kabukimono—hands delicately tracing the rim of the flower crown on his head—grimaced at your comment. Envy. Such a negative feeling to harbor towards him and for no reason at all. After all, he’s nothing special. If he was, surely she wouldn’t have discarded him and left him to rot alone. Alas, before he can tell you that, you started rambling again.

 “I used to make mistakes all the time when I was younger. Especially with swords,” You told him, though it looked more like you were talking to the lake at your knees by the way you were so intently gazing at it, “I just couldn’t get the hang of it. That applied to a lot of things my father tried to teach me… Heh, it makes sense why he gave up on trying after my brother was born.”

 “Wh- What are you saying..?” Kabukimono asked. It came out as a hoarse whisper that was easily carried away by the warm winds and far away from your ears. Hence why you continued instead of answering, surely.

 “You asked me once about the story behind how my obsession for knitting came about.. Why I enjoy it so much.. Well, the reason I never told you was because the truth is quite silly in hindsight; it was to apologize to my father.”

 “I felt sorry for him. After all, his oldest son—who was supposed to carry on and lift a weight off his shoulders–was completely hopeless in every way. I truly did feel bad..and so I thought the least I could do was ease his mind—to reassure him that his useless son could do something right.”

 “You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that–” “After keenly watching my mother sew clothes and observing the female servants make clothing they could otherwise not afford, I was able to do something out of these impractical hands..” You held your hands up and kabukimono winces at the sight. They look like the aftermath of an intense fight, scars—some new, some old—littered your skin, some even stained it with the ugly dark crust that forms when the skin begins to heal. Did they always look that way? “Would you like to know what I made?”

 “I– I’m not—” “I made a fox. A tiny little fox attached to a string,” You said, “I thought it would be cute if he would tie it around the hilt of his sword and carry it around — similar to how one would a good luck charm. I was so excited when I finally finished and ran straight to my father's dojo on the far edge of our home to show it to him.”

 “Y/n–” “At the sight of my creation, my father frowned so deeply I thought his face would become permanently creased by it. ‘Is this what you waste your idle time doing?’ he asked me before cutting my little fox to shreds. ‘No wonder you’ve become such a disappointment! You sit around knitting animals instead of dedicating yourself to training!’ he went on to say.”

 “He went to grumbling under his breath after that. He kept his voice low, but I still heard what he said.. Wanna guess? He said—”

 “Y/n, stop!” The sound of shuffling of him as he stumbles to his feet is loud—though small in comparison to the boom of his scream. You pause, surprised albeit you barely show it—or rather, you’re barely able to force yourself to react—only being able to slowly blink his way in the end as you stare up at your darling housemate, who’s pretty eyes had welled up with tears.

 Stop..please..” He pleaded. A sniffle pushing him past the line of embarrassment, causing him to hide his face from you, “I- I beg of you.. Don’t say another word..not if you plan to degrade yourself like this!”

 “..Kabukimono, don’t..—” He hears you call from the other side of the barrier he created between the two of you, but he’s finally quicker, interrupting you for the first time tonight.

 “Your family abandoned you, but that helped you find your way to me,” He choked, “They didn’t see your worth for what it truly was..but that allowed me to! Who cares what they think of you? How they perceive you? They aren’t in your life anymore, I am! So stop talking down on yourself like they are!” With every word that leaves his lips—that seep through the unseen slits between his fingers—Kabukimono seems to crack more and more until he falls apart, collapsing to the ground in a fit of sobs which causes the flower crown to fall ungracefully off his head.

 “I- I’m in your life now, and I don’t care what you’re good or bad at! I don’t have any expectations for you to meet! It doesn’t matter if you don’t meet society’s standards! I don’t care about any of that. I just want to stay by your side! Isn’t that enough? Aren’t I enough?”

 “Kabukimono..” You call. A moment of silence passes and a chime of bells in the form of your choked sobs fill his ears as you snivel, “No.. No, no— I- I'm sorry. Don’t cry, please don’t cry..”

He suddenly feels the warmth of your arms surrounding his kneeled being and he finds himself crying harder to the point every sorrowful yell and sniffle rattled his entire body. You had wrapped your arms around him in an attempt to comfort him, but it was rather pitiful and futile, seeming as you were sobbing yourself, repeating, “Sorry.. I’m so sorry..” over and over like it was your matra.

You two stayed like that; sobbing amongst the serene sound of the water until it drowned you two out altogether. After some time, your loud croaks had been reduced to weak whimpering—though if the reason for that was because your voice grew too hoarse to form proper words or another reason was unclear.

Neither of you cared, or at least, Kabukimono didn’t. All that he cared about was the feeling of being tangled in your arms and the sound of your heartbeat singing in his ear—which he had pressed against your chest.

 “Promise me,” He whispered, his voice rasp, “Promise me that you’ll be honest with me from now on. A- And promise me not to degrade yourself anymore..that you won’t think about the past..all of it. I want you to promise me that you’ll move on..with me,” He clutched at your kimono, crumpling the flowers on it with his grip as he awaited your response with bated breath.

And when you finally did—when you finally mumbled your response and in the exact way he wanted you to—he felt as though the sun had finally come out again, better and brighter than before..

 “I promise.”

Humans are odd creatures. They’re treacherous liars by nature who spew falsehoods for the sake of their own twisted amusement, uncaring of those affected by their games.

 “There was once a small village here. If you go the opposite way of the path we usually tread, you can still find the remnants of what it used to be.”

It’s been two weeks since you left for the village to sell goods. You still hadn’t returned.

It’d usually take no more than a few days for you to sell everything and come home, so after said days had passed and you were nowhere to be seen, he grew worried and—in the end—went to the village in search of you.

..But you weren’t there either. In fact, from what he gathered from asking around, you had left the village days ago.

 “The village's main source used to be this lake. Everyone relied on it for everything. To drink, to cook, to bathe.. Even some of the oddest ways of entertainment came from here..”

You weren’t here at the village, but you weren’t home either..so where had you gone? The question sunk into him, weighing him down like an anchor and causing his stomach cavity to drop. A feeling of dread set over him as he came upon the unsettling realization; you were missing.

Where had you gone? What happened when you left the village a few days ago? Had you been kidnapped? Grown more frantic with each thought that popped into his head, Kabukimono ran around, asking every villager he came across about you until he finally gained a morsel of information—a speckle of hope—when a man mentioned seeing someone that fit your description walk towards the entrance of the village with an empty, woven basket as big as themselves hanging on their back.

And without much thought, he took off in that very direction, heeding the man no mind any longer despite his warnings about the impending storm that was soon to consume the area.

 “This lake, though bound by the earth to this one place, saved that village so many times that the townsfolk began to believe that some powerful being was secretly living in the depths of it and protecting them. They began to idolize it, nurture and take care of it, and spoke about it as if this little lake was some otherworldly deity which created tall tales and legends that they’d go on to tell their children…believe it or not, I took part in such absurdity.”

Kabukimono remained unfazed when the path beneath his feet began to turn dark and slippery, when the graying sky finally shed its tears, when those tears dampened his clothing, not even when he nearly fell into a puddle. All that he could focus on was the possible places you would have gone and why the place you chose wasn’t home where he was.

 “So..what happened to the village?”

 “The lake failed them.”

 “Y/n! Where are you? Can you hear me?” After a while of running with no destination in mind, Kabukimono found it best to call out to you in hopes you’d make your way to him, call his name back, something–anything–that would hint towards you being near.

He raised his voice as high as he could, his voice likely being carried across nations from how loud he was, and yet, he was met with nothing but the deafening sound of thunder roaring to life. It was disheartening, but as he stood amongst the rain, the final wire in his head finally clicked and the memory of you sitting before crystal waters was pushed to the forefront of his mind.

It’s a slim chance, but maybe you had gone there and, for whatever reason, stayed.

In an instant, he was running at full speed once again, steering in the direction his memory remembered best.

 “A fire of unknown origins enveloped it in the dead of night. It wiped out half the village and forced the other half to flee for safety..some of which came to me, who lived on the outskirts of town.”

 “No one knew how it started. After all, fire wasn’t anywhere close to being the most accessible resource they had. It was a luxury, even. It also never spread past the village and by sunrise, it ceased to exist altogether. The oddity of the situation made the survivors believe that it was some punishment from their lake deity.”

 "That thought clouded their minds and the thought of disappointing their all-forgiving god drove them mad..”

He made it to the lake by nightfall—not that he could tell by looking up, seeming as it's been the same color since earlier that afternoon—and as if a light was shining down on it from the sky, the lake gleamed almost magically. Its darkened waters seemed to shine like a ruby even under the thick clouds and he sees the ripples from where he stood in the distance. The waves paving a clear way for him to follow, slowly leading up to the center where he spots something.. 

 “Convinced that it was their fault everything was lost, the surviving villagers went about the rest of their days repenting by praying to the lake from sun up to sun down…”

As he slowly walked closer, familiar strands of hair became noticeable. Though cut into uneven chunks and spread out to be nearly invisible in comparison to the deep red of the water that it floats in, he was sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. That said, he found himself following the strands to the origins of where they once flourished from. His eyes locked on the indistinguishable lump once again and he was sure that it and the reason he came here were unrelated…until something floating beside it caught his eyes.

That something was a hairpin. One with a golden base and purple and red flowers dancing along the edge of it…just like the one he bought you the day you decided to throw him that welcoming party.

 “...until the waters rose and they disappeared while being enveloped by the deity's embrace."

 “Y/n.. Y/n!” Despite the pressure of it dawning on him felt like two boulders falling on his shoulders, Kabukimono rushed into the water and immediately the white clothing that covered his being stained a murky crimson whilst a putrid smell invaded his nostrils. It made him feel sick—nauseated, even—but he did his best to push it all down as he clumsily swam towards the center of the lake.

It wasn’t true. This wasn’t happening. This surely can’t.. What’s floating amongst the water truly isn’t what he thinks it is.

It isn’t you. There’s no way. You made a promise that you still haven’t fulfilled, after all. You wouldn’t break your promise, not someone like you.

After what felt like an eternity, he reaches the center of the lake which he now notices is more of an inky black and only stretches as far as a few rogue strands. He grabs ahold of the lump, sucking in a breath when his fingertips sink in slightly as if pressing against a firm, wet cushion. It felt disgusting. He hesitates, but ultimately squeezes down enough to pull it along even with the sickening slick gushing at the pressure and making his grasp unsteady.

He reaches land at long last, immediately escaping onto the wet grass and tugging the lump out along with him. It looked less like a lump now, and though swole and looking like some abstract art piece, there was no mistaking it. It was flesh. This was a person, or rather, the remains of one..and they looked eerily similar to you even when all blotched and bloody, there was no denying that.

But even if this was you, there’s no way you could be dead. No, that’d be impossible. You have to be asleep. You had to have decided to take a dip in the lake and fell asleep. That’s the only thing that makes sense.

His shaky palms reach out to you and he touches you with his cold, wet hands that were actively getting more and more drenched with every raindrop that fell on them. He gently swept your hair from your face, tucked it tentatively behind your ear, and cupped your cheek.

His breath stutters. It was as if he was touching pure ice. But that can’t be possible. You’re his sun, his light, somebody like you shouldn’t feel like this.

..Well actually, it makes sense. You fell asleep in the water plus it’s raining. Even someone as warm as you would succumb to the cold under these circumstances. It makes sense. It’s okay. He’ll help you warm up in the comfort of your home as soon as he wakes you up.

He slides his hand down your face—past your now oddly grayed lips and down your neck—until he reaches your bare shoulder, which wrinkles had been exposed due to his rough handlings in pulling you out of the water by the drapes of your clothing. He promises to apologize when you awake. Because you will wake up. There’s no doubt. Because you’re just sleeping.

 “Y/n..” He calls softly. Too softly seeming as you remain unmoving. He decides to give your shoulder a gentle shake, calling your name once again, “Y/n.”

 “Y/n. It’s time to wake up,” Your lashes don’t flutter. You don’t grimace from the discomfort of his shaking growing more and more aggressive. You don’t do anything.

 “I don’t mean to disturb you, but you’ll probably get sick if you lie here in the rain any longer,” The same result. Blood begins to seep under his fingernails from how hard he’s digging his nails into your skin. He continues to shake you anyways, even going on to grip your other, covered shoulder.

 “Come on, you can’t sleep around forever. I- I planned to surprise you by making dinner all by myself tonight. It’s your favorite so you have to try it,” His nose was beginning to tingle from the odor that was invading it. Where was it coming from? Why is it so much stronger than before now that he’s closer to you? He forces his mind not to make the connection. Not that there was a connection in the first place. You were just sleeping, after all.

Just sleeping, nothing else.

Kabukimono’s hand trails down your arm, down past your wrist, to your hand where he enlaces his fingers with yours, “Come on,” He said, though his voice was quieter now, more shaky, and his words cracked like glass, allowing his desperation to seep through just a little, “We have to get home..”

 “I- I want to go home now, so let’s go..please..” He lifts your hand, raising your arm into the air and ignoring the deep, dark lines etched messily into your skin—the deepest looking one right over the vein of your wrist—and giving it a firm squeeze. You don’t reciprocate the action.

His grip loosens after a while and your fingers slide down his palm and flop to the ground beside you. You had to be really, really tired. But that’s okay, he’ll help you out!

He moves to hover over you, a grim smile etched on his face as he loops his arms around your waist and hoists you up. Your body collides with his as all your weight shifts to lean on him.

He holds you tightly, his head turning so as to not hit his nose against your chest and instead allows you to lean against the side of his face, his ear pricking up at the sweet symphony of...silence.

Sitting there, amongst the loud rain with his ear pressed against your chest—right over your heart—he’s met with deafening silence instead of the usual beat your heart strings typically produce. Your heart wasn’t playing its usual tune. It wasn’t playing anything, in fact, because it wasn’t beating. If your heart wasn’t beating anymore that meant you weren’t breathing anymore either which meant..you..

Tears—ones that he wasn’t aware of—were building up in his eyes, falling like a castle under attack. They slowly descended one after another, quickly fusing with the rainwater and forming as a long, thick stream along his cheek and past his mouth—which he had cracked open to bare his clenched teeth.

 “Y/n..what have you done?” He whispered. His voice sounded small like a baby fox’s cry for help; vulnerable and weak. He then repeats himself one last time, slowly, “..Why have you done this..?”

Silence. His teeth crackles under the pressure of him forcing them impossibly closer together.

 “Answer me,” He says through gritted teeth before yelling out, visibly and uncharacteristically enraged, “Answer me!”

Silence. He shakes you hard, your head rolling every which way like a ragdoll to the point it’d make one believe that any harder would cause it to roll right off your shoulders. Luckily, for his sake, it doesn’t.

 “You promised me!” He shouted, his voice then dipped, “..you promised me..”

Silence. A choke spells his demise quickly after that and his strength suddenly fails him, allowing your body—your corpse—to fall unceremoniously to the ground. He follows suit soon after, and when he does, he lets out a scream. One that clawed its way out from the depths of his chest, spilling his agony out of his throat and laying it bare for the entire world to see…alas, with nothing but the moon to comfort him.

Humans are odd creatures. Ones that cannot be trusted, no matter who they are or what past they may harbor, at least, that’s what Kabukimono.. Kunikuzushi…

That’s what Scaramouche has grown to believe after centuries of nothing but betrayal.

Dividers were made by me, pictures used are from Pinterest, post formatting is inspired by @xxsabitoxx

[brisquad-unit-4402]

taking care of drunk ike

today it is my birthday once more so here, i'm posting my favorite fic in my drafts. i'm not sure what i should do today...?!

i love honest thoughts while drunk but i wanted to keep the idea of consent in mind... this is my balance weeeee. the longer the fic goes the more dicey it gets. kinda like actual blackout drinkinggg. so if you need to dip no worriesssssssss

tags: gender neutral reader, pre-relationship, fluff and angst, pining, open ending, fluff with a sad ending, sick fic?, blackout drunk ike, ike is a cute drunk, and then an emotional drunk, emetophobia/vomit, unspecified if reader drinks or not, slightest hint of lucake and shuca if you squint while yaoipilled, one (1) swedish word

⚠️ drinking, emetophobia

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Long story short: Ike is sloshed and needs to get home.

Long story long: Luxiem just wrapped up an ambitious project, so naturally you and the rest of the guys spent all night celebrating. The evening started off with a good meal and blowing your lungs out on karaoke, but if someone told you earlier today that Ike of all people would get piss drunk, you would've laughed in their face. Dude's Scandinavian. He's not a heavy drinker by any means but Vox is the only one that can keep up with him. Even then, it usually ends up with the demon plastered by the time Ike starts slurring his words together.

Except for tonight, of course. All Vox had was a shot with the rest of the guys when the night started, so that initial effect faded ages ago.

You weren't set on getting drunk either, so you ended up being the responsible one too. Even Luca sobered up. He's usually the next to go after local lightweight Shu, but the bar appetizers must've soaked up the alcohol, and now at the wee hours of 2 AM, the other two guys were using Luca as a crutch. Seeing sleepy-drunk Shu rest his head on Luca's shoulder was common. Ike trying to break free from Luca's grasp? Completely different story.

"Luca, let me go."

"Are you going to trip in your heels if I do?"

"No."

Luca let go of Ike's hand. Ike stepped forward, stumbled, and nearly ate shit before he could even get to step number 2. Luckily, Luca figured that would happen and grabbed his arm before the novelist completely lost his balance. "See what I mean now, Ike?"

Ike just grunted in half-hearted protest.

Meanwhile, Vox closed his phone. "I don't want him walking home alone," he said. He glanced at the Luca-crutch and the rambunctious child dangling off his arm (plus the contented Shu on the other side). "Uber should be here in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Vox," you said on Ike's behalf.

"It's the least I can do. Still, do you think he can make it to his apartment? He can barely stand up straight."

You got an idea. "I can go with him and make sure he gets home in one piece."

Vox tilted his head. "What about you?"

"Please, don't sweat it! We live less than five minutes away from each other, so I'll be fine. We even have spare keys to each other's places,” you said. Behind you and Vox, Ike was trying to pull his hand out from Luca's grasp. No matter how hard he tried, he had about as much force as a wet piece of paper. Luca was immovable. You continued. "Besides, I'm a little worried too. I don't want him to trip on concrete or anything."

Which brings the long story to now: you sit in backseat of an Uber with Ike who, as mentioned, is sloshed and needs to get home.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Without Luca to hold him in place, Ike didn't have much of an authority to rebel against. He complied without much of a fight. It's endearing watching him switch up; one moment he's acting goofy with the boys and the next he's docile, staring intently at the back of the passenger seat.

"What're you looking at?" You ask.

"Pouh," he says informatively. When you don't respond immediately he pushes his head against your arm like a pillow and repeats himself. "Pughhh."

"What?"

"Pockets," he slurs. He points at the back of the passenger seat, which is as flat as a board. "This seat doesn't have them. Which is so sad. If it can have pockets we should always have pockets no matter what."

"I think you should talk to women's jeans manufacturers about that."

"I would be great at women's jeans," Ike agrees.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

You thank the driver once the ride is done and open the door for Ike. Fortunately he's remembered how to walk but you support him as you climb the stairs to his apartment, one step at a time. His heels, usually quick and prompt, clunk on the ground. Ike sniffs.

Oh, no. He looks like a kicked puppy right now. Did something happen? You try to recount anything that might've upset him. "What's wrong, Ike?"

"I thought about it during the ride." He sniffs again. "Women's jeans don't have pockets and it’s making me sad."

“Sometimes they do!” You pat his back in a quick attempt to cheer him up. “I’ve even seen skirts with pockets.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” Ike smiles. “They should make more skirts with pockets.”

“Sure. Where’s your keys?”

Ike produces a key ring and misses the lock, so you open it for him. His apartment smells like cotton and the greasy hint of bacon, just like how you remember. It’s organized but clearly lived in, down to the folded laundry resting on a chair rather than their designated drawers.

“Come in,” he says, not at all surplussed by you. You visit each other often, after all. He ambles through the threshold and onto the couch with a satisfied “Oof.”

The first order of business is to get Ike some water. You don’t even have to guess which cabinet holds the glasses; you get it right on the first try. Once you’re done, you turn to the couch. Ike lays down on the couch, head plopped on the armrest and his folded hands, squishing his alcohol-flushed cheeks. His drooping eyes perk up as your get closer. He’s been watching you.

“Alright, you big dork, sit up properly so you can drink.” You nudge his shoulder, coaxing him up with a groan.

He straightens as you press the cold glass in his hand. With a wave of his free hand, he tries to say, “I shouldn’t, I’ve had a lot to drink.”

You raise the glass. Despite his protests, Ike wordlessly tilts it to his lip with your help. You must look like an alien species, a tangle of limbs holding a cup to a second mouth, but Ike closes his eyes as he sips. When he parts his lips are dewy. The center turns a brighter color, now glossy from the water, rosy red to accompany the flowery pink flush over his cheeks.

He glances at you. "Tastes watery."

"That's because it's water," you say, letting him get a grip on the cup by himself. "Go ahead, have some more. It'll help."

Ike lets out a tiny satisfied sound as he mumbles, “Only because you’re cute.”

Ah?

He drinks more of the water while you stare at him like an actual alien. His Adam's apple rises and falls with each gulp as you try to shake off your surprise. "I... I didn't know you were a flirty drunk, Ike."

Ike pouts at the implication. “I'm not! I’ve never flirted in my life.”

“What was that, then?”

“The truth,” he says plainly.

“Yep, you’ve had way too much to drink.” You rise up from the couch, refusing to let his unfiltered thoughts be detected as honest. However a weight holds you down. Ike clings to your legs, preventing you from getting up. "Wh—hey!"

"Nooo, don't go."

"What's the matter?" You try to wiggle him off, but Ike's grip tightens. Fluffy sand-and-sea hair rustles against your leg as Ike nuzzles you, face hot with liquor. Nerves kick in. Ike might be an affectionate drunk, but the most you've seen him is hug your friends with one arm and playfully sock them without much impact. There's no way he's thinking straight, not if he's intent on using your lap as a pillow. "Ike, I need to get up."

"I don't want you to go."

"I'm not going, I just need to get up."

"But that's the same thing."

"No, it's not. It's..." You inhale through your teeth as he tugs you back down. "Oh, Ike. I need to take care of you so you don’t regret this when you sober up."

Ike rests his cheek against your thigh now that you're back to sitting on the couch. He exhales. Warm breath settles over your clothes. "I regret everything I don't do with you."

Your furrow your brow. "That doesn’t make sense."

He raises his legs to his chest, curling up in your lap. "It makes sense to—to me." He hiccups. A hand brushes against your leg, then retracts as soon as Ike realizes he placed it there.

Drunkenness has granted him a dreamy tint to his jade eyes as he looks up to you, but you're starting to realize what's gotten into him. The weight of it presses down your back, just like how you support his head in your lap. "You make me want to do everything I wish I could do. If I was braver. Or honest." Ike sighs again. "I wish I was good enough for you."

You’re not sure if this is a conversation Ike wants to have drunk. You're not even sure if this is a conversation Ike wants to have sober. It's voyeuristic, listening to his thoughts out loud, the filter dividing personal and public nowhere to be seen. He's always been a private guy with his feelings—at least, he's never told you any of them. You think you understand why now. It makes you feel dirty. Like you've seen too much.

Ike blinks. Tentatively, his fingers brush your knee again. Eyelashes obscure the blue hope in his eyes, making way for the uncertainty laced in spring and jade green. The fear in ochre yellow.

He regains his sense of shame, closes his eyes, and tilts his head away, focusing on the threads on your clothing instead of his true feelings. They come out in a whisper. "I must be an awful friend for hiding from you."

"You're not awful," you say, just as hushed. He's never been. Ike's greatest critic has always been himself. He's never going to remember this, either. You're certain he's going to black out by morning, or pretend like he did, and that this never happened. You could too.

It's unclear if you're an awful friend for reaching out to Ike. You'll decide later.

But right now, all that matters is your nails light against his scalp, stroking his messy hair, smoothing down the strands like you’re brushing the thought away. Away. Let it go, Ike, I'll brush it away, away, away.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

"Uggh," Ike says groggily.

He fell asleep in your lap while you consoled him. It made your heart hurt, but the pain ebbed by the time you could hear his soft snores. Now that he's stirring, the hurt has dulled to a slight, simple bruise on your heart: easy to ignore, tender when pressed.

"Something going on?" You ask, careful not to be too loud.

"Urggg," Ike repeats. It's not groggy, you realize. It's nauseous.

You snap up. "Oh, no no no no nonononononono. Keep it together, Ike, keep it together!" You help him up and guide him to the bathroom. Simply put, he gets there in time. You hold his hair away from his face as Ike leans over the toilet and empties his stomach's contents.

Naturally in a moment of sickness, Ike is inelegant. Earlier, he used his mantle as a blanket, and abandoned it on the couch when he woke up. One of his fishnet gloves is missing. He leans so deeply that you can see the ridges of his spine through his button-up shirt, wrinkled from rest. You smooth it down, brushing the nausea away by rubbing circles on your friend's back.

He expressed so much about what you mean to him, yet the only appropriate thing you can call him is a friend...

Ike gasps for air. "Hell," he slurs, just before spitting up more of his sickness. He weakly grabs at the nearest wall as support. You can feel his stomach shuddering just by stroking his back, coloring the toilet water each time he retches. "Hel-helvete..."

"Don't talk, just get it all out," you say. He makes an unflattering noise in response; the vomit splatters against the bowl.

And to think, you thought yourself alien before. Clumsiness is common for Ike, but now it’s like guiding an ungraceful animal. He plucks off his glasses, tosses them aside. It feels like holding a cat by the scruff, a bag of rice by its seam.

Ike rasps. “Don’t go,” he pleads, throaty from slumber, slurred from stomach acid. The thought has yet to go away. “Do-don’t go.”

“I’m not leaving.” You set his glasses on the counter, pat his shoulders, and rip off a square of toilet paper.

Now that he’s seemed to recover, you tilt his head to face you. Ike averts jade-green eyes as you pad at his lip with the makeshift napkin. For the first time tonight, proper embarrassment overtakes him. His lip parts to protest, but freezes before the words come out, mentally rejecting whatever is on his mind.

The freeze extends to the rest of his face as you wipe at it. You try not to focus on his eyes, scrunched up with shame. His brows lower as he shuts them. It's only when you can't see the color anymore that you realize you've been paying attention whether you like it or not.

At least now you can observe him without feeling too awkward. Ike's a wreck. Obviously. His hair sticks out from where you held it out of his face. You have to use another square of toilet paper to clean him up. Luckily he's regaining his sense of decency, despite how his face is too ghastly pale to blush.

Ike sighs, barely coherent. "I feel gross."

"It's okay, it happens," you console. Nearby on the counter is a cheap plastic cup. You fill it up with water, then offer it to him. "How are you feeling?"

"...Better." He grabs it with his gloved hand, and traces a bare finger around the edge with the other. "But still gross."

"It happens."

"And I feel bad." You spring up, ready for action, but Ike waves you off as he continues. "Not like that. Just bad."

Instead he takes the cup and swishes, trying to clear the taste of bile. He spits into the toilet (just saliva and water, thankfully). Without his glasses, it's easier to see his hooked nose, especially as he pinches the bridge of it. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this."

"What? No, don't worry about it!" You pat Ike's back again. "I'm your friend, of course I want to make sure you're doing alright."

"I don't know how I thought I had a chance."

"It's okay, you just had too much. Don't beat yourself up over it."

"You're t-too good for me."

"No, I'm your friend."

"I should've figured." For the first time Ike seems to notice he only has one glove on. He rubs his thumb over the fishnet as he stares into the cheap plastic, the crystal water above it. "My imagination always gets the best of me and I have to pretend like I—like I didn't get my hopes up for nothing." He hiccups again. He already threw up all the booze, but you can still smell the alcohol on his breath as he stumbles through his words.

"You're drunk," you say, because now is not the time. No matter how much it pains him to express it, or how much it pains you to keep quiet, Ike deserves better than your true thoughts when he won't remember them at all. It would be cruel to play with his heart.

In the quiet introspection, Ike sits down on the bathroom tile and leans against the wall. He swallows down the alcohol taste. Shadows carve out his exhausted features, including the eye bags usually hidden by his glasses, and the lost, lamenting green of his eye. There's no way he can hear your thoughts, but the emotion sits heavy on his shoulders. He understands the hesitance.

Ike says, "I know." There's nothing to do about it. All you can do is pretend tonight never happened, or that Ike knew how to hold himself back, or that you never had these feelings to begin with.

"I wish I didn't," he adds. Already he protests the silence. It's an elaborate dance around the elephant in the room, but all he wants to do is get in his high heels and trip. If he could he would crash into everything, make a mess, stumble and slip and fall just as hard as he fell for you, over and over again, until he sprains his ankles and his body turns black and blue and the world swirls with dizziness. It wouldn’t be much of a difference. You make him go zero-gravity. Floating on air. The things he dreams of have wings in never-ending motion, away, away, away. "I think I need to lie down."

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

should i make a part 2?

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[pepperf]

Genuinely can't decide if the writers intended the Five and Lila relationship to be toxic, or if that's just their idea of romance - just like Rochester, Heathcliff, Darcy, and that dude from Twilight, right???

Okay, let's have a readmore. Note tags, ppl, and curate your experience.

Lila has a relatively sensible approach to relationships, which is consistent, despite her somewhat Machiavellian approach to getting what she wants out of them - she put Diego in his place about having realistic expectations back in s3. She's pretty clear about who she is and where her lines are drawn, and is "weirdly self-actualised", according to Klaus. And Five - romantically inexperienced, thinks everyone should do what he says at all times - tries to impose his notion of How This Should Go onto her, from nearly the start of their brief romance, but leaning hard into it once it starts going sour - which also checks out: he was alone for 45 years and his previous relationship was all in his head, giving him full control, so that's what he's used to. But I couldn't tell if they genuinely intended to show it as him being incredibly selfish in prioritising his feelings over her wishes, or if they honestly thought it was romantic. I mean, the barbed wire-style bracelet is a little on the nose, and there's some symbolism that I'll get into in a sec. Truthfully, I'm not inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt - I think SB at least thought it was hot, judging by what he's said about identifying with Five, and about how he finally gets to have a romance. This seems to have been his pet project for the season, blergh.

It's that tedious old misogynist chestnut, that all women secretly want A Man to take control. It's frustrating, because they already established that Lila likes to be in charge, she wants to be free to make her own choices, she'd already had twenty-plus years of being told what to think and do. And yet she has to remind Five, who really ought to know her better by now, "You do not get to decide what I do with my life!" It's also very disconnected from reality. It's not actually fun or sexy to be gaslighted, to be lied to by some insecure asshole who thinks they know better about what's good for you, that they have a right to stick their nose into your personal relationships or keep you away from your kids. Not cool, Five, not cool. He's lucky she didn't kick him in the nuts on the way out. But another reason I think they didn't do this consciously is that Five doesn't seem to realise his assholery - there's no hint that he's regretting anything other than being dumped.

Lila was trapped for seven years in an intense, claustrophobic situation with Five - and if they'd continued to exist, she could have worked through the feelings that come out of that. Like Ritu said, of course there's going to be love there: they've spent seven years together, on the run. If nothing else, it would be a matter of survival - either you find a way to get along, or you kill each other. And they went in with a fair amount in common already (although being adopted by the Handler at age four is not at all the same as being recruited by her at age fifty-something). So I'm annoyed that Lila's whole arc this season is one of frustration about having to be the grown up in her relationship, taking a break to reassess, going off to do something a bit crazy and fun - and promptly getting stranded with someone considerably less emotionally competent.

Okay, I'm being somewhat harsh - Lila unexpectedly getting the timeout she wanted could've been a decent storyline, she could have some time to reflect, live the child-free life without consequences, and have some adventures (she actively enjoys danger!). And she and Five got to bond, that had lots of interesting potential, especially with their complicated history. But it tipped over from being a potential opportunity into an immensely over the top punishment for her impulsivity, and took them so far from where they'd started that there's a total emotional disconnect with the main story. Which is a fucking weird choice for one episode in such a short season, ngl.

And then, ugh, she's right back to dealing with the apocalypse, visibly thrown by a Diego who has unexpectedly thought about what she said and is trying to be a better husband, and dealing with a Five who has decided to get territorial. It's deeply uncomfortable, Five is gearing up to start trouble, so wrapped up in his own hurt feelings that he's functionally useless for the actual problem in front of them - leaving Lila to deal with the mess he creates, and then leverage said feelings to get him to put on his big boy pants and help. She still reaches out to him in the end, I think she knows him well enough by this point to understand what makes him tick...and she's having to be the sensible one up to the end of her existence. Can't she have someone who's willing to meet her halfway? The reflecting that Diego did, him making a start on making amends (given that it was only a few hours for him, that's about as much as they could squeeze in) was basically just wasted. They start to reconnect at the end, and mutually apologise for the damage they've done - but that's all they get, and it's a travesty.

Personally I think the whole storyline should have been cut, but if - if - they really felt it added something, they could have given it some time in the real world, see how this shaky new romance holds up against a serious relationship that's been massively fractured. In a different show, that might have been a fine story. But they don't do that. Whatever she might have wanted, Lila doesn't get time to even think about her choices. She gets to stop existing. (Or they could just have not gone there in the first place, god I hate love triangle plotlines, they do no favours for anyone involved!)

Given a continued existence in which to do so, I'm sure Five would have moved on pretty quickly. It's his first romance with a real person, he feels it intensely - but once the dust settled, he'd see that they were in very different emotional places (she wanted to get back to her family, the break from reality is way overdue to end - and he wanted to stay in their little bubble and leave all that behind). The actual romance part was actually pretty brief, and lacking in any deep communication - as Lila says, it wasn't real. They're playing house in an attempt to feel normal - in a greenhouse (a fragile structure, not a real home), eating strawberries (a treat more than real sustenance), like children...hey, maybe I'm wrong and the writers DID intend to do that, bc that's some choice visual metaphors. And they're playing roles: all their normal antagonism - what made them so fun and sparky in previous seasons, and even during the earlier part of their adventure! - disappears. Lila is a chameleon, taking on a character is her happy place - and this was how Five kept himself going, last time he was in this situation, so he's slipping back into that method of survival (although he's not as good as she is at separating reality from fiction). So while all that is totally understandable, it's insubstantial. If Five had the space to do some self-reflection, or if one of his more rational siblings (Luther maybe, or...um...or a friend, if he can make one...or maybe that dude in the Losers Department at the CIA...) sat down with him and explained that you need to treat a partner as an equal, maybe he could do better next time - or double down and keep being an asshole, that's also a strong possibility.

idk - I still don't honestly think the show intended it that way, unfortunately. I think they shoehorned the characters into the scenes they wanted, regardless of sense or even plot requirement. There are a LOT of badly-explained or badly-thought out moments in this season, and this whole mess just adds to the incoherency. Or maybe it's just a consequence of TV - you get multiple creative people involved, and the reasoning gets muddied, especially over time. Maybe it was SB's intention from the start, but he didn't inform the actors until the final season, so they've been playing it straight.

This show has an...interesting tendency to do something that you think is totally unacceptable and just gloss over it at the time, and then address it next season (like Luther apologising to Viktor), as if the writers all brought it up in their respective therapy sessions during the break, and worked through the issues - so maybe if they'd had another season, they would have gone into all that. Maybe. But we're clearly not going to get that, and they're all gone from existence so I can't headcanon that in this universe, they eventually sort it out. So I'm putting it down to one thing:

Break out the dodgy facial hair (I see you're ahead of me, Five) and let's get kicking babies!

[leothil]

fic recs: archive edition 30

I was considering putting this project on hiatus over the summer, especially as I'm away at our summer cottage for several weeks now, but I've gotten asked if new rec lists will be out and that made me quite happy! :) So here you go! We're moving into 2022 now and the fandom was slowly starting to see some hints of where 5B would be taking us.

Previous rec lists are found here!

kiss me, kiss me (i don't know if i can let you go) by ipretendtobesane (@usereddie) As Buck is leaving one evening, Eddie kisses him goodbye without thinking about it. And Buck gives him a kiss back. And then it keeps happening, but they keep not talking about what it is. There's not way that can lead to any misunderstandings. 10.3k words, rated G

Come then, and be broken by @unintentionalgenius During a call Buck disappears without a trace, and a detective thinks it fits the pattern of a killer who seems to target first responders. Eddie does not handle it well, and we get to see him, Maddie, Bobby, and Chimney try to process their fear and grief. Heed the warnings and tags. 98.2k words, rated E

am i more than you bargained for yet? by lecornergirl (@clusterbuck) Or, what happens when I wax poetic about Eddie in eyeliner to Emma one too many times. The 118 put together a charity talent show, and if Eddie is going to perform an alt rock song, Buck will damn well make sure he looks the part too. 4.1k words, rated E

your voice as my lullaby by talktothesky (@thatbuddie) Soft established relationship fluff where Buck comes home a little drunk from a wine night with Maddie. 1.5k words, rated G

i'm headed to the mountains by hammersmiths (@henswilsons) Abby POV fic mostly during and after 3x18, of her trying to deal with Sam getting hurt in the train derailment and what she did to Buck, and why. 7.8k words, rated G

Happy reading, and thank you for the continued engagement with my posts!

[sxcret-garden]

Aspects of Desire ღ Masterlist [M]

ღ Ateez Jongho x fem!reader ღ feat.: other members in some chapters ღ words: ~29k (current wc) ღ genre: established relationship, college AU, fluff, some humor, slice of life, smut (dom!Jongho, mostly sub!reader, BDSM, red-yellow-green used as safe words, choking, spanking, masturbation, punishment, orgasm denial, reader being tied up, strength kink, body worship, teasing, degradation, begging, hair-pulling, pain kink, reader going into subspace, dacryphilia, thigh riding, fingering, handjobs, oral, unprotected sex,... they have a few starting difficulties because reader has some misconceptions, he's veryvery careful at first - more will be added and I'm pretty sure I forgot smth, so detailed smut descriptions can be found in the respective chapters~) ღ warnings: heavy dom-sub dynamic, reader has a bit of a difficult relationship with her family, which is mentioned in some chapters, (descriptions of him picking reader up & touching her hair)

Desc.: When one day you reveal something to your boyfriend that you've been hiding, but unable to stop thinking about, the two of you decide to take your relationship - and especially your sex life - into a new direction. You begin to establish a dynamic that you both soon want to explore more of, diving into the depths of both your own and your partner's unknown desires.

If you want to be added to my taglist for this fic, please send me an ask about it <3

1st Desire ღ Testing Limits (5.9k) Desc.: You and your boyfriend decide to take a step towards a new chapter in your relationship when a secret desire of yours finally slips through. What you didn’t know until now is that he’s more experienced than you thought he was, and that you’re not the only one who’s been dying to spice up your sex life.

2nd Desire ღ Tie Me Down (5.1k) Desc.: Lost in your excitement over the recent development in your relationship with your boyfriend Jongho, you try to tickle more of his dominant side out of him. When he shuts down that attempt with only the best of intentions, he makes sure you won’t stay flustered by your miscalculation for long.

3rd Desire ღ A Little Jealousy (4.8k) Desc.: When you’re meeting up with your classmate and friend Yeosang in order to finally finish that dreaded uni project that’s been keeping you on edge for the past weeks, you don’t expect him to bring along his flirtatious friend Wooyoung. What you also don’t expect is said friend knowingly attempting to flirt with you in front of your boyfriend, who just can’t help but let the hint of jealousy it makes him feel influence his actions once you’re in the comfort of your own home.

4th Desire ღ Hush, My Dear (5.8k) Desc.: Dinner with your family goes about as you expected - you’re slightly uncomfortable because of their choices in conversation topics and very much bored. Luckily, your boyfriend tagged along and knows just how to make you feel better, and in the process he too seems to be able to finally let go of his worries.

5th Desire ღ Dress (7.2k) Desc.: Your mother is trying to get you to wear a dress she picked out for you for your cousin’s upcoming wedding. At times like these you are especially thankful to have your boyfriend Jongho right by your side to help convince her to let you wear clothes you’re actually comfortable in. However, little do you know that despite having your back, he’s secretly smitten with the image of you in that dress.

6th Desire ღ ...

...

Author's note: I think it's been about 3 years since I first had a vague idea about wanting to write a fic like this, which started out as merely a cute slice of life fic (without all the filth y'all are about to witness lol), went through many different changes and was abandoned as many times, until through lots of inspiration and ideas it finally took on the form it has now. And I'm really happy that I was finally able to turn it into an actual fic and not just a few unfinished drafts! I hope you guys have fun with this and enjoy~

(more chapters will be added as they're ready - and i have a lot of ideas...)

[butchdiaz]

tagged by @iinryer to do a 2024 fic roundup but i'm adding my videos in too because. uh. its fun to look back! and i want to!

MARCH

american teenager (36s)

my first ever commission! for my best friend bia! to this day i hear do what you want (do more!) everytime i listen to this song.

APRIL

arms (1:02)

this was for seti. and it hurt.

good luck babe! (1:11)

literally never felt euphoria the same since the week of bi buck when i made this. changed the timeline. (although i was so euphoric and excited to post that i cropped in a rush and left a little white line in one of the shots and it pisses me off massively to this day. yes im a virgo thanks for asking)

to open up my arms and give it all to you (2.5k)

my little buck coming out to chris fic with hints of buddie <3 bi buck got me writing again after months of literal Nothing. god bless

one of your girls (3:09)

kirby's vision went OFF. so proud of this one like. its gotta be one of my favs and i feel like it became a bit of a butchdiaz classic which makes me so happy :D

MAY

kill her freak out (1:33)

this video is my little baby. ohhh samia. ouaagh eddie.

scared of my guitar (2:23)

shoutout to the way the dialogue syncs up in this one. rly satisfying to me hehehe. honestly didn't think i'd like this one as much as i do but she hits hard

promise (1:15)

love when people commission me to edit songs im already currently obsessing over yay!!!!!

JUNE

happy to be here (2:16)

julien baker. eddie diaz. aka abby had a mental breakdown making this one.

closed hands, full of friends (45s)

this was my first time editing a song i had Never heard beforehand! 3 cheers for finding new music!!

JULY

l'amour de ma vie (3:26)

ok not to toot my own horn but. this one is good. i feel like i really told a story u know. and about now is when i started to play around with fun/more intricate text ooh ooooh

a burning hill (1:01)

this prompt was designed in a lab to kill me specifically. i wanted to do the whole song originally but i like. could not go on.

my ego dies at the end (2:49)

i reallyyyy like this one. long edits my beloved! i love to build to something. i rewatch this one often tbh. jensen mcrae is everythinggg

AUGUST

north star (2:16)

again, had never heard this song b4 i got this prompt and it got me obsessed with this searows album. this edit makes me feel all soft. rly loved incorporating fleabag into it bc like. fleabag for life. shoutout summerofbuddie for the inspo

feels like (58s)

this song has been on my buddie playlist(s) forever so i was So excited to get this prompt. it was so fun to make something. not depressing and just like. fluffy. fun fact i hand drew all the hearts for this in ps and they were such a pain to work with but i really love how it turned out cause i'd never done anything like that before :')

pink balloon (2:29)

finally made a proper buck amv. after so many eddie ones it was actually nice to switch it up. felt re-inspired! also always so inspired by samia ugh. i am an eddiegirl literally to my bones tho so this was both v hard and v fun to make.

SEPTEMBER

"i want a divorce" / "it was a date" (2:19)

the buckshannon parallels ouuugughhh. this was one of those ones that haunted me so persistently i literally was forced to make it. saw hanna's post and then blacked out and i was posting this.

had a feeling i could be someone (3k)

+

leave tonight or live and die this way (1.1k)

dyke buddie!!!!!!!! these fics are sooooo near and dear to my heart. i love to make everyone wlw! i love to project my butchness onto my fav characters! wrote these so fast (for me) like writing has Never flown out of me like that. i was possessed by the spirit of lesbianism. and. GOD. the response to these fics also makes me want to cry daily. the beautiful art that was created?????? for me and my little fic?????????? i actually can't believe it i love you guys so much. lesbians forever and ever and ever.

did it to myself (1:11)

another one of my favs. i think it slaps so hard tbh. i tried a lot of new stuff and it was so FUN. orla's music is so much fun to edit to i need to do another one of her songs asap.

afraid of heights (2:46)

boygenius wrote this for my friend buck buckley. got entirely consumed by this one. thank u han for being my buckafraidofheights warrior for life <3

headlock (2:23)

i love buck but i remember coming back to making an eddie amv and breathing a sigh of relief. i just Get him. its so easy. this one's underrated i think oop it kinda slaps

OCTOBER

savior complex (3:16)

this one was a rly good challenge and idek why. super happy with how it turned out though i like watching it back

NOVEMBER

funeral bell (2:54)

the buck thesis statement. to me. and such a crazy unique process. loved working w kaitlin on this one and sending her 10 million drafts (she rly got a behind the scenes tour yall and it was not pretty). this was an absolute BEAST to make despite it not even being that complicated. i think i just cared so much about making it perfect for my dear friend who trusted me with her visions and inspiration and that made it all the more special!

you get your dreams for free (14.8k)

drunk cuddling!!!!!!!! my longest fic i've posted to date and i fully thought i was never gonna finish it. i abandoned this last YEAR but im SO glad i came back to it and most of the reason for that is because of the absolutely lovely responses to my earlier fics this year <3 literally hilarious to me that i originally wanted to post this on halloween 2023. abby. abby no.

surrender my heart! (1:30)

post-confessions euphoria + a carly rae jepsen prompt? i was literally in heaven. SURRENDER UR HEART EDDIEEEEEEEEE

DECEMBER

every place leads back to your place (2.1k)

music inspires me soooo much (looks up at this post. no way right.) so i absolutely loved writing based off a song! and a chappell song nonetheless!! so fun to twist a breakup song around to fit Them. i particularly love the kiss in this one <3

oldie's station (3:17)

phew we're almost there! this one is recent but lowkey it feels like another classic to me already. i really really like it. making it felt like cooking a three course meal and watching it kinda feels like eating one :D (thank god) (i spent so many hours in that kitchen)

letter to god (1974) (2:27)

+

letter to god (1983) (1:52)

putting these together bc they are sister songs and sister videos. first time in my life i've worked on two videos at once. it was fun because they kind of grew together and influenced each other very directly. not fun because i ran out of space and my laptop crashed. several times. these felt rly indulgent and raw. kind of shocking to me how perfect both songs feel for both of them. had a lot of fun messing with the voice/video filters to try and place these in their respective eras bc im obsessed with that aspect of the songs. halsey's artistry is crazy yall if u havent listened to her newest album GO. NOW.

the rush of slumber party kissing (3.2k)

posted this literally yesterday lol. also my first time writing smut. somehow. scary! but i did giggle all the way through writing this tbh. when buddie reveal their true nature as silly teenage girls >>>>>>>>>>

SPECIAL SHOUTOUT

fleabag au wip, who saw the light of day again this year. she could be finished in six months or six more years, but she Will be finished. im determined!

<3

ok if u read all that uh. wow congrats fhdhhdh im gonna get sappy for JUST A SEC now cause uh. im actually blown away by the support and love and appreciation this fandom has shown me this past year. you guys have given me so much confidence in my skills as both an editor and a writer and you also quite literally helped me pay my rent. by making videos about gay firefighters. its actually kind of mind blowing to me how lucky i am and i never want to take that for granted <3

to anyone who has commissioned me, or sent me a prompt, or left a comment on a fic, or a tag on a video, or sent me a kind ask, or subscribed to me, or followed me, or reblogged anything of mine this year: thank you.

im so grateful for this little community and all the friends and connections i have made through our collective insanity over a procedural drama on abc (neé fox). yall rock so hard.

<3

tagging @userbuddie @chronicowboy @confessionseddie @try-set-me-on-fire @userautumn @lovelettered @exhuastedpigeon @sibylsleaves @saryasy @team-118 @lemmeaskthedevil @eddiebabygirldiaz if u wanna do any sort of yearly roundup!

[rootedinrevisions]

In the Wings: Part 1

SUMMARY: When you're offered the chance to work as a hair and makeup artist on Top Gun 3, it feels like a dream come true. Leaving behind your routine for a Hollywood blockbuster, you arrive on set with high hopes but little expectation of the whirlwind to come. That all changes the day you meet Glen Powell—charming, grounded, and quick to make an impression. As your professional relationship grows, so does a spark between you, but you're still keeping things strictly work. For now, the only thing you're certain of is that this job will be like no other.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Anon who sent me this request and gave me the idea. I'm really hoping I can take your idea and do it justice. I think this will end up being around 4 parts. But if I feel like I need to make it longer or shorter I'll adjust as I finish revising it.

WARNINGS: None.

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

TAG LIST: @omgbrianabomgbrianab I @shanimallina87 I @fanficmom94 I @smoothdogsgirl I @djs8891 I @saucy-sassy-sparkly  I  @alipap3  I  @dudinhastuff  I  @lunatygerqueen  I  @hookslove1592  I  @glenpowellluver  I  @missmarveledsblog

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

The email came through on a Wednesday afternoon, catching your attention amidst a relatively slow workday. The subject line read: “Film Contract Inquiry – Urgent Response Requested.” As you clicked it open, your curiosity piqued instantly. The production team was interested in hiring you as a hair and makeup artist for an upcoming film. But unlike most offers you’d received in your career, this one was cloaked in secrecy.

You scanned the email again, focusing on the specific wording. Top secret. No details were given about the film itself, just the fact that you would be based primarily in Southern California, near San Diego, for a total of twelve weeks. The cryptic message hinted that you might also be required to travel for a few additional shoots at other undisclosed locations if needed.

While these types of jobs were nothing new to you—you’d been working on movie sets for over a decade—this one had a different feel. 

For one, they didn’t even mention the title of the project. 

And the compensation offer attached to the email? Far beyond anything you’d ever been offered before. You leaned back in your chair, letting the numbers sink in. They clearly wanted the best for this film, and the pay confirmed it was going to be something big.

But how big? The secrecy surrounding the whole thing was hard to ignore. There wasn’t even a mention of the production company involved, and everything was handled through private communication channels. 

Not only that, but they'd already sent over a non-disclosure agreement for you to sign. Until the movie was officially released, you wouldn’t be able to discuss a single detail—not the actors, not the plot, not even the locations.

The NDA felt like a weight in your inbox, staring back at you as you reread the email for the third time. Something about this film was different, and it intrigued you. Whatever it was, it had to be major if they were going to these lengths to protect it. And with that thought in mind, you clicked “Reply” and began typing.

* * * *

The flight to San Diego was uneventful, and the California sunshine greeted you as soon as you stepped out of the terminal. You quickly spotted a driver holding a sign with your name on it. After introductions, you handed over the address they’d provided, ready for the next step of this mysterious journey.

As the car began weaving through the busy San Diego streets, you took in the sights—the familiar palm trees, the ocean in the distance, the hustle of a city on the coast. You’d worked in Southern California plenty of times, but something about this trip felt different. The secrecy still clung to you like a shadow.

The driver made small talk, but you were too focused on the location to fully engage. It wasn’t until you noticed the roads becoming less crowded, the landscape shifting from city to something more… official, that your curiosity spiked. Fences lined the road now, and you could see uniformed personnel at several checkpoints as the car continued.

A military base?

Your heart skipped a beat as realization dawned on you. You leaned forward, squinting out the window at the upcoming sign confirming your suspicion: Naval Air Station North Island.

The driver pulled up to the security gate, handing over the proper identification and passes. After a brief exchange with the guard, the car was waved through.

You sat back in your seat, processing. So, this film has something to do with the military. That narrowed it down, but not by much. There were plenty of military-themed movies out there, but none that warranted this level of secrecy. You thought back to the emails, still trying to piece together what kind of project could possibly be in the works.

The car came to a stop outside a large set of trailers tucked behind an aircraft hangar. Military personnel and crew members bustled around, a few actors you didn’t yet recognize standing in clusters nearby. The atmosphere was buzzing with excitement, but still, no one gave anything away.

The driver helped unload your bags, and you thanked him before making your way toward one of the trailers you’d been instructed to report to. A sense of unease mixed with anticipation settled in your chest. You were about to find out what all the mystery was about.

With your equipment in tow, you approached the door to the hair and makeup trailer, pausing just long enough to take a breath before stepping inside. Whatever you’d signed on for, you were about to find out—whether you were ready or not.

You stepped inside the trailer, greeted by the familiar scent of hairspray and cosmetics. The space was bustling with activity—mirrors lined with bright lights, makeup kits neatly arranged, and hair styling tools humming in the background. Three other stylists were already there, each at their own station, chatting quietly as they organized their gear.

You scanned the room for an empty spot, finding a vacant station near the back. The butterflies in your stomach settled as you began unpacking your kit, laying out your brushes, combs, and palettes with the same precision you did before any project. Your hands moved with a practiced ease, though your mind was still racing with questions about the film. You tried to brush it off as first-day nerves, but the secrecy of it all still gnawed at you.

A couple of minutes passed before one of the stylists, a brunette with sleek hair pulled into a tight ponytail, approached you with a friendly smile. “You must be the new hire for this project. I’m Katherine,” she said, extending a hand.

“Hi." You said as you gave her your name and shook her hand.

“Welcome! You’ll love this crew,” she said, gesturing to the others who were busy in their own areas. "We’re still settling into the schedule, but it’s a great team." She paused, lowering her voice slightly, “Though this project is next-level crazy, right? So much secrecy.”

You nodded, laughing softly. “I know, right? I’ve never had to sign so many NDAs before starting a job.”

Just as you were about to ask more, the door swung open, and a crew member entered, holding a stack of papers. He looked around before making his way toward you. “I’ve got your list of actors and the schedule for this week.”

“Thanks,” you said, accepting the documents from him.

He gave you a quick nod before heading out, leaving you alone with the list in hand. You glanced down, scanning the schedule you and the other hair and makeup artists would be following. Then you notice the names that are listed.

Tom Cruise. Miles Teller. Glen Powell.

Your eyes widened slightly as recognition hit. You’d heard those names before—especially from Top Gun: Maverick. You looked up from the paper, your heart picking up its pace again. Could it be?

Before you could process it further, you overheard one of the other stylists—Lily—speaking to Katherine in a hushed tone. "I think I saw Tom Cruise on set earlier. They’ve kept it under wraps, but... it’s definitely Top Gun 3."

Your breath caught in your throat. Top Gun 3.

It clicked. The secrecy. The military base. The list of actors. This wasn’t just some random movie set—it was one of the biggest sequels in recent history. You were part of Top Gun.

You tried to keep your face neutral, but inside you were buzzing with excitement. Top Gun 3. You had landed a job on one of the most anticipated movies ever. You looked back down at your list, realizing that you would be working with some of the biggest names in Hollywood over the next few weeks—one of them being Glen Powell.

Your mind raced as you processed it all, but you kept your cool. This was your job, and you needed to stay professional, no matter how starstruck you might be. You took a deep breath, refocused, and went back to setting up your station, knowing that your first day on Top Gun 3 was just beginning.

You were adjusting the lighting at your station when the trailer door creaked open again. You didn’t pay much attention at first, focusing on getting everything perfect for the day ahead. But then, you heard a familiar voice—a low, playful tone that filled the room with ease.

"Is this where the magic happens?"

You looked up, and there he was—Glen Powell, standing in the doorway with a laid-back smile on his face. He was taller than you expected, dressed in casual workout gear, his hair its natural shade, but you knew that wouldn’t last long. Your first task was to lighten Glen’s hair a few shades to look a little more naturally sun-faded than his darker natural color.

His eyes landed on you, and for a brief moment, there was a spark—an instant recognition of something unspoken.

"Yep, this is where we make the magic happen," you responded, grinning as you set your tools down.

Glen walked over to your station, his posture relaxed yet confident. “You must be the one in charge of turning me into Hangman 2.0.”

You chuckled, motioning for him to take a seat in the chair. “I guess I am. Ready to go a few shades lighter?”

He raised an eyebrow, taking a seat in the chair with a smirk. “Let’s see what you’ve got. I’m trusting you with my hair, so no pressure, right?”

“Oh, none at all,” you quipped, rolling your eyes playfully as you grabbed the bleach kit. “Just a couple of hours and we’ll make you camera-ready. Shouldn’t be too painful.”

The banter was light, but the chemistry between the two of you was undeniable. Even though this was your first time meeting, the interaction felt natural, as though you’d known each other for longer. Glen was easygoing, and you found yourself smiling more than you expected as you worked.

As you began sectioning off his hair, you asked, “So, are you nervous about going blond again? Or is this just another day in the life of Glen Powell?”

He leaned back in the chair, his grin widening. “I won’t lie, the last time I did this, I felt like I ended up looking like an extra from Legally Blonde. But hey, if you’re the one doing it, I’m sure it’ll turn out great.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I promise, no Legally Blonde vibes. Just a subtle lightning. You’ll still look like Hangman.”

Across the trailer, a few of the other makeup artists glanced over, their eyes darting between you and Glen, smiling knowingly. Sarah, one of the artists working on another actor, shot you a teasing look before leaning over to her client, Jay Ellis, who raised an eyebrow in Glen’s direction. You overheard a soft chuckle from Jay as Sarah whispered something.

Glen, oblivious to the side glances, watched you carefully as you applied the bleach, a casual silence settling between you for a few moments before he broke it again. “So, how’d you end up on this project? You’ve got to be pretty top-tier if they brought you onto Top Gun.”

You glanced at him, surprised at the question. "I've been in the business for a while. Special effects makeup is kind of my specialty, but I do all kinds of stuff. They contacted me about this job, and it was all very hush-hush until I got here."

He tilted his head, clearly impressed. "Well, looks like we’re in good hands.”

You felt a subtle warmth in your chest at the compliment, though you brushed it off quickly. “Just doing my job,” you replied, grabbing a small brush to touch up a few sections of his hair. “Anyway, you’ve got the easy part today. They’re filming inside, so minimal makeup. Just enough so you don’t look like a ghost on camera.”

He chuckled. “Don’t want to scare anyone off with my Casper-like complexion.”

As you continued working on his hair, the conversation flowed easily. You asked him about his last few projects, and he asked about yours in return, keeping the tone light and casual. There was something effortless about talking to him, and it made the time fly by faster than expected.

When the bleaching was done and his hair was the perfect shade of lighter blond, you gave it a final check in the mirror. “Well, what do you think?” you asked, turning the chair slightly so he could see the result.

He inspected his reflection, his eyes lighting up in approval. “I’ve got to say, you nailed it. No Elle Woods here.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Told you.”

With his hair done, you moved on to the makeup—just enough to prevent any washout under the bright lights. It was quick and simple, a few strokes here and there, but even as you applied it, the easy conversation continued.

“You know,” Glen said suddenly, as you brushed a bit of powder on his face, “for someone working in Hollywood, you’re pretty laid back. I’ve had stylists who barely talk and are just all about the job, and then there’s you—who’s actually, you know, fun.”

You laughed softly at his words, feeling the compliment slip into the air between you. “Well, I try. I’ve learned that being chill makes the day go by smoother.”

He smirked, his gaze locking onto yours for just a beat too long. “Good policy.”

There it was again—something between you that neither of you acknowledged aloud, but it lingered, making the air feel slightly heavier in the best way. A moment passed, and you stepped back, finishing the last of his touch-ups.

“All done,” you said, stepping back to clean your brushes. “You’re officially camera-ready.”

He stood from the chair, taking a quick look in the mirror again. “Not bad at all. You’re good at this.”

“Thanks,” you replied, flashing a small smile. “Just don’t mess it up too much before they get you on camera.”

He chuckled, his eyes catching yours once more before he turned toward the door. “No promises.” And with that, he gave you a playful wink and left the trailer, leaving you with a slight smile lingering on your lips. 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Sarah leaned over with a knowing look. “Looks like you and Glen are gonna get along just fine.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “It’s just work,” you said, though the butterflies in your stomach told a slightly different story.

Jay chimed in again, smirking. “Yeah, sure. But I’d say that was the most fun Glen’s had in a makeup chair in a long time.”

[dame-zoom-a-lot]

Prompt: Meet Ugly | Word Count: 1153 | Rating: G | POV: Eddie | Relationships: Eddie & Steve, Eddie & Al | CW: Child neglect, badly raised Eddie with a lot of internalized misogyny | Tags: Meet-Ugly, Steve / Eddie as children

This is an entry for @corrodedcoffinfest's May Mayhem Bingo.

Chips Off The Block (ao3 link)

"You're ready," Dad says, handing him the precious hotwire kit.

Eddie curls cautious fingers around the wires and the clamp. This is Dad's baby. He's seen Dad use it a hundred times (ok, maybe less) but this is the first time Dad's trusted him to do the deed himself. Dad holds the clamp for him, watching silently as Eddie goes through the motions he's practiced in his mind dozens of times. Open the cap. Pull the wires out. Connect to the wire kit. Match the colors. Jump it.

The car whirls to life and Eddie squeaks with excitement before he collects himself (he's not going to be a fucking girl about it). He looks at Dad with a smirk.

"Not bad," Dad says with a similar smirk. Eddie wiggles, barely able to clamp down on his joy. Dad's been so… quiet since Mom died. Eddie missed seeing their matching smiles. Dad gestures for Eddie to get out of his way, so Eddie clambers into the passenger seat. Dad doesn't wait for Eddie to strap himself in before he starts the car because seatbelts are for losers like Wayne.

Eddie looks out the window as they drive out of the motel parking lot. The clock says two am and he fights to keep his eyes open. It's so rare to get to hang out with Dad like this. But Dad isn't saying anything, and the car is nice and toasty now that it's running and…

"Dad?" a small voice in the back whispers. The car screeches to a halt. Eddie pokes his head out around the seat to peer into the back. A little boy with a head full of very thick wavy hair is emerging from a pile of blankets in the back. He rubs his eyes and squints before his eyes go wide. "Where's dad?" he whispers, scooting to a corner of the car.

Eddie jumps when Dad books it out of the car with a loud slam. "Dad!" Eddie screams after him. Dad keeps running for a few more steps before he stops, wheels around, then turns back. Eddie relaxes a little. He knew Dad wouldn't actually just leave him.

Dad opens the door, grabs the hotwire kit, and runs away again, this time even faster. He doesn't even look back.

"Where am I?" the little boy whispers.

Eddie seriously, seriously considers running out of the car after his dad. But the little boy in the backseat is just a kid. He's staring at Eddie with wide, scared eyes. Eddie sighs and goes around the car into the back seat to sit next to the kid. He scooches away and squeezes himself even harder into his little corner.

"Not gonna hurt you," Eddie says softly. He holds out a palm for the boy to shake. "I'm Eddie," he says, trying to project confidence.

"I'm… Steve?" Steve says, taking Eddie's hand. They shake tentatively before pulling away. "Why are you in my dad's car?" he asks again.

"Why were you in your dad's car?" Eddie asks back. It's a trick Dad taught him. Answer questions with questions until the original is forgotten.

"Dad wanted to talk to a lady. He told me to wait in the car," Steve says. His lips start to wobble. "And he's going to be mad that I left."

Eddie tries to snap his fingers under Steve's nose to distract him. He can sometimes make that loud sound. But of course tonight is the night when all he can muster is a sad thwack. Steve snorts then performs a perfect little snap right by Eddie's ears like an asshole.

Eddie's going to have to be the bigger man though. "You did wait in the car," Eddie assures Steve, "see? You're still in the car? The car just moved with you in it."

"But what do we do now?" Steve asks, voice small, "where are we?"

"Ok, Steve, Stevie, Good ol' Stevie boy," Eddie drawls out. Steve looks at him, rapt. He looks about the car, desperate for any kind of hint. He can't drive. He's seen Dad do it a lot but he's not tall enough to reach the pedals and he also doesn't know which pedal is which. He's pretty sure he's seen payphones but his pockets are empty. Shit. Shit! The car is getting colder.

Steve shivers and wraps the blankets tighter around himself, and it reminds Eddie so much of when he used to be little and left alone at home and felt so cold and small that he kept clawing more and more blanket onto himself so it would feel like something was hugging him and one day a quarter fell out of the blanket and so he used that quarter later to buy a jawbreaker and he watched that candy travel up and down the strings and contraptions in the machine, and he was hoping that if he pulled off this job well Dad would give him another quarter so he'd be able to get a jawbreaker again and…

"Eddie?" Steve whispers, head cocked.

Right. Right. They need to get out of this car. They need to get home. They need to call someone to get them home. That someone is Wayne. But to get Wayne he needs quarters. And quarters are found in couches. And what is a backseat but a big couch?

"Ok, Steve, this is what we're going to do," Eddie declares, squaring his shoulders. "We're going to dig through this car and look for money. Then when we get that money, we're going to leave the car and find a pay phone. Then when we find a pay phone, we're going to call my uncle Wayne and he's going to get us home. Are you with me?"

"But it's my dad's money," Steve whines.

Eddie pinches his brows. Jesus H Christ. This is why he hates little kids. "How old are you Steve?"

"Seven," Steve says.

"Well I'm eight and a half," Eddie says, puffing out his chest, "so you gotta do what I say right?"

"But my dad—"

"Isn't here. I'm the grown up here. And you gotta do what I say right? Your dad can't get mad at you because you listened to someone with more ex…ex…"

"Experience?"

"Yeah!" Eddie says, nodding.

Steve doesn't look totally convinced, but he does eventually join Eddie as he crawls around the car and checks every nook and cranny. This is the cleanest car Eddie's ever seen, but they do manage to find a single quarter buried deep in the corner of the glove box.

Sweet relief floods him when Wayne pulls up to the payphone they're at in his shabby pickup truck. Eddie climbs into the back with Steve, who leans on his shoulder to fall back asleep. Eddie feels the weight of his responsibilities melt away and he lets Wayne's lame banjo music lull him off to sleep.

^ Eddie from Wayne's POV (image source)

[sameschmidtdiffname]

heyyyy can I pls req something where Mike tries to make it up to the reader after he says something wrong in their 1st fight as a couple? like “I don’t want to lose you” as an apology and they get back together or something along those lines? tysm I really enjoy ur work :))

But of course!!!

Wanting, Waiting

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: Overworked and underfed, you'll go to sleep once some decent work is complete. However, a late night turns into a day long fight.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no gender specific pronouns for Reader, pre-established relationship, argument, cursing, Reader and Mike both got some shit going on, hints of an eating disorder, overworking, hurt/comfort, crying, mentions of: suicide/death, depression, drugging, and kidnapping. Vulnerability is gross.

Notes: 'Slip' walked so this could run full speed into a brick wall. I feel as though I may have redeemed myself.

                     ▪︎◇{¤♧■♧¤}◇▪︎

This page is mocking me.

The hour is late. I stopped checking the clock around 2:00 A.M., and there's a cup of cold coffee right next to me on this table, several rings on the inside from where the coffee had been left sitting far too long. It's cheap, the flavor sticking to my teeth in a way that settles my lips into a slight grimace as I try to convince my hand to move my pen across the just as cheap notebook paper that has been sitting in front of me since I came home.

Come on. It's words. What the fuck is hard about this?

'It's not hard if you can actually get your head out of your ass and do something,' I think to myself. Not helping.

I have an irritating collection of drafts. Oh yes, I can start them and I can certainly plan out the works before me. But actually writing is somehow impossible, and even though I can feel how thick the block is in my mind, preventing me from communicating my feelings properly, I just can't get break myself out of it.

Come on. Finish one draft. Then everything will click together for the rest.

For the past few weeks it's been just like this. Come home, sit down with projects, and try. But no matter what I do, I just can't focus. It's as though my head simply won't allow it. And this house, quite frankly, isn't helping. It's admittedly unsettling atmosphere, the loud noises born from nothing. It's as though I can feel the weight of the dead that used to sit at the same glass table as I watching me over my shoulder, pressing their non-existent weight against me, making my chest tight with pressure I cannot voice because that's not fair to the ones still here truly haunted by their presence. I'm just a guest who overextends their stay, quite frankly.

Just a page. Just write a page and you can get up for a moment. Ignore how loud the fridge is at something clunks inside of it.

A page. Get a page. Come on, you imbecile, how hard is a fucking pa-

"I thought we talked about this."

It's a testament to my mental state how high I manage to jump in my chair, my tired and over-caffinated heart set off to make me dizzy with over exertion from fear, turning to see who has come to voice their thoughts and damn us both with them.

"Mike," I sigh. I place a hand on my chest, rubbing slightly at the spot where I feel my heart pounding against my sore ribs. "Don't do that."

"Have you slept at all?" Mike asks disapprovingly. His arms are crossed against his chest, heavy bags under his eyes from another night of restless dreams. He can't sleep, I won't sleep. If he'd allow it, we could actually get shit done this time of day.

"A little," I lie. He's just worried. About everything. He always is, which at first was something I loved about him. And usually I still do. It's an admirable trait, to care about someone and love them so much it's only natural to fret over them, to check and make sure they're taken care of properly.

Except it makes me feel guilty.

"Oh yeah? What time?" He asks, narrowing his sleep swollen eyes at me.

Details. Fuck.

"Ah, uh- I don't know, I wasn't looking at the clock," I say sheepishly, trying to flash a disarming smile and make my own bags look like ones of bare minimum rest instead of self neglect. Mike's jaw tightens slightly.

"Oh?" He says in a dull voice that is not raised, yet managed to ring throughout the room nonetheless.

I hum affirmatively, pressing my lips together and fiddling with the cheap pen in my hands, glancing down at it in an attempt at trying not to give myself away.

"Yeah, I don't know. Just like, laid my head on the book and... y'know... drifted off for a couple hours," I try to say casually.

"Ah," he says as though that were enough, leaning now against the doorframe of the hallway, looking at the other wall as though the paint were interesting. "How long after I went to bed, do you think?"

Keep your breathing even. He can smell fear. "Like, a couple," I answer with a shrug.

"Or, like, not at all," he says, turning his head back to stare down at me with a glare.

"I slept," I insist.

"Bullshit. You give me unnecessary detail about your shits post mexican take-out, but you can't tell me what time you fell asleep?" He says accusingly.

"I was asleep! I'm sorry, do you want me to lie and give some time because you need it for some reason?" I ask evenly, shrugging as though to ask what he'd like me to say, blinking at him and adding a tired tinge of a croak to my voice to match his.

"I'm sorry?" He asks, eyes still in narrow slits yet somehow widening slightly, his leg uncrossing from over the other and planting firmly on the floor as he stands straight.

He's not that tall. Kinda short. But he looks much bigger when mad. Kinda like an iguana. I told him that one time and got bit. Jokingly, of course. It's not like he'd just reach over and sna- You know what? Irrelevant.

"I'm just saying," I say, starting to turn back to my notebook as though the conversation were finished.

"No-no, I'd like to hear that again," he says. I can hear his footsteps pad against the flat, tan carpet, my shoulders stiffening slightly as I train my decreasingly neutral eyes on the wrinkled, lined paper in front of me. "I liked the part where you made me sound like some insecure teenager for calling you out on your shit. Very original."

My lips press into a thin line, my grip on my pen tightening slightly.

"It's not that serious, Mikey-"

"Don't bullshit me, and don't use some cheap nickname as a cop out via sympathy," Mike snaps, standing now on the opposite side of the table, pressing his hands now against the glass surface that dirties so easily. Trust me, we've had to clean some prints off of it.

There's a line, and at some point I'm going to cross it. The problem is it's hidden under mental sand that makes me unclear of exactly where it is.

"Michael-"

"That's formal," he says, leaning forward on the table, his tone the same as an interrogating mother just waiting for the moment where no one will blame her for finally tearing you to shreds for what you've said to her outwardly innocent statements. A trap.

"I'm sorry, I thought you didn't like cheap nicknames?" I say, fighting the irritation in my voice, barely managing to remain even as I click my pen to begin writing.

"What's wrong with just Mike?" He asks. He reaches across the table, placing all five of his fingertips on my paper firmly and dragging it back across the table towards him, withholding it from me.

"Would you like me to use just Mike?" I ask.

"I'd like you to make eye contact while you lie through your fucken teeth," he says calmly, not moving as he continues to stare me down.

"Okay, Mike. And what exactly does my sleep schedule mean to you?" I ask slowly, trailing my eyes from his hand, slowly up his arm with pronounced veins and muscles, to the white cotton shirt that was two sizes too large and usually what he wore to sleep in, until I meet his dark and slightly hateful eyes.

"We had a conversation," he starts.

"A conversation," I repeat.

"About a month ago, do you remember?" He asks, cocking his head slightly in that way it does when we both know I'm not going to dare to answer with anything other than he wants.

"You ha-"

"I had a concern," he interrupts me, now looking down at the notebook and studying it as though it were a piece of fine art. "Which involved how absolutely awful your ability is to take care of yourself properly."

"Mike-"

"Shut. Up." Mike says with disturbing calmness. "I'm talking."

Fine.

"It's fucking rude."

Not saying it's not.

"Like your attitude when I try to just help you because clearly, you can't help yourself," he says, now slapping down the notebook to gesture at me as though it were obvious why he was concerned.

I could speak. I'd like to. And he gives me a long enough silence I could. But instead I decide I will simply give him the floor.

"No opinion on this?" He asks shortly.

"No," I say with a dismissive shrug. "You seem to have them for me."

Mike laughs at this statement, and if the sparkle in his eyes didn't seem to have the same dull shine as the glass table between us I'd feel a bit better about it. But I think there's a six foot hole in the backyard I just signed a lease on that makes his disturbingly convincing smile much more worrisome.

"You're funny," he says affectationately. "Get up."

"What?" I ask, blinking.

"Are you deaf now? Up," he says in irritation, beginning to cross back around the table. "This isn't a negotiation."

Before I can speak his hands dig in under my armpits, roughly pulling me to stand and bringing me close to his chest. I should have energy to fight back, I've only been sitting after all. But a physical confrontation would be too loud, first of all. Abby is asleep in her room, and I don't want to make a scene to wake the poor child. Number two, my bones are sore, my head is aching and I generally just do not feel well enough to protest. Physically.

"Put me down, you son of a bitch!"

Verbally, I'm fine.

"You're going to bed, that's final!"

"I have twelve drafts due that I have to get done or else this project-"

"You have four hours of sleep you can get before you have to take your candy ass to work in the fucken morning, or else I'm gonna beat it into you," he hisses directly in my ear, his breath cold and loud so close to me. Jesus, fuck. What did his parents feed him as a child? It shouldn't be this easy for him.

"Oh, I don't do what you want and now you threaten physical violence. Very mature," I mock, reaching out to grip the doorframe of Mike's bedroom, purely to piss him off.

"Save me the dramatics," he snaps in a whisper, wrapping one arm tighter around my waist and using the other to bat my hands away from the frame. I can tell he's genuinely trying not to hurt me, his grip on one wrist firm but careful.

"Just let me write one page," I try.

"That's what you said last night," he says, still trying to pull my hand away. My nails have dug into the frame, making it slightly harder. I can sense his irritation growing. "You got two hours of sleep."

"That's not going to kill me," I argue.

"You haven't slept for more than two hours in a week," he says.

One nail breaks against the frame, making me lose my grip and sending pain down my arm from the awkward angle at which the pressure had snapped it off. I wince slightly, which gives Mike slight pause as he checks my hand, but decides I'm alright before he begins dragging me towards the bed in earnest.

"Why is it so hard for you to just take care of yourself?" Mike asks in frustration.

"I take care of myself!" I say defensively. Mike drops me onto the bed, standing in front of me to prevent any new attempts at escape.

"No, you don't," he says, quiet but firm. "You sit and stare at your notebook and you don't do anything else if you can help it. You sleep for two hours, you go to work, you hardly eat, you don't have energy anymore." Mike's hands are planted firmly on his hips, his nostrils flailing as he tries to take collected, calm breaths. "I care about you. Why can't you?"

"Michael-"

"Stop!" Mike snaps, groaning and turning away from me with a sharp spin on his heel. He buries his hands in his hair in frustration, now pacing between the bed and the door, quietly shutting it so we can argue in peace.

"Why are you so upset?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"Because I don't want to see you live like this. I am concerned and every time I bring it up you dismiss me, you joke, you don't care and I hate that," Mike says, temporarily stopped in his tracks to point at me as he seethes. "I'm watching you waste away and you know what? I'm starting to think part of you likes it."

"Excuse me?" I say, astounded. I cross my arms in front of my chest, cocking my head at him in a way to say 'I dare you to repeat that.'

"You heard me," Mike says, taking a step towards me. "It's like you cannot for one iota of a second conceive of some world where taking care of yourself is a good use of your time. You work, and work until you've burned yourself out so horribly you rot in bed for a month. And unless you're staying here, I hear nothing from you. Not a call, not a fuck you or whatever. It's like you're punishing yourself."

"Now who's being dramatic?" I say.

"See? I can't even point this out without you getting defensive, which just shows you know you're in the wrong!" Mike turns away from me once more, resuming his path of restless walking.

"Why do you even care?" I ask genuinely. This makes him pause again, his glare once more returning to me as he mentally questions my intelligence.

"You know what, I don't know!" Mike snaps, his voice gaining volume. "You are insistent in this fucking- slow method suicide and I'm trying to help you, but you won't let me!"

"I never asked you to care," I scoff, rolling my eyes.

"I never asked to care!" Mike nearly shouts, leaning in close to my face and sneering at me.

This breaks the tension.

His face falls as soon as the words are out of his mouth, his eyes widening slightly like my own eyes. This comment shouldn't really sting. I shouldn't let it. But it does. And for a moment, I do. And he sees that clearly.

"... oh," I say softly, my arms relaxing and shoulders sagging ever so slightly as I drop his gaze, trying to shut off my emotions before they're obvious.

"I'm sorry," Mike says quickly, stumbling to his knees in front of me. "I didn't mean that-"

"It's fine," I say, trying to remain as blank as my pages on the kitchen table.

"I just said it to be hurtful," Mike says quickly, his hand reaching up to cup my face. I take it away, turning my head to the side slightly. There's a new chill in the air, one I can feel seizing my chest.

"You weren't," I say. "I'm going to sleep."

"Please, I don't want-"

"I'm going to sleep," I say forcefully, shoving him away and turning to begin undressing from my work clothes that I still wore. Mike is silent behind me, probably thinking, and I'm close to not being able to hold myself together anymore.

"Get out!" I snap, flinging my shirt at him in a rage and beginning to stand from the bed to chase him out. He doesn't need anymore prompt, quickly scurrying out from the room to wherever it is he'll sleep now. Probably on the couch even though there's another room down the hall. A self induced punishment. Knowing him he probably won't even allow himself a blanket or pillow, feeling the cold air fitting for his selfishness.

Good.

-

When I wake that morning, I can smell breakfast in the air. My stomach hurts from skipping meals, but I don't want to eat. First of all, I haven't worked for a meal. There's still plenty to be done with my drafts. And food is a good encouragement to keep working. Second, I didn't ask him to care. And he didn't ask for it either. There probably isn't enough for me, and if there is, he and Abby can debate between the two who will have it. I need to shower.

I take forever washing myself. If that's what you want to call it. It was moreso standing under hot water, letting it run cold until I couldn't stand it anymore and hoping my deodorant is able to do some heavy lifting today. I barely have enough time to get to work, passing silently by Mike and not turning when he calls my name, walking out the door as fast as I can without running.

He follows me outside, something shaking in a bag behind me. When I finally open my car door I'm forced to have my gaze in his direction, his body between the door frame and my car door, presenting me with a bag of lunch.

"Please eat," he begs, placing the bag in my lap unceremoniously and then quickly stepping away and shutting the door himself.

There's a small moment where he and I just share at each other through the glass, time slipping away without notice. He hasn't slept, he'll be late for work if he doesn't get dressed soon, and the bag on top of my thighs is warm. Fresh. A petty part of me wants to roll down my window and throw away the meal, back out of the drive way and let that fester in his mind out of hate. He thinks words can hurt? Actions are so much worse.

But there's something in his eyes. Defeated, resigned. Childlike is almost the word I could use. In front of my car is the 12 year old boy who tried to chase down his brother, the 18 year old who decided to sacrifice his life raising his little sister while saying goodbye to his parents, and the 27 year old man who's just trying to keep everything together.

I don't know what to say to this child. Or to the man.

So, with the turn of my key in the ignition, I don't.

-

It's late when I come home. When the manager had asked me to stay late I almost called Mike to break the silence and tell him this. But there was still a part of me that didn't care whether or not he knew. Really, I didn't have to return home tonight. I could go back to my apartment and just let him rot in bed the way he claims I do. How could he say such a thing, anyways? I rot in bed? What about the days I've walked into the house and he hasn't slept all week, where he's claiming he's trying to kick his medication and he'll get the hang of it soon. Where his sister is eating every meal almost burnt because he can't think straight enough to remember time. Where I've had to coax, beg, demand of him that he just takes a pill because he's laying on the side of the bed, small and curled in on himself, dead eyed and obviously tired but still not sleeping. One time I slipped it into his food. And I felt awful. Do not think for a moment I wanted to do that. There was a betrayel in his eyes when sleep began to overtake him. I hoped he wouldn't notice, but he must've. Some tell in the drugs effect that made him aware his rest was not voluntary. But I didn't care. I stroked his hair through the night, and I'll do it again. He could hate me however long he needed to, he just needed sleep first.

The irony still hasn't struck me when I walk through the door of his house, well past dinner, Abby in the bath. The door was left unlocked, which is unusual for this time of night. Mike jumps from the couch the minute I open the door, standing with his hands by his side anxiously pulling at the edge of his oversized sweater.

Everything's oversized with him. The thought occurs to me that his father was slightly bigger.

"Don't leave me," he says quietly, his voice small and pathetic like him. But I don't say that with hate.

"I just got home," I say. "Be a bit odd to leave again."

I try a smile, but it's artificial and we both know it's only for his comfort. It doesn't touch him, his eyes glassy and lips slightly parted the same way a child's is when they're trying to breathe as their sinuses spring to life in wake of forming tears.

"I didn't mean it," he says, still standing in the same place. If I was a better person I'd probably run to him. But I'm not.

If I were a better person, I'd say I believe him. But I don't. And suddenly my throat is swollen with hurt, my own bottom lip is sticking out and now we're both trying not to cry because this is so overly taxing. We're adults but emotions are hard. Vulnerability is hard. It is a damnation that we both detest, both avoid. In better states we would joke about this, would laugh and tease the other for not having the emotional capability to voice our thoughts. But we're not. So we don't. And now we're crying openly in the off-putting, attempted to look cozy living room that we can never fully relax in.

"I don't wanna lose you," he says between small hiccups, hands now balled into fists that he buries under opposite armpits, shifting his weight so that he doesn't look so small. His glances bounce between me and the hallway table, never fixing on either of us as he tries to state his mind like an adult. "I've barely had you."

In my heart there has been a constant ache, hurt flowing and pumping through my veins like the blood that ran cold last night at his hurtful words. His apologetic words make the ache somehow worse.

"I don't mean to be a burden to you," I say softly, feeling a small, stray tear break the fluid barrier of my waterline to race down my cheek, allowing a pathway to the fatter drops that threaten to quickly follow.

Mike's face shifts, stepping towards me and holding out his arms.

"No, never," he says just as soft, trying to comfort me. I freeze as he approaches, my body stiffening as I try to swallow the lump and convince myself that I can survive his touch. His touch that I normally crave the moment I'm around him, that I seek in the dark of night even when the bed is overheating, that I'd go insane without.

"I've never asked you to care," I say, voice breaking and tears rolling freely now.

"I know," he says into my neck, which is wetting as he shakes around me, his grasp firm and careless of whether or not it's too much.

"I don't mean to cause problems. I just...." I don't know what I mean, how I wish to finish the statement. If I was clever, I could. If I was clever, I wouldn't even be in this problem to begin with.

"I'm just scared," he chokes out, his breathing horrible as he struggles to keep his crying from being obvious. "You look sick all the time and I don't want that."

He's told me the story. His mother wasting away, thinning and slipping, starving and dying. How he'd returned home to a baby wailing in her crib as their mothers body lay in a pool of blood he never really got out of the carpet. He lied to me initially when I saw it the first time, said it was wine. It wasn't until we had a few glasses ourselves that his eyes glazed over and he told me. It was disturbing how neutral he kept himself to the subject. A habit he'd developed much too long ago to break.

"Mike-"

"I try, and I try and if something doesn't give soon I'm gonna fucking lose it," he sobs into my skin, arms tightening around me.

"If what doesn't give?" I ask softly, trying to pull him away to look into his eyes. But he doesn't budge, sobbing a little bit harder and gripping a little bit tighter. He doesn't respond, simply shaking as he breathes heavily against me through his mouth.

"Hey," I say softly, trying to wrap my arms around him, failing and giving up as I realize his grip is too tight. "I'm not going anywhere."

His mouth closes a little, quieting his breathing slightly as he sniffles.

"I'm an idiot, but I'm not suicidal," I say softly, trying again for a joke. He doesn't laugh, but he does pull away slightly to look at my face, lips swollen and quivering as he blinks at me.

"You scare me," he says quietly, not quite meeting my eyes. He's watching my lips, but I think that's because that's the closest he can get to making eye contact.

"I scare you?" I ask, furrowing my brows. I lick my dry, cracked lips for comfort. "Why?"

"Because I love you," he says shakily, sighing as though it were exhausting to admit while still holding that nervous flicker in his eyes. "Because when I think about not being with you the house seems colder. And I can't go back to hating this house."

I open my mouth to respond, but there's more.

"Because I love your stupid smile when you're excited, or how you do that cricket leg thing when you're falling asleep. Or how if you want my attention you'll bury your head in my chest and pretend you're doing it in your sleep even though I won't judge you for doing it while you're awake."

"I don't-"

"I love how defensive you get over things like that," he says, bringing one hand to cup my cheek, resting his thumb that smells like the creamy lavender handsoap next to the bathroom sink on my lips. "I love how you look waking up next to me, how you play with Abby. And for a really long time I didn't see myself ever having kids, but when I see you curling her hair at the kitchen table I think maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I just took up another job and saved money so that we could-"

"Mike-"

"Stop cutting me off," he says gently, his eyes finally meeting mine with just the smallest smile. "It's rude."

At that I do stop, my body finally relaxing into his grasp as I lean into him and his touch.

"I want things I haven't wanted since before Garret went missing," he says, stroking my lip. "And I want them with you."

Dinner was just as delicious as lunch, even if it was late. And the bed is soft like our voices as we make plans for years down the line. And after a week long break, the pages are finally filled once again.

Just like us.

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Literally had a come to Jesus moment while writing this that not only do I fear being vulnerable irl, but in writing too. Nearly threw up while writing this. Book aable feet.

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@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool . Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

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