#Dynamic Currency Conversion

[dailyfinancial]

SBI and IDFC First Bank’s New Credit Card Rules: What Changes from April 1?

“The latest changes to SBI and IDFC First Bank credit card rules effective April 1, 2023. Learn about revised interest rates, lower fees, enhanced rewards, and new security features. Stay informed and adapt to these updates for smarter credit card usage. Read now for a complete guide!” In a significant move, SBI and IDFC First Bank have announced changes to their credit card rules, effective…

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝒽𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓇𝓊𝓃 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝑜𝒷𝓎 𝓇𝑜𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: It all started at a frat party [ 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝑒 ], where a guy with a cigarette dangling from his lips decided to make the balcony a little more interesting. What was supposed to be a one-time encounter—just another hazy college memory—ended up being anything but forgettable. 

You were never supposed to see him again, let alone get caught up in his world, but fate—or maybe something much darker—had other plans. Now, you're stuck in a twisted game. The secrets pile up faster than the lies, and the college town you thought you knew becomes a never-ending game.

And you? You never sleep. Because when you chase a monster, you better pray it doesn't decide you’re worth keeping. But hey, if you’re playing in a game, 

…you better be prepared for the hit-and-run. 

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Bruh, my roommate hit me with this request right in the middle of midterms. It’s been sitting in my drafts for a minute because I was trying to figure out the decent ending. Finally got around to finishing it because midterms ended (spring break baby), so here you go.

Art by shatteredankles (above) on Instagram

Hope it doesn’t come off too corny—y’all let me know.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: toby x afab!reader, OC! Mention, proxies gang (Kate, Tim, and Brian mentioned), enemies to lovers, smut, toxic relationship, stalking on both sides, cat and mouse dynamics, obsession & possession, dubious morality, crime duo (??), found family (sort of), power play, manipulation & mind games, blood & gore, criminal activity, femme fatale vibes and unhinged ass characters.

There are only two rules you need to survive college:  

Watch your back. Don’t get caught.

Sounds dramatic, right? You might be wondering why anyone would need rules like that in a sleepy little college town, where the biggest crime should be freshmen sneaking out past curfew or someone getting caught swapping answers on an exam. But when you're stuck in a place like this—one that feels just a little too small, a little too quiet—well, strange things start to happen.

The rules started as whispers, traded between students like secret currency, slipping from jittery hands to hushed lips over coffee-stained textbooks. They were nothing more than cautionary tales at first—just another way for the usual college gossip to get a little bite. The kind of thing you'd hear in a dimly lit dorm room at 2 AM, passed off as just another urban legend.  

But rules just don’t come from nowhere.  

The red-brick buildings lining the main street give the town a picture-perfect charm like something ripped straight from an old postcard. The local coffee shop, the one with the overpriced lattes and disappointingly stale muffins is where you go to pretend the world outside doesn’t exist for a little while. 

It all feels safe. Too safe. Like a town frozen in time, where people still leave their doors unlocked and the worst thing that could happen is a bad grade on a midterm.  

But something had to happen, right? There’s a reason for all of it—the security guards, who once spent their shifts scrolling through their phones near the dining hall, now walk the campus in pairs. Their radios crackle more than they used to, static-laced whispers punctuated by clipped voices, urgent and low. Their footsteps aren’t just footsteps anymore; they’re warnings, rhythmic echoes against the pavement, reminders that something is lurking just beneath the surface.  

The campus police? They’re not parked outside the student center anymore, killing time over lukewarm coffee and half-hearted conversations. No, now they circle the parking lots at night, their headlights slicing through the darkness like something predatory. The beams sweep over empty spaces, catching glimpses of movement that might not even be there—but you can’t shake the feeling that someone, or something, is watching.  

Even the professors have changed. The ones who used to hold open-door office hours, always ready to debate a thesis or chat about weekend plans? They’ve started locking their doors. Their smiles don’t reach their eyes anymore, and when they talk, there’s something hesitant in their voices, like they’re choosing their words too carefully. You’ve caught them glancing over their shoulders, eyes darting toward windows as if expecting to see something—or someone—on the other side.  

At first, you told yourself it was just paranoia. College kids have a way of spinning stories, of turning stress into superstition.  

But then the change settled in.  

Your college used to be the kind of place that only felt alive on weekends, the streets overflowing with students, their laughter mingling with cigarette smoke and the sour scent of cheap beer. Not anymore.  

Now, the streets clear out before dark. The dining hall is quieter, conversations hushed, as if speaking too loudly might draw the wrong kind of attention.  

And the woods—the shortcut everyone once used, the one that shaved minutes off the walk between the dorms and the off-campus bars? The one where people used to sneak away for stolen kisses or drunken dares?  

Nobody walks through there anymore.  

Not after the body was found at that frat party.

Not an overdose. Not a bad batch of pills passed between sweaty palms in a dark corner of the party. Not too many shots, not a drunken stumble down the rickety-ass staircase that everyone always joked was a lawsuit waiting to happen. No. This was different.  

The university scrambled to keep up appearances, like slapping a fresh coat of paint over a crumbling wall and hoping no one noticed the rot underneath. They made their statements, rolled out the usual ‘tragedy counseling’ emails, and stationed security around campus like poorly placed scarecrows—useless, ineffective, just there to make it look like they were doing something.  

But it was all for show. Because if the administration was rattled, if the people in charge were nervous, then everyone else had a damn good reason to be terrified. And yet, despite the whispers creeping through every hallway, the paranoia threading itself into every conversation, one thought kept clawing at the back of your mind, an itch you couldn’t quite reach:  

Why the hell can’t you remember what happened?

Because while the rest of that frat house was losing their collective shit over the body sprawled out on the sticky floor, you?  

You were too busy getting your brains fucked out.  

Funny how that worked out, isn’t it? How you were the first to leave that party before the cops even had a chance to step through the front door. While everyone else was panicking, screams cutting through the pounding bass, whispers catching like dry brushfire, you were nowhere near the chaos.  

You were upstairs. Pressed against the balcony railing, fingers gripping softwood, breath stolen by the heat of a so-called one-night stand. Drunk—not on alcohol, maybe a little high too, but on adrenaline, on the way your pulse thrummed beneath your skin, on the way the world blurred into nothing but the rush of the moment. By the time sirens painted streaks of red and blue across the night, you were already gone, slipping through the cracks like a ghost.  

And for the past two weeks, you’ve played your role flawlessly.  

You’ve gone to class and nodded along to lectures as if your mind wasn’t stuck on a loop, replaying that night in fragments, trying to remember what refuses to be remembered. You’ve turned in your assignments, smiled at the right moments, and laughed when it was expected. You’ve answered your parents’ calls, your voice steady, and words practiced.  

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“No, I’m not drinking.”

“Yes, I’ll be careful.”

But it’s all bullshit. Because deep down, you don’t feel fine. 

And you’re not scared like everyone else. Your hands don’t tremble when you pass the flyers—the ones with their vacant-eyed face frozen in ink, the desperate pleas for information scrawled underneath. You don’t flinch at the whispers that slither through the halls, the ones warning that whoever did it might still be out there. 

Because you've been looking for him.

Toby.

It should have ended that night. Just another random hookup at a frat party—one more mistake swallowed up by cheap beer, loud music, and the aftermath of too many bad decisions. But it didn’t. It couldn’t.  

Truth be told, you don’t even know why you’re looking for him. Maybe it’s because that night is a haze of alcohol, smoke, and adrenaline—a blurry, fragmented memory. But there’s one thing you can’t shake: the way his hands felt on your skin—rough, confident as if he’d already figured you out, mapped out every inch of you without even trying.

It should’ve been forgettable. 

But something about him lingered.  

Maybe it’s because he vanished after the party, like a ghost—gone without a trace, like he was never even there. Just a shadow that flickered in the background and then disappeared when you weren’t paying attention. Maybe it’s because a part of you, the one you don’t even want to acknowledge, needs to know if he had anything to do with what happened that night.  

Because here’s the thing—  

Toby was the last person you saw before everything went to hell.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just some reckless, drunk hook-up who disappeared before the sun came up. It happens all the time, right? One night, a mess of bad decisions, and then—poof. People vanish.  

But the memory of that night won’t leave you alone. It lingers in your head like a half-finished song, the details slipping in and out of focus. The pulsing neon lights. The bass rattling your bones. The press of bodies, the stench of sweat and liquor thick in the air. 

And Toby—always just outside the chaos. Leaning against the balcony railing with that lazy smirk, eyes sharp and unreadable. Watching you. Like he already knew how this was going to end. But now? Nothing. No social media. No mutuals. No whispers in the usual circles. Every time you ask, you get the same response—confusion, shrugs, blank stares.  

It’s like he never existed.  

And that pisses you off more than anything.  

So, like any completely normal, rational, well-adjusted person, you do the only thing that makes sense.  

So you start digging.  

At first, it’s casual. A name-drop here, a lazy, “Hey, you know that guy from the party?” there. You don’t expect a full-blown biography, just something—anything—to prove he was real. A scrap of recognition. A passing mention. A sign that you didn’t just imagine him in the haze of cheap vodka and adrenaline.  

But the deeper you dig, the stranger it gets.  

People remember the party. They remember the chaos, the flashing lights, the sirens wailing in the distance. They remember the whispers about the dead kid found in the upstairs bathroom. But Toby?  

Nothing. No one knows him. Not even a hint of recognition.  

And that’s when the obsession starts to claw its way under your skin.  

Because most people? They just shrug it off. A few tilt their heads, brows furrowing in concentration, trying to pull a face from the fog of a booze-soaked night, but coming up with nothing. It doesn’t add up. Toby wasn’t some invisible figure standing in the corner, just another face in the crowd. He wasn’t some wallflower you might’ve missed in the blur of the night. 

No, he was there. You saw him. You were with him.  

But the more you ask, the more you realize how wrong it all feels. No one remembers him. Not in the casual, "Oh, I was too wasted to notice" way. No, this is something else entirely. This is the "He wasn’t there at all" way.  

One girl insists she saw you alone on the balcony that night. Another swears she’s never had a cute guy at a frat party before, and then there’s the guy—the guy—who looks at you like you’re crazy. He gives you that pitying look, the one that makes you feel like you’re the one who’s lost touch with reality, and says:  

"You sure you weren’t just imagining things?"  

That one sticks. It lodges itself deep in your chest, cold and jagged, like a splinter that you can’t pull out. It burrows in, nagging at you. At first, you laugh it off—this can’t be happening. They’re just clueless, or maybe they’re messing with you. Or maybe they’re lying. But when you look in their eyes, you realize they’re not. They’re dead serious. ��

And that’s when the panic starts to creep in. 

Because you know he was real.  

You remember the sound of his voice, low and teasing as it wrapped around your name. You remember the roughness of his hands, the way they gripped your skin like he owned it. You remember the sharp, smoky scent of his cologne, the heat of his body pressed against yours, grounding you. You remember the way his breath hitched when he laughed, that faint, dangerous edge to it.  

You remember Toby. 

So why doesn’t anyone else?

Like, you still have that hickey he gave you at the frat party.  

The last time you saw him—besides that night—was when he somehow managed to swipe your black lace underwear without you noticing. A cocky little stunt, one you didn’t even realize had happened until you stood outside the frat house, skin still buzzing from the aftershocks of the hookup, your dress smoothed back into place. 

The way his lips dragged over your skin, slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. The way his teeth scraped against your neck, the warmth of his breath right before he bit down—just hard enough to make you gasp. Then he laughed, that low, satisfied sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and murmured something about how he hoped it bruised.  

It did. Badly. To the point where you had to cover the damn thing with concealer before class like people don’t need to know your business. 

But that shouldn’t be your main issue right now. 

Your main worry should be your phone. Wait a minute. Your phone?

You’re currently sitting in a study room at the library with your roommate, and you can’t find your phone. It should’ve been buzzing by now—messages, notifications, something. But there’s nothing.

You swear you had it when you left class earlier. Or was it when you and your roommate sat down to study in the library? Either way, it’s gone now. Vanished without a trace.

You check your bag. Nothing. Then your pockets, just to make sure you didn’t slip it in there absentmindedly. Nothing. You check your bag again—maybe, just maybe, reality will bend in your favor, and the damn thing will reappear. But it doesn’t.

Did you drop it in the lecture hall? Like, you don’t remember being that careless, but the last few days have been a blur—so many distractions, so many things happening on campus, it’s hard to keep track of anything, let alone your phone.

But right now, none of that matters. Because your phone is missing, and you’re crawling through the library like a raccoon ransacking a trash can.

You check under chairs. Between the rows of bookshelves. Even behind a vending machine because you’re getting desperate. Nothing.

With an exhausted sigh, you press your hands to your face and let your forehead thunk against the corner of a bookshelf. “I swear to God—”

"Looking for this?"

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST—"

You nearly knock over an entire shelf. Your soul, your lifespan, and your dignity all seem to leave your body at once. And there she is. Your roommate. Vidia. Standing way too close, holding your phone between two fingers like it’s some lost artifact.

Your heart is still violently tap-dancing in your chest, and it takes a moment for your brain to catch up with the chaos. “Why do you do that?” you demand, trying to piece yourself back together, but the words are shaky, and your palms are slick with sweat.

She just shrugs, completely unbothered, like she didn’t just almost give you a heart attack. “You make it so easy. It’s like scaring a sleep-deprived squirrel.”

You grab your phone from her with an exaggerated roll of your eyes, glaring at her like she just ruined the rest of your day. "I hope you trip down the library stairs."

Vidia raises an eyebrow, unphased. “Bold of you to assume I’d go down alone,” she quips, already moving on with that air of indifference she’s perfected. “Anyway, I found it by the restroom.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “The bathroom?” you repeat, your voice shaky, confusion and anxiety mixing in an odd cocktail. 

Vidia nods casually like it’s no big deal. “Yup. Just chillin’ on the counter. I figured, ‘Wow, what an absolute dumbass move. Leaving your phone for any psycho to snatch.’”

Your stomach twists, a sudden heaviness filling the space in your chest. The air around you thickens, your breathing shallow, and that tight, suffocating coil of unease winds tighter in your gut. 

You don’t remember going to the bathroom.

You don’t remember leaving your phone there. 

But you were just in class, right? You just finished your exams—finally, that was over. All you wanted now was to breathe, chill, and hang out with Vidia around campus like any normal student should after a hellish week.

You bring the phone up to your face, hoping the screen will make sense of all this. It doesn’t. 

“Was anyone else in the restroom with you?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, but the tension seeps through. You can feel it—there’s an edge to your words now, sharp and frayed.

Vidia thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Not that I saw. Just me, when I went in to wash my hands. Don’t know if someone left it or if it fell, but it was just there. Weird, right?”

Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it. Your mind whirls, trying to piece together what’s happening. You’d been in the middle of your exam haze—just trying to power through—and now this? The last thing you remember is walking out of the lecture hall, not a bathroom. 

The more you try to think, the more everything becomes a blur. So much had been happening lately, and you had tried to shut it all out—taking a hit from your pen here and there to avoid overthinking. But now? The thought of your phone, lying abandoned on a bathroom counter, starts to fester in your mind. 

“You’re just lucky I didn’t steal it,” Vidia quips with a grin, oblivious to the fact that you’re teetering on the edge of something that feels much darker than a misplaced phone.

But you’re not laughing. You’re staring at the device in your hand, gripping it like it might disappear if you don’t hold on tight enough.

You don’t remember leaving it there.

And that fact? It sends a cold shiver crawling up your spine.

Your thumb hovers over the power button, almost as if your body knows it shouldn’t make the decision. The screen lights up with a cold, blue glow, harsh against the dim library lights. You squint at the familiar lock screen, but the unease slithers in before your brain even registers it.

It’s subtle at first, just a gnawing feeling deep in your gut—a flicker of something wrong. A creeping whisper at the back of your mind urging you to put the phone down. But before you can think it through, your eyes catch the notification on the call log.

Unknown Number.

No name. No details. Just there, sitting at the top of your contact list like it’s always belonged. Like it’s always been waiting for you to see it.

You freeze. Your pulse stutters, your heart skipping a beat. The silence in the library feels suffocating now like the walls are closing in. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at that name—or rather, the lack of it—but it feels like an eternity before the first message pings through.

Ding.

The sharp chime shatters the stillness, and your breath catches in your throat. Your hand goes cold, and you stare at the screen.

Unknown Number: “You ask about me like you miss me.”

Your stomach drops, cold dread crawling up your spine. Your mind races, trying to connect dots, to make sense of this. You want to swipe the screen away, to forget this moment, but you can’t.

You can’t look away.

Another message appears before you have the chance to react. Your fingers tremble as you read it.

Unknown Number: “You look cute when you’re desperate.”

You can feel the room shrinking around you, the air thick with tension. It feels like you’re drowning in it, and the phone is suddenly too heavy in your hand.

Everything starts to feel wrong. The world tilts on its axis. A creeping sense of violation, of being watched, wraps around you like a suffocating fog. You try to steady your breath, but it’s like the whole library is closing in on you. And then, just as you think you can’t take any more, the last message comes in.

No words this time. Just an image file.

You hesitate, your fingers hovering over the screen as a cold dread settles deep in your stomach. Every instinct screams at you to stop—to put the phone down, to close your eyes and pretend it isn’t happening. But something keeps you rooted in place, some twisted part of you that needs to know, that craves the truth, no matter how sickening it might be. Maybe you're hoping it's a mistake. A glitch. Some absurd error. Or maybe you're just too far gone to walk away from this now.

With a shaky breath, you press the image.

The photo loads with agonizing slowness, each second stretching out like an eternity. Your heart pounds in your chest, the sound deafening in your ears as you watch the image unfold before you. The sense of wrongness, of violation, begins to seep into your bones.

And then you see it.

Your stolen black lace underwear.

The sight hits you like a punch to the gut. It’s your underwear, unmistakably. But it’s... different. The fabric is wrinkled and crumpled in a way that doesn’t make sense. It’s sitting there, in the photo, folded neatly—almost too neatly—on some unfamiliar surface.

And then the weight of it crashes into you. This isn’t some coincidence. This isn’t an innocent mistake. 

Toby’s been watching.

He’s been tracking you. Watching your every move.

And now, he’s making sure you know it.

You stare at the underwear again, your breath caught in your throat. And that’s when it hits you. It’s not just that they’re there, it’s how they look. The lace, once pristine, now looks... ruined. Tattered, in places. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but it doesn’t look like something that’s just been forgotten. No, something about it feels off. Like it’s been used.

The realization slams into you with the force of a freight train.

This motherfucker has been jacking off to your underwear.

For a split second, your body goes rigid, a sickening wave of disgust crashing over you, twisting your stomach in ways you didn’t think were possible. It’s enough to make you feel like you need to throw the phone across the room as if you can somehow purge the image from your mind. But, you can’t. It’s already burned into you, like an indelible mark that won’t fade.

And then, strangely, you can’t help but laugh on the inside. It’s a dark, twisted laugh, almost like you can’t even believe how fucking sick this is, but the absurdity of it all hits you all at once. Toby—of all people—using your underwear. A weird, sick trophy. It almost feels like a joke, doesn’t it? 

Of course, he’d do something like this. Why not? Toby’s always been a little off, a little too twisted. But this? This takes the cake. And it’s almost funny how fucked up it all is.

A shiver crawls up your spine, and the dark humor you felt moments ago fades into something colder. The laughter dies in your throat as the full weight of what this means finally settles in. Toby’s not just some background stalker anymore. He’s not some random hook-up that you can brush off. 

No, now, he’s something else entirely. He’s toying with you. He’s playing a game, and you’re the unwilling toy in his twisted little scenario.

But you? You’re no toy.

Does he think he can play games with you?

Well, then, let’s play. After all, two can play this game. And you’re going to make him regret ever thinking he could fuck with you.

The tension gnaws at you as you stand before the same frat house once again, but something’s different. It’s too quiet. Not the kind of silence that comes with a hangover or the weight of exams looming shortly. No, this silence is heavier. More oppressive. The air feels thick, stagnant—almost suffocating. 

Something is festering beneath the surface, something unspoken that makes your skin crawl. Because, let’s not forget, someone did die here. 

And not just any random partygoer—one of theirs. A freshman who had just crossed over into their brotherhood. 

At first, the cops called it hazing. A tragic case of initiation gone wrong. That would’ve been bad enough, something dark and twisted that the university could still pretend was just a mistake. But then the body showed up with two hatchets buried deep in his back.

And suddenly, that story didn’t make sense. 

Like yeah, the frat guys might be assholes. But they’re not that creative.  

Still, the university isn’t convinced. Neither are the cops. Whispers slip between students like a sickness, each theory worse than the last. Some say the frat is covering something up. That they know more than they’re letting on. And if that’s true—then maybe, just maybe, they know something about Toby.

You don’t want to be here. Every bone in your body tells you to turn around, to forget about this. But that’s the thing about you. 

You don’t let things go.

So you lift your hand and knock. Twice. Sharp, firm.  A few seconds later, the door cracks open just enough to reveal a guy with messy brown hair, the kind of unshaven face that says he’s been too busy—or too stressed—to care. His eyes flick over you, full of mild irritation, like you’re already wasting his time.  

“What?” No frat boy charm. No lazy grin. Just tired.

“I need to ask you about this white dude at the party,” you say smoothly. There’s something just beneath your voice, a sharpness, like a blade hidden under silk. “The one with the gash on the left side of his face. Orange yellow-tinted goggles.”  

The guy hesitates. Just for a second. 

It’s small—barely noticeable—but you see it. The way his fingers twitch. The way his jaw tightens. The way his eyes dart to the guys on the couch behind him. A silent conversation flickers between them, and you know, you know, that they recognize the description. 

But then, just as quickly, he fixed his expression into something unreadable. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says flatly, and before you can call him on his bullshit, he moves to shut the door in your face.  

Your foot slides into the gap, firm and unmoving, keeping the door from closing. His eyes snap down to it, then back up to you, realization dawning that you’re not leaving.  

You smirk. Slow. Sharp. “Oh, come on,” you say, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “You really wanna make me report you guys for the little stash you had at the party? Alcohol, drugs, minors—you know, all the fun stuff that could get your charter revoked?”  

His throat bobs. Behind him, one of the guys on the couch mutters, “Dude, just—just let her in.” After a long pause, he exhales through his nose, “All right, all right, chill. I’ll tell you what I know.” He reluctantly steps back. “But if anyone asks, this conversation never happened.” 

You step inside, and just like that, the game shifts. Eyes flicking between you and the frat dude that let you in. They weren’t expecting this. You see the moment they realize you’re not some naive young woman who can be shrugged off, and the power shifts. The dude in front of you swallows, his posture shifting from cocky to uncomfortable.

The others stay silent, watching you like you’re a predator who’s already got them cornered. “…yeah, we know him,” he starts, his voice lowering like he’s deciding just how much to let slip. “He’s been our dealer for about four months now. We’ve been buying from him since the fall semester. The dude’s smooth runs a tight game. Don’t ask questions, just deliver.”

You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything. 

“Then the spring semester hit, and things started to get weird,” the guy continues, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Prices went up. A lot. Like, from $10 a hit to $25, and that’s when he started bringing in freshmen, getting them to pay even to be part of the circle. Made ‘em think they needed the ‘in’ to get good stuff.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, disgust curling in your stomach. Freshmen are getting scammed for some easy cash. Classic. Desperate kids want a taste of the so-called ‘college experience,’ only to get wrung dry by a bunch of losers who think running a glorified middleman operation makes them untouchable.  

But the pieces are falling into place now, slotting together in a way that makes your skin prickle.  

Toby’s been keeping a low profile—not just from you, but from everyone. The sudden price hikes, the freshmen he’s been pulling in, the way he’s moved from just dealing to controlling access altogether… That’s not just business. That’s survival. He’s hiding. 

And whatever he’s running from? It’s bad, of course, as you figure.

You exhale, shaking off the lingering sense of unease. You got what you came for—at least for now. “All right,” you say, turning toward the door. You pause just long enough to glance back at the frat guy still lingering there, relief evident in his slack posture. Like he’s just barely dodged getting torn apart. You let the silence stretch for just a second too long, enjoying the way it makes him shift uncomfortably. “And thank God you let me in for free, huh?”  

Your lips curl into a smirk, playful, but with that signature sharpness laced beneath it. “Guess I just look hot enough to get the VIP treatment.”  

He snorts, trying to play it cool, but you can tell you’ve gotten under his skin. “Yeah, sure, whatever you say…”  

You turn away, stepping off the porch, but just as you hit the sidewalk, you pause. There’s still something sour in your mouth, a lingering irritation. You glance back at them, the group of them still loitering near the doorway, watching you leave. 

And then, just for the hell of it, you bark at them.  

Loud. Sudden. Sharp. The reaction is instant. One of them flinches so hard he almost drops his drink, another curses under his breath, and the frat guy in the doorway? He just stares at you, stunned into silence. You laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you walk away, hands in your pockets.  

Cowards. But whatever. 

They gave you what you needed. 

You return to your dorm, pushing your personal room door and clicking shut behind you as you toss your leather bag onto your bed, the skull keychain and grey fox fur charm swaying with the movement. The weight in your chest hasn’t eased—not after what you just found out. Or, more accurately, what you didn’t find out. You have enough information to find Toby. 

And that thought alone is enough to make you grin.  

The reflection in the mirror barely feels like you as you move with practiced ease, wiping away the remnants of the day and replacing it with something sharper, something darker. You smear a deep shade of lipstick across your lips, press them together, and watch as your own gaze hardens. There. That’s better.

With quick, fluid movements, you strip off your casual clothes and slip into something more fitting for the night ahead. A loose off-the-shoulder black top drapes over your frame, half-tucked into studded short shorts that sit snug on your hips. Your ripped black tights cling to your legs, the delicate fabric holding on by threads, a look of controlled chaos.

You lace up your boots—low-heeled, ribbons threaded through the worn-out lace holes, their weight familiar as they clunk softly against the floor. Every piece you put on is intentional. The studded bracelets stacked high on your wrists, the layered silver chains hanging low against your collarbone, the rings that glint under the dim light of your vanity. Finally, you grab your leather jacket, the soft fur lining brushing against your neck as you shrug it on. It’s more than just a piece of clothing—it’s armor.

With a steadying breath, you shove your phone into your bag, along with your skull-emblazoned pocket knife, a lighter, and a few other essentials. The night is unpredictable, but you’ve learned to prepare for anything.

You’re just finishing the last swipe of your eyeliner when the door swings open, making you jump slightly.

Vidia.

She steps into your room like she owns it, moving with that effortless, almost grace of hers. Dressed in an oversized shirt and short shorts, her hair bundled into a bonnet, she looks almost too casual—except for the sharp amusement in her eyes as she takes you in.

“Well, well, well.” She sidles up behind you, her arms draping lazily around your shoulders, chin propped against your head as she watches you in the mirror. “And where exactly is my dear, morally-questionable roommate running off to tonight?”

You don’t answer immediately, fixing the last touches on your mascara. Vidia hums, like she’s already forming a dozen theories in her head, each more ridiculous than the last.

“Lemme guess,” she continues, her voice playful but prying, “you’re off to summon a demon, break into a museum, or—oh, oh—are we robbing a bank now? Because, bitch, I need a cut if we are.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Just out.”

Vidia rolls her eyes. “Yeah, no shit. Out where?”

You sling your bag over your shoulder, glancing at her through the mirror. “Following up on something.”

That wipes some of the amusement from her face. She straightens slightly, arms loosening around your neck. “Following up?” she repeats, voice dipping in suspicion. “You’ve been acting weird as hell since that party. And considering what happened…”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Weirder than usual?”

She points at you, toothbrush still clutched in her hand like a weapon. “Yes. And that’s saying something.”

For a moment, you debate brushing her off, but the truth sits heavy on your tongue. If things go sideways tonight, someone should at least know you went looking.

You meet her gaze in the mirror. “If I’m not back by ten…” You hesitate, then smirk, voice dropping into something more deliberate. “Hit and run.”

The playful glint in Vidia’s eyes vanishes. Her grip on your shoulders tightens.

“Wait—”

But you don’t give her time to press. You step past her, boots heavy against the floor as you move straight for the door.

Because tonight, you’re finally getting some real answers.

Outside, you lean against the cool brick of a nearby building, the faint glow of the streetlights flickering like distant stars in the late-night quiet. The cigarette between your fingers burns slowly, the smoke curling up in delicate tendrils, dissolving into the night air. 

It’s a small comfort in everything—something familiar, something that lets you breathe, even if just for a moment.

The gas station across the street hums with the low buzz of neon lights. The smell of gasoline mixes with the stale scent of the night air, and for a brief second, everything feels so… normal. Like this town hasn’t been tainted by whatever's been happening, by all the things you've discovered. But you know that’s a lie. It’s not normal anymore. 

It hasn’t been for days.

The events at the frat house hang over the entire campus like a cloud, casting a long, dark shadow over everyone. Most students have retreated to their dorms, staying inside, clutching whatever comfort they can. The usual buzz of parties and late-night drinking is absent. No one is passing around bottles of cheap liquor. It’s like the very air is holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

And you’re waiting for something, too. You're waiting for Toby. Because you’re starting to put the pieces together.

You crush the cigarette under your heel and pull out your phone, staring at the screen, still haunted by the last message, the photo. The stolen underwear. The message that told you exactly what kind of game he’s playing. 

And now you need to find him.

You turn your head, casting a glance at the nearby woods that border the edge of the college town, the trees silhouetted against the dim glow of the horizon. You’ve heard rumors about the woods. About the things that go on there when the sun sets, when the air goes still and thick with the promise of secrets.

With a quick decision, you push off from the wall, the gravel beneath your shoes crunching as you move toward the shadows. You cross the street and head down a narrow alley, passing the broken-down bar where students used to hang out, now practically deserted. The air feels thicker here as if the whole town has been holding its breath.

As you walk, your mind races. You’ve been hearing whispers. People at the library. Students in the dining hall. They’ve been talking about Toby, but never in any serious way. Just in passing. But that’s when you hear it—the mention of the frat house again. Drug dealer. Secret deals. Low-key operation.

The pieces click together.

It’s not just about sex, about teasing. Toby’s deeper into something darker than you could’ve imagined. The whole thing with your underwear wasn’t just some sick little game. No, that was the warning shot.

You stop, your gaze scanning the area. A couple of drunk students stumble out of a nearby building, laughing too loudly for this hour, but they stop when they notice you standing in the shadows, eyes narrowed in your direction. You don’t care about them, though. You care about one thing, and one thing only.

You walk up to the group, forcing your voice to sound casual. “You guys know a dealer around here?”

The two guys exchange a look, clearly uncertain. “Dealer?” one of them repeats, scratching his head. “Uh… don’t know him well. He’s a quiet guy, always hanging around with the frat boys. You know, that one? He deals… stuff.” He waves his hand vaguely in the air.

“Stuff?” you push.

The guy stares at you, trying to gauge your seriousness. “Yeah. Drugs, I think. Not sure what, though. I heard he’s got connections, really low-key. But it’s all hush-hush. Don’t mess with that guy. Trust me.”

You keep your voice steady, suppressing the surge of adrenaline coursing through you. "Do you know where he deals? Where I can find him?" you ask, looking directly at the guy. He hesitates for a second, clearly trying to figure out if you're bluffing or genuinely looking for trouble.

His eyes flicker around, checking the quiet street, before he leans in a little closer, lowering his voice. “I heard he does most of his deals out by the old abandoned warehouse on the south side of off-campus. Not many people go there anymore, but... yeah, that's where he usually pops in and out..”

A thrill runs through you at the mention of the warehouse. That was exactly the kind of place Toby would hide in, away from prying eyes. You give the guy a quick nod of thanks, not waiting for any more unnecessary chatter.

You don’t have time to waste. 

Your feet crunch against the gravel as you walk away, quickly but quietly, the cool night air tugging at your jacket. You’ve got one thing on your mind—finding Toby. 

Whatever game he thinks he’s playing with you, it ends tonight.

You cross the street, your pulse quickening as you head toward the path that leads to the empty south side of campus. The abandoned warehouse is just beyond it, tucked away behind a cluster of trees. It’s so quiet now. No drunken crowds. No obnoxious parties.

Just the occasional sound of a car passing, its tires humming against the road. The further you get from campus, the more desolate it feels, as if you're stepping into a place where no one belongs.

A chill creeps up your spine, but you push it down. You’re not scared. You’re pissed. As you round a corner, you stop in your tracks.

Up ahead, parked near the back of the warehouse, is a sleek black truck. The engine is still running, and the low growl of it vibrates in the air. The driver’s side door swings open, and out steps a man in an orange jacket, his movements swift and purposeful. He’s followed by another guy in a mustard-yellow hoodie, his head tilted down, hiding his face.

You squint, trying to make out more, but they’re too far, too blurry in the darkness. But then—

There he is. Toby. 

He steps out from the other side of the truck, his silhouette cutting through the dim light like a blade. Even from this distance, you recognize him immediately. The way he moves—calm, unhurried, carrying that same cocky arrogance in every step. Like he has nothing to fear. Like he’s in control.  

The bastard has been playing games with you. The messages, the pictures, the feeling of always being watched—it all leads back to him. And now? Now you finally have him in your sights.  

He doesn’t even glance your way as he walks toward the warehouse, his focus elsewhere. The two men follow close behind, their presence just as unsettling. Older, more seasoned. You can tell by the way they move, the way they keep close but slightly behind Toby. Like they’re equals in whatever the hell this is. Or maybe they’re watching him just as much as he’s watching them.  

The truck’s engine rumbles softly, headlights flickering as the warehouse door clicks shut behind them.  

You should be back at your dorm.  

You should be calling the police.  

But instead, you’re here—standing at the edge of something dangerous, heart-pounding but mind-sharp. You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. “Don’t rush this.” You keep to the darkness, moving low and careful, each step precise. Recklessness gets people killed. You’re not stupid enough to charge in blindly, not when you don’t know what’s waiting on the other side of that door.  

No, you’re going to do this right. You settle into position, hidden in the dark, eyes locked on the building. Watching. Listening. Calculating.  

If Toby wants to play games, then fine.  

You’ll play too.  

But on your terms.

You look down at your phone for a sec before looking at the two men. They’re clearly not college students or even people your age—these guys are at least in their mid-30s, their grizzled features giving them away. One of them has a sharp jaw and a slight scar across his chin, while the other’s got graying hair at his temples, making him look out of place in the shady world they’re operating in. 

Toby, on the other hand, still looks like he’s in his early 20s—too young for this, you think, but there’s no doubt in your mind he’s right in the thick of it. He’s standing with his back to the truck, a smirk playing on his lips as he talks to the two men.

You squint, listening carefully as their conversation drifts your way, just low enough that you can’t make out every word, but enough to catch fragments.

“Everything’s across campus now,” one of the older men says, his voice rough, sounding almost too calm for what’s being discussed. “Gotta keep it clean. The cops are getting nosy.”

Toby responds with a quiet laugh, the cockiness in his tone clear even from this distance. “Yeah, we’ve been laying low. Nobody’s really looking in the right places. But I’ll admit, the pressure’s on, especially with all the weird shit happening on campus.”

The other guy in the mustard hoodie just grunts, tugging at his sleeves. “Our job’s done, yeah? Clean up’s all that’s left, then we’re out.”

Job? What job are they talking about? 

You frown, trying to piece it all together. “Clean up” sounds like something more than just dealing. Were they cleaning up a mess? You don’t know what kind of mess it would be, but it doesn’t sit right with you. Not at all. 

Could it be... connected to the student who died in the frat house? 

Your thoughts are interrupted by a faint rustle behind you. The hairs on your neck stand up. The night feels too quiet all of a sudden. And then, out of nowhere, you feel a pair of hands slam into your neck, pinning you harshly to the dirt floor beneath you. 

You try to gasp, your lungs seizing, but it’s impossible. You’re trapped—held down with frightening strength, unable to fight back. The pressure around your neck tightens, and your head spins. You can’t see who it is at first, everything happening too fast, too violently. But then, you hear the sound of fabric rustling, the force of weight pressing down on you.

Your phone’s flashlight flickers weakly, its glow barely enough to cut through the darkness. But it’s enough to make out the figure above you.

A woman.

Her face is hidden behind a white mask, blank and haunting, its surface smeared with dirt and something darker, something crusted into the fabric of her hoodie like dried blood. The hoodie’s sleeves are shoved up, exposing lean, sinewy arms, the muscles tensed with barely contained energy. Her dark wash jeans are loose, but nothing about her posture is. She’s coiled like a live wire, electric with something feral. Something unhinged. 

Before you can react, her hands snap around your throat.

It’s not just a grip—it’s a full-body attack, her weight slamming you into the dirt like a predator taking down prey. The ground is cold beneath you, damp with the earth’s decay, but the pressure around your throat burns. Her fingers dig in, nails biting into your skin as she squeezes, tighter and tighter, cutting off everything—your breath, your voice, your control.

Panic surges. You try to pry her hands off, but she’s stronger than she looks. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. It’s like she wants you to suffer. Like she lives for the fight.

You thrash, legs kicking up dirt, arms scrambling for anything—her wrists, her face, a rock—something. But she doesn’t budge. She leans in closer, her breath ragged through the mask, and you can feel the violent tremors in her body, the sheer force she’s pouring into this. 

The world around you starts to shrink. Your lungs burn, your vision swims with dark spots, and the muffled roar of your own pulse drowns out everything else. It’s a slow, suffocating descent, the kind where time stretches and your body knows—knows you’re running out of seconds.

But then—flash.

The beam from your phone flickers, catching the mask again. The light hits her dead-on, exposing the stains, the dirt, and the eerie emptiness of the featureless face.

She jerks.

Like an animal recoiling from fire, she flinches, her whole body shuddering with something violent. And then—just as suddenly as she attacked—she lets go.

Air rushes back into your lungs, burning like acid as you gasp, choking on relief. You cough, your whole body trembling from the shock of it, your vision blurred with tears. Your hands clutch at the dirt beneath you, desperate for something solid, something real.

The woman stumbles back, her breathing frantic. But she isn’t running. Not yet.

She raises her hands—not in defense, but in shame. Covering her face. Clutching at the fabric of her hoodie like she can somehow disappear into it. Like she needs to. 

“Don’t…” Her voice is hoarse, unsteady. “Don’t look at me.”

Her words hit like ice in your veins.

She’s not just hiding. She’s terrified.

Your flashlight flickers again, throwing a shaky, erratic glow across her body. She cowers from it, shrinking into herself, the bloodstains on her hoodie almost glowing in the dim light.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” 

Her voice cracks, the desperation threading through her words almost unhinged. She’s backing away now, dropping to her knees as if the weight of her own body is too much to bear.

Your head spins, the world still tilting from the lack of oxygen, but your mind clings to the words.  

What the hell does that mean? Who is she? 

And why did she try to kill you?

None of it made sense. You tried to move, to push yourself up, but your body refused to listen. The weight of everything—the fight, the fear, the lack of oxygen—dragged you down like an anchor, pulling you deeper into the abyss.

Your vision blurred, flickering between the dim glow of your phone and the swallowing darkness. Your body tingled, a numbing sensation creeping into your limbs, making them heavy—too heavy. Every breath was a struggle, each inhale weaker than the last.

The world tilted the edges of your perception distorting like ripples in water.

And then—nothing.

It was as if the air itself had thickened, pressing down on you, suffocating your senses into a muted void. Your mind drifted, untethered from reality, sinking into unconsciousness as the last traces of awareness slipped through your fingers.

When you woke up, it felt like you were underwater.

The world was sluggish, muffled. Your head pounded with a dull, relentless ache, and your limbs felt impossibly heavy, as if they weren’t your own. It took a moment for your senses to return—to realize that something was wrong.

The cold, hard surface beneath you wasn’t the forest floor. It was rough, and industrial, the vibrations beneath you sending small jolts through your aching bones. The scent of stale air and gasoline clung to your nose, mixing with something metallic—blood?

Your thoughts were a mess, tangled and sluggish, but the first thing you knew for certain was this: You were moving.

Not by choice.

Your eyes flickered open, disoriented by the dim lighting. It was cramped, the space too small to stand, too enclosed to be anything but—

A van.

Panic surged through your veins like ice. You tried to move, to sit up, but something pulled at your wrists. Tight. Restrictive. The unmistakable bite of zip ties dug into your skin, keeping your hands wrenched behind your back. A second struggle confirmed your legs were just as bound.

Trapped.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe, to think. The low hum of the van’s engine filled the silence, steady and rhythmic. But then—voices.

Two men.

Their words were distant at first, muffled by the barrier separating you from the front seats, but the more you strained your ears, the clearer they became.

“I had a feeling this was gonna bite us in the ass,” one of them muttered, his voice rough and edged with frustration. “Who would’ve figured she’d track us down just to find him?”

A tense pause. Then, the second man grunted. “Yeah. They’ve been sniffing around for a while now. Too much digging.”

Your breath hitched. They were talking about you.

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the sound of the tires grinding against asphalt. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to move, to run, but you were trapped, bound, and helpless in the back of a moving van with no idea where you were being taken.

And worse?

You weren’t alone.

Your gaze shifted, and that’s when you saw him.

Sitting right in front of you, as if he were just another passenger—as if nothing had happened—was Toby.

The man you’d been chasing. The one you couldn’t forget.

Toby sat there with unsettling ease; his posture relaxed as if this were just another casual meetup instead of a kidnapping. His hoodie—multi-colored in faded shades of beige and dark blue—looked worn, like it had seen its fair share of seasons. The orange-yellow goggles resting on his face caught the dim interior light of the van, casting eerie reflections that masked his expression. A dark bandana covered his mouth, but it did nothing to hide the weight of his gaze.

His eyes—cold, dark brown, and unwavering—locked onto yours with no fear, no hesitation. He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even amused. He was just... watching.

Like he already knew exactly what was running through your mind.

The silence between you stretched, thick, and suffocating. Your heart pounded in your chest, but your body remained frozen, still bound and helpless.

You swallowed, your throat dry and tight, before shifting against the restraints, your lips fumbling to pull the dumb cloth from your mouth. When you finally spoke, your voice came out shaking but determined.

“Why are you doing this?”

For a second, he didn’t answer. He just kept watching you, head tilted slightly, the way someone might study an animal in a trap. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—not a full grin, just a ghost of one, something cold and distant that never reached his eyes.

“You were getting too close to the truth,” Toby said simply, his tone void of any real emotion. Like he was explaining the most obvious thing in the world. “Thought you could dig around, ask questions, play little Miss Detective.”

Your breath hitched, and your mind scrambled to piece it together. “That frat guy…” you started, but Toby cut you off.

His eyes flickered away for the briefest moment before he spoke again. “It wasn’t about him,” he said, voice low and controlled.

You furrowed your brow, confusion twisting in your gut. The pounding headache still clawed at your skull, but you pushed through it, grasping for understanding. “What? Then why—why was everyone acting like it was related to him?”

Toby shrugged, casual as ever, as if none of this truly mattered to him. “Because it’s easier that way,” he said. “People hear ‘frat party death’ and assume it’s some overdose, some accident. They don’t think to look deeper. They don’t think to ask the real questions.”

Your stomach twisted. You’d been asking those questions.

That’s why you were here.

Toby’s gaze flickered back to you, sharper now. More focused. “You were poking your nose where it didn’t belong,” he continued, his voice quiet but firm. “Digging into my deals, my business. Asking around about me and my crew.” His fingers tapped idly against his knee, rhythmic and steady. 

“And I didn’t like it.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, the pieces slowly clicking into place—but something still didn’t fit. “You’re just a dealer,” you said, though the words felt hollow even as they left your lips. “You—”

Toby let out a short, humorless chuckle. “Just a dealer?” He tilted his head as if he were genuinely considering it. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You never really thought about what else I could be, did you?”

His words sent a cold shiver down your spine.

What else he could be?

Your breath stalled, your mind reeling as you stared at him, searching his face for some kind of answer, or denial. But he gave you nothing—just that same quiet, unwavering look.

And then, he gave you something worse.

A slow, creeping grin stretched beneath his bandana, the faintest glint of amusement flickering in his dark eyes. His voice dipped into a hushed whisper as if savoring the moment, drawing it out like a cat playing with a wounded mouse.  

“You got lucky, y’know,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Most people who figure me out? They don’t live long enough to be warned.”  

Your breath hitched.  

A serial killer.  

The words burned into your mind, branding themselves deep in your consciousness. He wasn’t just some dealer, some criminal lurking in the shadows of frat parties and campus gossip. He was something far worse.  

He killed that guy at the party.  

Before you could fully process the horror unraveling before you, Toby moved. Fast. Too fast. He was on his feet in an instant, boots thudding against the metal floor of the van as he closed the distance between you.  

A sharp yank. Pain exploded across your scalp as he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled it, dragging you up with brutal force.

 A muffled cry tore from your throat, but the gag kept it from escaping beyond the walls of your prison. Your body jerked against the binds, instinctively trying to recoil, but his grip was unrelenting, like iron chains wrapped around your skull.  He studied you, his head tilting slightly to the side. Amusement flickered across his face—sick, entertained amusement.  

“Pretty enough to sell off,” he muttered to himself, as if considering his options, as if you weren’t even human, just another item to be weighed, evaluated, discarded at will. A cold, twisted smile tugged at his lips, but before he could revel in his own depraved thoughts any further, something inside you snapped. 

The terror, the panic, the helplessness—it all boiled over into something sharp, something furious. Your eyes burned with a mix of rage and defiance as you wrenched against his grasp, a snarl ripping from your throat. “Don’t you dare touch me!” Your voice was raw, cutting through the air like a blade. “You stay the hell away from me!”  

For a moment—a split second—Toby actually paused.  

His grip on your hair loosened just slightly, his head tilting as though intrigued. Those goggles hid his full expression, but you swore you saw something flicker behind them. Surprise? Curiosity? Annoyance?  

But then, just as quickly, the smirk returned.  

“Maybe I won’t,” he mused his voice light, teasing as if the thought genuinely amused him. Then, his head tilted the other way, and his fingers curled just a bit tighter around your hair. “But then again… what are you gonna do about it?”  

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a vice.  

This was all a game.

That’s what this was to him.

Toby wasn’t some reckless criminal stumbling through a crime spree. He was precise. Calculated. He had planned this, orchestrated every moment, every step, every mistake you had made.

And you had walked right into it.

The van lurched to a sudden stop, the force jerking your body forward before slamming you back against the cold metal interior. The low hum of the engine faded into silence, replaced by the eerie creak of the back doors swinging open. A rush of crisp night air hit your face, sharp and unforgiving, sending a shiver down your spine.

Then, the silhouettes appeared.

The same two men stood in the doorway, their forms backlit by the pale glow of distant headlights. The first wore an orange hoodie, its fabric stained with deep, dark smudges—blood? The longer you stared, the more it looked like a grotesque, distorted face staring back at you.

The second man was more unnerving. He donned a mustard-colored jacket, his face hidden behind a white, doll-like mask. The featureless stare was somehow worse than if he had been sneering at you. The lifeless gaze made your stomach twist into knots.

Who the hell are these people?

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, your mind racing through every possible outcome. Were they here to help Toby? To kill you? To take you somewhere even worse?

Toby stepped forward, his boots crunching against gravel as he moved toward the open doors. He gave the two men a slight nod—wordless confirmation. The tension in the air thickened, choking you like an invisible hand around your throat.

Think. Think.

“Wait!” The word shot out of your mouth before you even realized you had said it.

Toby’s head tilted, his goggles catching the dim light as he looked at you. He didn’t say anything, but his body language told you everything—you had exactly three seconds to say something that would interest him.

“Let’s make a deal,” you forced out, your voice steady despite the sheer terror pounding against your ribs.

Toby’s posture relaxed slightly. He rolled his shoulders back, amusement flickering beneath his bandana. “A deal?” His voice was smooth, deceptively light, but there was a razor-sharp edge just beneath the surface.

You swallowed hard, trying to read his expression through the obscurity of his mask. “Yeah… like a game?”

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted it. You had no idea what kind of sick, twisted shit Toby and his so-called friends were involved in, but you knew one thing—people like him loved games. And the ones they played? They were never fair.

Toby considered you for a long, agonizing moment. The air between you both felt charged, the weight of the unknown pressing heavily on your shoulders. Then, without looking away, he reached up and adjusted the bandana covering his mouth.

“All right,” he murmured. “I’ll play a game.”

Your stomach dropped. The two men in the doorway exchanged glances, one of them chuckling under his breath. Toby stepped back, motioning toward the open doors of the van. “It’s simple. If you win, you get to leave. You go back to your lame little college life, pretend none of this ever happened.” He paused, letting the silence stretch long enough for dread to seep deep into your bones.

“And if I lose?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Toby’s grin was slow, smirking.

“Well… you know what happens to you.”

The answer was obvious. Your blood ran ice cold, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. You couldn’t let him see the fear creeping in, couldn’t give him the satisfaction. You had no idea what kind of game he was about to throw you into, but one thing was certain—losing wasn’t an option.

Toby’s voice cut through the thick night air like a blade, sharp and taunting.  

“Still wanna do it, babe?” His tone was almost mocking, daring you to back out, to admit you had made a mistake. But you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction.  

“Yes,” you said, forcing steel into your voice. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” The words tasted like a death sentence the moment they left your lips.  

Toby’s grin stretched wide beneath his bandana, amusement flickering in his eyes. Without warning, he slammed his fist against the van’s metal frame. The impact sent a deep, resonating thud through the vehicle, reverberating in your bones. The sudden noise made you flinch, but Toby? He was enjoying this. The tension, the fear—it fed him.  

What the hell had you just agreed to?  

Before you could process it, he moved. Toby approached with a slow, deliberate stride, each step uncomfortably calculated. His presence loomed over you, suffocating in its intensity. Even in the dim light, you could see the way his shoulders were relaxed, the slight tilt of his head—it was all a game to him, and he was playing for keeps.  

You barely had time to react before his fingers reached for the gag tied around your mouth.  

For a fleeting second, hope sparked. Maybe he was giving you some form of freedom, maybe he wanted to hear you speak, maybe—  

The thought was ripped away when, instead of removing it, he shoved the cloth deeper into your mouth, pulling the knot tighter with a cruel yank. A muffled grunt of pain escaped you as the rough fabric cut into the corners of your lips.  

“Good,” he murmured, the word dripping with satisfaction. He turned his head toward the two men outside the van, motioning lazily with his hand. “Stay put.”  

They didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stood there, their masked faces as unreadable as before. Silent sentinels in the dark.  

Toby’s fingers wrapped around your shoulder, his grip firm, cold, and unyielding as he yanked you forward. The ropes binding your wrists dug deep into your skin, burning against every movement. You winced but bit down the noise. You weren’t going to let him see your pain.  

“Just me and you,” he said, voice quiet, like he was savoring it.  

Something about those words made your stomach twist.  

The two men hung back as Toby shoved you out of the van and into the creepy woods like the world was just one big horror movie set and you were the unsuspecting victim. The cold air slapped you in the face, and the ground beneath your feet was a minefield of rocks and loose gravel, making you feel like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. 

Toby gave you a lazy push forward like he wasn’t even trying, just enjoying the show. He stayed just behind you, his footsteps light—almost like he was walking on air. It was creepy as hell. Not only did you know he was right there, but it was also the fact that he wasn’t saying anything.

Silence was his weapon, and he was wielding it like a pro. You could feel his gaze on your back like he was tattooing his presence into your skin.

But honestly, it wasn’t even just Toby that had you on edge. It was the whole damn woods. You couldn't shake the feeling that the trees had eyes, like they were watching you. They creaked and groaned in the wind, casting creepy-ass shadows that danced around you. Every time you dared look away from the path, the darkness seemed to creep closer, like it was alive and hungry for a snack.

And your brain? Oh, it was having a panic attack. Thoughts scattered everywhere, like someone knocked over a jigsaw puzzle and you had to put it all back together while trying not to piss yourself.

What the hell kind of game will this be?

What the hell is Toby even trying to do?

Toby’s grip on your arm tightened, and for a second, you thought he was going to snap it like a twig. He dug his fingers into your skin, the pressure like a vice, and then—without warning—he shoved you to the ground. 

The earth was cold, hard, and unwelcoming, and your knees hit it with a sickening thud. You gasped, trying to push yourself up, but no dice. Toby was already on top of you, like a bad dream you couldn’t escape from.

You barely had time to even process what was happening before his hands were all over you again—rough, unrelenting. He yanked your arms behind your back like he was trying to turn you into a pretzel, and the pain shot through your shoulders. 

You winced as the rope bit into your skin, tight and unforgiving, leaving you gasping for air, your wrists already burning. Every instinct screamed to fight, but your body was just… not cooperating. All you could do was brace yourself for whatever new hell Toby was planning to unleash.

Then, just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, he yanked the half-undone cloth out of your mouth, like it was some kind of prize. The sudden rush of cold night air on your face hit you like a punch, and you nearly choked on the wind as you sucked in a desperate breath. 

Your chest burned as your lungs tried to catch up, and for a second, all you could do was breathe, focusing on just that—breathing. The shock of air hitting your lungs made everything feel a little too real like you had just woken up from a bad dream and had no idea where you were.

Toby stood over you, watching you like a damn predator, his eyes cold and calculating. He looked like he was enjoying every second of your struggle, his grin twisted into something that made your stomach turn. The silence between you two felt thick, almost suffocating, and with every second that passed, your heartbeat hammered louder in your chest. 

You could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on you, that gut-deep dread clawing its way up your throat. Then, finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and rough, dripping with venom. “You wanted a game, right?” His grin stretched wider, almost too wide like he was relishing every second of your discomfort. “Here it is.”

Toby moved slowly like he was savoring the moment, circling you. The sound of his boots against the ground felt like a reminder that you were trapped—nowhere to run. When he finally came back around to face you, he crouched down, his face just inches from yours. 

The moonlight caught his features in a way that made him look even worse, like the shadows themselves were twisting his face into something monstrous. The light bent around his features, turning him into something almost unrecognizable like he wasn't even human anymore. 

Then, without warning, his hand shot forward, grabbing your chin with a grip that felt like iron. He jerked your head up, forcing you to look at him, his fingers digging into your skin so hard it hurt. You winced, a sickening shudder crawling up your spine as he held you there. 

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unblinking, and for a second, you thought you might just drown in them. He was too close—too close—and you could feel his breath on your face, the faint smell of smoke mixed with something metallic, like blood, lingering in the air. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he hissed, his voice cold as ice, a warning in the way his eyes bore into yours, daring you to even try something. 

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard, your pulse racing. You could feel the full weight of the situation now—whatever sick game he had in mind, you weren’t walking away from this easily.

Toby let out a sharp, breathy chuckle, tilting his head as he watched the fear settle into your bones. He was drinking it in, savoring it like a fine wine. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, eager.

“The rules are simple,” he repeated, slower this time as if speaking to a child. “Cat chases mouse. Mouse runs. If the mouse is fast enough—” his voice lifted slightly, playful, mocking, “maybe it gets away.” He took a slow step forward, boots crunching against the dirt, his gaze never leaving yours.

“But if the mouse loses…” His grin stretched wider, a grotesque, gleeful thing that made your stomach churn. “Well—” He lifted his hand, thumb dragging across his throat in a slow, deliberate slice.

Your breath stilled.

“F-Fuckin’ simple, right?” Toby let out a sharp cackle, rocking back on his heels like this was the funniest thing in the world. “B-But, uh—here’s the fun part—” His voice dipped lower, almost conspiratorial. He leaned in slightly, just enough that you could catch the scent of blood and oil clinging to him. 

“I’m the cat, babe.” He tilted his head, his grin twitching at the edges.

“And you?” Toby reached and pulled something from behind his back, the glint of metal catching in the dim moonlight. You couldn’t help but stare as he brandished the hatchet, its blade sharp and gleaming—ready to cut down whatever stood in its way. 

“You’re the mouse.”

You closed your eyes as you felt something cold and sharp slid against your wrists, and suddenly, the ropes fell away. Your hands trembled as you realized what he’d done. 

He was letting you go.

The ropes fell away with a dull thud, and you flexed your fingers, the circulation rushing back into your hands with a painful sting. But before you could even take a breath, Toby stood up, towering over you, his cold eyes boring into yours.

“Run.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t a taunt. It was a demand.

And you didn’t need him to tell you twice. You didn’t need to be told anything. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to run—to get the hell out of there before things got any worse. You pushed yourself to your feet, stumbling slightly. But you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t hesitate.

You took off into the woods, your feet pounding against the earth, heart racing, breath coming in sharp, frantic bursts. The trees blurred past you in the darkness, the dense underbrush grabbing at your legs as you pushed forward, not daring to look back. 

Behind you, you heard Toby’s voice cut through the silence like a razor, a countdown, slow and deliberate.

"Ten..."

The words hung in the air, each one a cold reminder of what was waiting for you.

"Nine..."

Your feet slipped in the dirt, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t afford to. Not when your life depended on it.

"Eight..."

The rustling of the trees, the soft whisper of the wind, it all felt like a trap. The woods were alive, closing in around you, the darkness suffocating. But you pushed on, adrenaline giving you the strength to run faster than you ever thought possible.

"Seven..."

Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out the sound of your surroundings. You couldn’t think about the shadows that moved just beyond the corner of your vision. You couldn’t think about the suffocating fear creeping up your spine.

"Six..."

The air was thick with the scent of earth and pine, but all you could taste was the bitter tang of panic in the back of your throat.

"Five..."

A sudden crack of a branch behind you made your heart jump into your throat. You didn’t dare look back. You couldn’t afford to.

"Four..."

The path ahead was unclear, but you kept running. You knew where the black van was, knew what it meant to get there. It was the only way out. It was the only chance you had.

"Three..."

You could hear him now, the heavy sound of Toby’s footsteps growing louder, closer. The rustle of leaves underfoot. The sharp sound of the hatchet slicing through the air.

"Two..."

The woods were a maze, but you didn’t care. You had no choice but to trust your instincts. Keep running. Keep going.

"One..."

The final countdown echoed in the night, the sharpness of the moment making your skin prickle. And just like that, the sound of Toby’s footsteps stopped.

For a moment, the woods fell into an eerie silence. You could feel the weight of the night pressing in, the darkness stretching out before you. You weren’t sure if Toby was still following, or if he had somehow disappeared into the shadows. But you didn’t dare stop to find out.

You kept running, faster now, your breath ragged, heart hammering in your chest. 

You had to make it. 

You had to survive.

The adrenaline coursing through your veins was enough to keep you moving, but Toby was right on your heels. You could hear him getting closer, his heavy footsteps pounding the ground as he pursued you. Your breath came out in ragged gasps, your heart pounding in your chest as you fought to stay ahead.

Suddenly, you felt a cold breeze sweep past your ear, and a horrifying whoosh followed by a sharp, metallic slice through the air. Toby’s hatchet missed you by inches, but the force of it scared the hell out of you, causing you to stumble.

Without thinking, you darted sideways, narrowly avoiding the swing of the blade as Toby's arm cut through the air where you had just been. Your heart skipped a beat, terror coiling in your gut.

But it was enough. You had a moment—a split second of reprieve.

Instinct kicked in.

You pushed yourself forward, launching yourself into a desperate sprint, but as you did, you pivoted, whirling around and slamming your fist right into Toby’s face. 

His head snapped back with the force of your punch, and you could hear the sickening crunch as his mouth guard went flying off. Blood sprayed from his lips as he staggered back, spitting out crimson between ragged breaths.

“Shit!” you hissed, realizing you might have just made a serious mistake. 

You didn't wait to see his next move. You turned and ran, faster than ever, knowing that you couldn’t let him catch up again. Thank God your parents forced you into sports when you were younger. You needed that conditioning now more than ever, every muscle screaming as you pushed yourself harder through the thick underbrush of the forest.

But just as you thought you might have a chance to escape, you felt something like a vice grip on the back of your head. A hand twisted into your hair, jerking you backward with brutal force.

“Ah, playing dirty, huh?” Toby’s voice was a low, mocking growl in your ear as he yanked you back, his breath hot against your skin. “You think you’re faster than me? You think you’re clever?”

You struggled, but his grip on your hair was unrelenting, a fistful of pain and control that yanked your head back until you were nearly off balance. You let out a strangled gasp, trying to push him off, but his laugh sent chills crawling up your spine.

“Sweetheart,” he cooed, dragging you further away from where you had been running. “You’re playing dirty, but I don’t mind. I like a girl who can fight back.”

“Sweet Cheeks, Pretty Girl,” he teased, his voice sickly sweet as his hand moved from your hair to your shoulder, the grip tightening as if he were savoring every second of this. “I can’t get enough of you.” His breath stank and you recoiled, but before you could react, he shoved you down to the ground. 

Then your lungs burned as you gasped for air, and you suddenly felt the crushing weight of Toby pressing you deeper into the forest floor. The damp earth clung to your skin, its scent thick and suffocating. You twisted beneath him, your muscles straining as you tried to break free, but it was useless. He was stronger, faster, and, worst of all, he had planned this.

Toby let out a sharp, breathy laugh, the sound laced with something sickeningly satisfied. His grip on your wrists was vice-like, his fingers pressing so hard into your skin you could feel the dull throb of your pulse against them.

“Y’know, you actually did pretty well,” he murmured, his voice low, amused—like he was humoring you. “But, uh—” His knee pressed harder into your ribs, knocking the breath right out of you. “Not good enough.”

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out the rustling trees, the distant chirp of insects—everything except him.

You bucked your body, jerking against his grip, but Toby barely flinched. If anything, he enjoyed it. He tsked softly, shifting just enough to slide one hand up to your throat, his fingers curling around the delicate skin. He wasn’t squeezing—not yet—but the threat was clear.

“You really thought you could outrun me?” His voice dipped lower, the words edged with a dark amusement. “Me?”

His breathing was steady, almost too calm for someone who had just chased you down like a damn animal. His thumb brushed idly against your pulse, feeling how it hammered beneath his touch, drinking in every ounce of fear rolling off of you in waves.

“You should’ve known better,” he purred, his face lowering until his masked mouth was mere inches from your ear. “B-but, hey! No hard feelings, right?”

He tilted his head, his grip tightening just enough to remind you that, even now, he controlled everything.

“After all…” His voice was almost playful, but the sadistic edge beneath it made your stomach twist. “Game’s over.”

Your breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, every fiber of your being screaming at you to fight—to do something—but his grip was unrelenting, his presence suffocating. Toby had you right where he wanted you, and he fucking loved it.

The smirk on his face was infuriating, smug, and teasing like he was just toying with you, seeing how far he could push before you broke.

“Now thinking about it, you’re just like the rest of them,” he taunted, voice dripping with mock disappointment. “Man, and here I thought you were better.”

Wait. He thought you were better?

No. No, fuck that.

Rage boiled up, cutting through the fear clawing at your throat. You grit your teeth, something sharp and bitter twisting in your chest. Your body burned with frustration, your muscles aching from the struggle, but you weren’t about to just lay down and take this.

Toby’s fingers skimmed along your skin again, and something in you snapped.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snarled, your voice raw with fury. You thrashed, your body surging against his hold, but he only laughed, his grip tightening, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“Oh-ho,” he hummed, tilting his head like a curious animal, his grin splitting wider. “There she is.”

His voice was dark, teasing, but there was something else there, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

You sucked in a breath, eyes blazing as you glared up at him. “I am not some fucking plaything,” you spat, fury twisting your features. “And I sure as hell am not like the rest of them.”

Toby let out a sharp breath of laughter, shaking his head. “Really? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting—” He pressed down harder, just enough to remind you who was in control. “You look pretty helpless to me.”

You bit down the growl rising in your throat, every muscle in your body coiled tight with frustration. His smugness was unbearable, his amusement dripping from every word like venom.

Then he sighed, like this was all some mild inconvenience. “Shame, really,” he mused, tilting his head in mock contemplation. “I actually liked you. Thought you were… different.” His fingers brushed your cheek, deceptively gentle, and your stomach churned with disgust.

That did it.

You jerked your head back violently, breaking free of his touch. Your voice came out like a hiss, venomous and sharp. 

“Fuck you, Toby.”

His grin widened, eyes sparking with something wild and hungry. “Ohh,” he drawled, his tone downright delighted. “Now that’s more like it.” Toby’s lips curled into a smirk as his eyes gleamed with something far from kind. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, but with an edge that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. 

“You just gave me a great idea.” His words dripped with mischief, the kind that made you question your reality. His gaze never wavered, almost as if he were savoring the moment, letting the silence stretch between you like a taut wire.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he added, though the way he said it, with a tone that was too casual, was anything but reassuring. He leaned in closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin.

"I’m just gonna fuck you."

Your mind went blank, the shock of his words leaving you speechless. You blinked, trying to wrap your head around what he just said. “Wait… what did you just say?” you stammered, your voice shaky. “You… you’re gonna what?” 

This couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of joke, some twisted misunderstanding. But the look in his eyes told you otherwise.

Toby raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk that was equal parts amused and condescending. His expression was one of exaggerated confusion, as if you were the one being unreasonable as if you were the one who had missed something obvious. 

“Did you not hear me?” he asked, his tone dripping with mockery. It was as if he were toying with you, enjoying the way your confusion only seemed to fuel his confidence.

Then, without warning, he bit his lower lip, a playful gesture that felt completely out of place given the tension in the air. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your skin, and his voice dropped to a low, almost teasing whisper. 

“I said... fuck you.” 

The words hit you like a slap to the face, delivered with such casual confidence that it left you reeling. It wasn’t just the words themselves—it was the way he said them, the way he looked at you as if he knew exactly how much power he held at that moment.

You swallowed, your mouth dry. His words were a sickening blend of challenge and threat, and you weren’t sure if you should be terrified—or curious.

Toby leaned in even closer, his face mere inches from yours, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He was close enough for you to feel the weight of his presence, heavy and undeniable.

“Let’s see if you can last,” he said, his voice thick with an unsettling promise.

The situation you found yourself in was far more dangerous and complicated than you had ever anticipated. The air was thick with tension, a mix of fear, desire, and something darker you couldn’t quite name. You were in deep—way deeper than you had ever imagined you’d be. And yet, despite the danger, even though you should have been screaming for help or fighting back, you weren’t. 

A part of you wasn’t complaining at all. Was that wrong? Maybe. 

But this wasn’t your first time with him, and that twisted familiarity made the situation feel almost… thrilling.

His lips were on yours again, rough and demanding, moving with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel the heat of his body pressing against you, his hands roaming freely, gripping and pulling at your skin like he owned you. And maybe, in some twisted way, he did. He had always been possessive, hadn’t he? 

From the moment he stole your underwear, to the way he seemed to always know where you were—stalkerish tendencies that should have sent you running. But here you were, letting him manhandle you, letting him take control.

The forest floor was cold and unforgiving beneath your knees, the damp earth seeping into your skin as he forced you down. His hands were tangled in your hair, gripping tightly as he pushed himself into your mouth, his cock sliding deep, almost to the back of your throat. 

You gagged, tears welling up at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you looked up at him, your vision blurred but still able to make out the expression on his face. It wasn’t the usual cocky smirk you were used to seeing. No, this time it was different—softer, almost guilty like he knew exactly how wrong this was but couldn’t help himself.

“F-Fuck…” he groaned, his voice low and strained, his hips moving rhythmically as he used your mouth for his pleasure. 

You could feel every inch of him, the way his cock hit the back of your throat, the way his hands tightened in your hair, pulling just enough to make you whimper. It was overwhelming, the mix of pain and pleasure, the way your body reacted to him despite the danger. 

You were choking, struggling to breathe, but there was a part of you that didn’t want it to stop. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered at that moment. Or maybe it was the way his touch, rough as it was, still sent sparks of electricity through your body.

The tears welled up in your eyes, glistening like fragile crystals before they spilled over, tracing delicate paths down your flushed cheeks. You kept your gaze locked on him, your lips stretched wide around him, your throat flexing and contracting as you struggled to take him deeper, to accommodate the fullness of him. 

The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of suffocation and surrender, as your body fought to adjust to his presence. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, each hitch and gasp betraying the intensity of his pleasure. His hands, strong and possessive, gripped you tighter, fingers digging into your skin as if to anchor himself in the moment, to ensure you couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to.

“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to try this,” Toby groaned, his voice low and rough, almost a growl. His hips shifted, pushing himself deeper, and you choked slightly, tears streaming faster as your throat worked to take him. “God, your mouth—shit, it’s even better than I thought.” He let out a shaky laugh, his fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you with a firmness that left no room for hesitation. 

“Should’ve done this at the frat party. Hell, I should’ve skipped the whole damn mission and just fucked you instead. Would’ve been way more fun.”His words sent a jolt through you, a mix of humiliation and something darker, something that made your stomach twist and your pulse race. 

You tried to pull back, but his grip tightened, holding you in place. “Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his tone playful but edged with something sharper. “You’re not going anywhere. Not when you’re doing such a good job.” His hips rolled again, and you gagged, your nails digging into his thighs as you fought to keep up. “Yeah, just like that. Take it. You’re gonna swallow every damn drop.”

And you? You were suspended in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, a storm of fear and exhilaration that left you trembling. There was danger in this—danger in the way he loomed over you, in the way his control felt absolute, in the way your body was being used for his pleasure. It was wrong, you knew that, and yet the thrill of it was undeniable. 

The powerlessness, the vulnerability, the sheer audacity of what you were doing—it was intoxicating. Your mind raced, torn between the instinct to resist and the dark, forbidden desire to give in completely.

He was lost in the moment, his movements becoming more urgent, more primal. The playfulness that had been there earlier—the teasing, the testing of limits—had given way to something raw and unrestrained. He was no longer holding back, and you could feel it in the way he thrust deeper, in the way his grip on you tightened almost painfully. It was as if he had crossed some invisible line, surrendering to the heat of the moment, to the pleasure you were giving him.

“Damn, you’re perfect,” he muttered, his voice strained, his breathing uneven. “Should’ve done this sooner. Should’ve had you on your knees for me every damn night.” His words were crude, almost careless, but they sent a shiver down your spine. 

And when he finally released, it was with a guttural groan that seemed to come from the very depths of him. His release was hot and insistent, flooding your mouth, and you had no choice but to swallow, to take all of him in. 

Toby’s laughter rang in your ears, a low, satisfied hum that sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers traced the line of your jaw, deceptively gentle as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. “Good job, pretty,” he murmured, his voice dripping with approval, thick with something smug. “Knew you had it in you.”  

You barely had a second to process the praise before his grip shifted, hands curling around your wrists as he yanked you forward, dragging you off your knees with an ease that made your stomach twist.  

“I’m sooo lucky my buddies in there didn’t put a bullet in you,” he mused, his tone lighthearted, almost playful—like he was joking. But the way his fingers tightened around your wrist? 

That was anything but a joke.  

“For real,” he continued, grinning as he spun you around, shoving you back against the nearest tree. “They don’t like loose ends.”  

The impact sent a rough jolt through your spine, the bark biting into your skin as Toby moved in closer, eliminating any space you might’ve used to slip away. His body radiated heat, wild energy rolling off him in waves as he caged you in, arms braced on either side of your head.  

His brown eyes flickered, sharp and unreadable, scanning your face like he was drinking in every flicker of emotion—every sharp breath, every slight tremor. Amusement curled in the corners of his lips, but there was something else lurking beneath it. Something darker. Something he wasn’t saying.  

Still, he kept the act up, tilting his head with a dramatic pout. “Aw, don’t look so tense,” he teased, his voice lilting, full of that familiar, chaotic charm. “I didn’t let ‘em kill you, did I? Kinda sweet of me, if you think about it.”  

His fingers ghosted over your hip, a barely-there touch that sent sparks shooting up your spine. “Could’ve been long gone by now,” he went on, his voice dipping lower, smoother. “Next town, few states down, fresh start. But nah.”  

His grin faded, just a little, and somehow, that made your pulse quicken even more.  

“Truth is, I didn’t wanna leave you.”  

The weight of those words settled between you, heavy and certain, laced with something Toby wasn’t quite willing to admit outright. Instead, he let the silence stretch, watching the way you swallowed hard, the way your breath hitched just enough for him to notice. His lips curled into that smirk that drove you insane. "I’m a little sentimental, y’know? Didn’t really wanna see you go out like that.”  

You scoffed, trying to ignore the way your pulse spiked at his words. “Oh, so I should be thanking you?”  

He tilted his head as if considering it. “Yeah, actually. A lil’ gratitude wouldn’t hurt.” His fingers ghosted over your waist before gripping your hip, holding you there. 

You swallowed hard. “That’s funny. ‘Cause all I remember is you disappearing and turning me into some kind of ghost-hunting idiot trying to track you down.”  

His smirk returned, sharp as ever. “C’mon, you liked the chase.” His free hand reached up, brushing a stray hair from your face before tracing the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate. “Knew you’d miss me, too. And even if you didn’t—” He pulled back just enough to reach into his pocket, fishing out his phone. With a flick, he brought up the messages.   

“Remind me who kept opening my texts, huh?” 

Your stomach twisted. Shit.  

Toby’s lips curled into something smug, something hungry as he kissed you—slow and deliberate like he was savoring the way you tensed beneath him. His grip on your wrists loosened just enough to let them fall, giving you the briefest moment of freedom before he took hold of something else—your leather jacket.  

His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging it away from your shoulders with an ease that sent a chill creeping down your spine. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. There was something almost methodical in the way he worked, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips ghosting over the sensitive skin of your waist.  

“Don’t act like you didn’t want me to find you,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. His lips hovered near your face, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. Then he chuckled, soft but knowing, like he was in on a secret you weren’t ready to admit.  

“I’ve been watchin’, babe.”  

Your breath hitched.  

“Kinda cute, honestly. You goin’ about your lil’ college life, actin’ like you ain’t got me in the back of your head.”  

His hands slid higher, trailing over your ribs, up to your chest—slow, teasing, like he was memorizing every inch of you with his touch alone. His thumbs brushed the underside of your tits, a deliberate squeeze following the motion, like he was testing just how much he could get away with.  

That snapped you out of it.  

You grit your teeth, shoving at his chest, trying to push him off. But he barely budged.  

If anything, the struggle just seemed to amuse him.  

His knee slotted between your legs, pressing just enough to keep you still, just enough to make it clear who was in control here. His grip tightened ever so slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he was still calling the shots.  

“But now I’m here,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a quiet intensity. That wild, unpredictable edge still lurked beneath the surface, simmering just beneath the cocky smirk he wore. “And I gotta ask…” He leaned in, so close you could feel his words against your lips.

“You still think you can run?”  

Toby hummed against your skin, his lips dragging along your jaw before pressing open-mouthed kisses up to your ear. His breath was warm, teasing, each word dripping with smug amusement as he whispered, “…Fuck, you smell good, y’know that?” His nose brushed against your neck as he inhaled, slow and deep, like he was trying to commit your scent to memory. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this for weeks.”  

His hands didn’t stop moving, fingers sliding up, grazing your bare skin under your shirt, feeling you—possessive, yet unhurried. He squeezed your tits again, thumbs flicking over your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra, like he was testing your reaction.  

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.  

Toby just laughed, his lips pressing against your pulse, right where he’d left those marks last time. His tongue flicked out, just enough to send a shiver through you, before he sank his teeth in, nipping at the already-sensitive skin.  

“Mm, nah,” he murmured, voice muffled against your throat, “bet this wasn’t enough for you either, huh? You were feelin’ it, weren’t you?” Another bite, sharper this time, as if to prove his point. “Bet you were touchin’ these, thinkin’ about me.”  

Your breath hitched. “Fuck off.”  

Toby grinned against your skin. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t start lyin’ to me now.” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his own flickering with something dark, something utterly pleased with himself. “You wanna know why I sent those messages? Why I didn’t just let you go?”  

You swallowed hard, saying nothing.  

He kissed you again, deep and slow, before pulling back just enough to speak.  

“Your panties weren’t enough.”  

Your stomach twisted.  

His lips twitched into a smirk. “Had ‘em for weeks, babe, but it wasn’t doin’ it for me. I thought it would, y’know? Thought maybe I’d get you outta my system, maybe I’d move on…” He tilted his head, watching your reaction closely. “But nah. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”  

Toby’s fingers dug in just a little, his touch becoming firmer, more demanding.  

“Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then back down to your neck, inhaling deeply as he did. “Every time I touched myself, it wasn’t enough.”  

Your breath stuttered, but he only grinned, eating up every reaction.  

“So, I figured… why the hell would I leave?” Toby leaned in again, his nose brushing yours, his voice dipping lower, more intimate. “Why would I go when I could just… take you with me?”

Your thoughts were spiraling, torn between the weight of what he was saying and the undeniable pull of him—of this.  

Leaving town? Leaving everything behind? Your classes, your plans, your family? What would you even become? Some run away, tangled up in Toby’s mess? A ghost of who you were, trailing after a killer with no real future? The idea sent a sharp pang through your chest.  

But then again… what the hell were you planning to do after finding him?  

Because, deep down, you knew. Toby was right. You liked the chase. The obsession. The thrill of it all.  

You had no clue what came next.  

But before the panic could take hold, before you could wrestle with the consequences of what he was offering—what he was taking—Toby’s lips crashed into yours again, drowning you in the taste of him. It was rough, and consuming, leaving no space for doubt.  

The world around you blurred into a haze of sensation and sound as Toby’s hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. Your back pressed against the rough bark of the tree, the jagged edges scraping against your skin, but the discomfort was a distant echo compared to the heat of his body against yours. 

His strength was undeniable, his movements deliberate and commanding as he pinned you in place, leaving no room for escape—not that you wanted to. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, your body betraying the conflict in your mind.

His fingers moved with practiced ease, unbuttoning your shorts and yanking them down along with your tights and panties in one fluid motion. The cold air nipped at your exposed skin, sending a shiver through you, but it was quickly replaced by the searing heat of his body as he pressed into you, his weight anchoring you against the tree. His breath was hot against your neck, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke, his voice low and dripping with a dangerous charm.

“Y’know,” he mused, his hands sliding up your thighs, his touch both teasing and possessive, “you think too much, babe.” His fingers dug into your skin, pushing your legs apart just enough to make you gasp. 

“You’re sittin’ here, goin’ back and forth about leavin’—what, you think you got a real shot at normal?” He laughed a dark, throaty sound that sent a thrill down your spine. “C’mon. You came lookin’ for me. You wanted this.”

His words were a challenge, a reminder of the choices you’d made, the line you’d crossed when you sought him out. There was no going back now, and deep down, you knew it. His grip tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as if to imprint himself on you, to mark you as his. 

“You don’t need to think, baby,” he murmured his voice a low growl that vibrated through you. “I’ll make the choice for you.”

And then he was inside you, his cock stretching you, filling you completely, his movements rough and unrelenting, each thrust driving you harder against the tree. The bark scraped and bit into your back, a sharp contrast to the searing heat of his body pressing into yours. But the pain only amplified the pleasure, the intensity of it all making your head spin. 

Toby’s hands gripped your ass, lifting you slightly to meet him, his rhythm relentless, each stroke deeper, harder, more demanding. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, his forehead pressed against yours as he stared into your eyes, his gaze dark, unyielding, and utterly consuming.

“This is it, babe,” he panted, his voice thick with desire and something darker, something primal. “This is the life. No rules, no chains, just you and me and the open road. My buddies, they’ll take care of you too. We’ll keep you safe, keep you close. You’ll never wanna go back to that boring shit you called a life.”

His words were intoxicating, a dangerous promise that wrapped around you like a vice. But before you could even process them, his lips were on your neck, teeth sinking into your skin with a possessive hunger that made you gasp. 

The sharp sting of his bite sent a jolt of electricity through you, your body arching against his as he sucked and nipped at your flesh, marking you as his. His hands tightened on your hips, his grip almost bruising as he held you in place, his thrusts growing more urgent, more desperate.

Then his hand slid up, his fingers wrapping around your throat, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch, your pulse racing under his touch. He loved the way you looked at him, completely dazed, your lips parted, your eyes glazed with a mix of pleasure and submission. 

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice low and rough, his thumb brushing over your jaw as he tightened his grip just slightly. “Look at you, takin’ me so good, beggin’ for more without even sayin’ a word.”

And you were. 

You were begging, your body trembling, your nails digging into his shoulders as you clung to him, your hips rocking against his, desperate for more. The way he controlled you, the way he owned you at that moment, it was overwhelming, intoxicating. His hand on your throat, his teeth on your skin, his cock buried deep inside you—it was too much, and yet you never wanted it to end.

“Please,” you finally gasped, the word slipping out before you could stop it, your voice shaky, broken. “More, Toby, please…”

He smirked, “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. You could feel yourself being pulled deeper into his world, into the chaos and the thrill of it all. His hands moved to your hips, gripping you tightly as he thrust harder, his pace becoming almost frantic. 

The sound of skin against skin, the feel of his body against yours, the way he filled you completely—it was overwhelming, consuming.

His breath was hot against your lips, the scent of sweat and something darker—something possessive—coiling between you like a silent promise. His hands gripped your hips, his body pressing you so deep into the mattress that it almost felt like he wanted to fuse you into it, to make sure you’d never leave.  

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, voice rough and uneven, the words bleeding into a growl as he snapped his hips against you. His teeth grazed your jaw, your throat, a silent claim with every drag of his lips against your skin. “*Mine.* And I’m never lettin’ you go.”  

His pace turned brutal, driven by something animalistic—something desperate. The bed creaked beneath you, the room thick with the sound of skin against skin, his breaths ragged as he pushed you closer to the edge. His fingers wrapped around your throat, not tight enough to scare, but *just* enough to make your pulse hammer beneath his grip.  

Your vision blurred, pleasure winding tight in your core, your body shuddering beneath him as every thrust sent you spiraling higher. His grip tightened, his movements rougher, more erratic, until—  

Heat. Pressure. His body stiffening against yours as his release tore through him. He groaned low in his throat, his grip faltering as he collapsed against you, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps. And with that final push, that last overwhelming wave, you followed—your body trembling, pleasure wracking through you in waves so intense they left you breathless.  

Toby didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just held you there, tangled in him, his face buried against the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your skin with every shaky breath. His arms curled around you, pulling you impossibly closer, as if afraid you’d slip away the second he let go.  

And for a moment, you let him believe it. Let him believe you were his. Completely. Utterly. That you had fallen.  

Well…  

At least, that’s what he thought.  

THWACK!  

A sickening crack split the air.  

Toby’s body jerked—then went completely still.  

His breath hitched in his throat, the pressure in his skull overwhelming, disorienting. His vision swam, the world tilting violently as he tried to move, tried to make sense of what just happened—  

But it was too late.  

Darkness crashed over him like a tidal wave, sudden and absolute, drowning out every thought, every breath, every sound.  

And just like that…  

Toby went limp.

Somewhere in the haze of his mind, voices filtered in. Loud. Agitated. Familiar.

“What the fuck, Vidia? You knocked him out with a bat? A goddamn steel bat?”

“Oh, I’m sorry! Would you have rather let him keep going?” Vidia’s voice snapped back, breathless and full of righteous fury. “Because from where I was standing, you were real into it. And excuse me for not wanting to sit front-row for your ‘feral woodland creature fucks a serial killer’ special! You were supposed to grab him, not let him rearrange your spine against a tree!”

A snort. Amused. Disbelieving. “I’m not tackling a grown-ass man while he’s mid-stroke,” Vidia deadpanned, and you could practically hear the eyeroll. “You broke our two rules. Watch your back. Don’t get caught. And what do you do? Stalk a serial killer just to let him dick you down again? God, you’re not just stupid—you’re horny and stupid.”

You groaned, rubbing the back of your head as you sat up. “Can you not make this a whole thing?”

“Oh no, we are absolutely making this a thing.” Vidia’s voice was sharp and dripping with mockery, her presence looming over you like a judge about to pass a particularly scathing sentence. “You always go for the same type. The rugged, white boy rejects who aren’t even that cute.”

“First of all—shut the hell up,” you shot back, still breathless, still recovering from the sheer whiplash of events. “Second, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Vidia said smugly, crouching beside you with an infuriating smirk. “You, my dear dumbass, are the worst decision-maker I have ever met. If your dumb choices were spells, I’d be throwing counter-charms every damn day.”

You gave her a flat look. “If my bad decisions were spells, you’d be out of fucking eye of newt by now.”

“And mandrake root,” she added, grinning.

You rolled your eyes, looking over at Toby’s unconscious body. He was completely knocked out, his body slumped in the dirt, mouth slightly open like a damn idiot. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, yeah, Jesus indeed.” Vidia clapped her hands together, standing up. “So what’s the move, genius? Because from where I’m standing, it’s definitely not a hit-and-run anymore.” She nudged Toby’s foot with her boot. “Y’know, since you got dicked down and all.”

You shot her a glare. “Can we stop talking about that?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” She grinned wider. “I will be bringing this up at every possible opportunity.”

Suddenly, Toby’s eyelids fluttered, head still throbbing as reality rushed back to him. His limbs felt weird—weighted, restricted. His back pressed against something rough and solid. Slowly, blinking through the harsh glare of car headlights, his vision adjusted.  

The first thing he saw?  

You.  

Still looking disheveled from before, your clothes hastily adjusted, but the evidence of what happened still lingered. Skin marked up, lips swollen, posture tense. You were standing next to a woman he didn’t recognize.  

Toby’s gaze flicked to her—Vidia, was it?  

Off-shoulder black long-sleeve top, purple maxi skirt swaying slightly as she shifted her weight, platform boots clicking against the pavement. Silver charms dangled in her hair, her twists framing her face in a way that made her annoyance look downright beautiful as well.  

And then he realized—  

His arms were tied up.

His expression darkened instantly, muscles tensing as he tugged against whatever was binding his wrists. “Oh, what the fuck?” His voice was rough, thick with irritation and leftover exhaustion.  

Your head snapped toward him just as Vidia rolled her eyes. “Great, sleeping beauty’s awake.”  

Toby’s lip curled into a smirk, eyes narrowing as he took both of you in. “Is this some freaky-ass threesome? ‘Cause, not gonna lie, this is not how I pictured it.”  

Vidia made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Yeah, right.” She turned on her heel and started toward the car, shaking her head. “You better handle your little problem before I do, bitch.”  

“Bet, I will.” You mumbled.

Toby’s gaze flicked back to you, the smirk never quite leaving his lips. His head still ached, and he was pissed about being restrained, but goddamn—if this wasn’t interesting. He flexed his fingers, testing the restraints again, but damn, whoever tied him up actually knew what they were doing. His head still pounded from the bat-to-the-skull special, but his focus was locked on you—your nonchalant stance, the way you checked your phone like this was just another Wednesday night.

“Well, well, babe,” he drawled, voice still hoarse but laced with amusement. “Looks like you got some explaining to do.”

You barely glanced at him before flipping your phone screen toward him.

Vidia Location, next to yours.

Toby’s eyebrow twitched. “Oh shit, I should’ve taken your phone, I mean that’s… uh, cute? Kinda stalker-ish, actually.”

“Yeah, I’m not the one to talk about stalking here, Rogers,” you deadpanned. “Besides, Vidia and I have a system. I take action, she’s the cleanup crew. Like an efficient crime duo, except, y’know, college edition.”

Toby blinked, his smirk faltering just a bit. “Wait—hold the fuck on. How do you know my last name?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out a thick folder, the edges worn like it had been flipped through more than once. You gave it a little shake, then let it fall open in your hands. The top page, in clear bold letters:

Tobias Erin ‘Toby’ Rogers

Also known as Ticci-Toby.

Toby’s stomach did a weird flip. Not fear—more like… baffled amusement. His eyes flicked from the file back to your smug little expression.

“Oh, no fucking way—”

“Oh, yes fucking way,” you cut him off, grinning as you flipped through the pages. “Shoutout to Vidia for this one. I told her about the creepy as fuck messages you were sending, and, well—turns out she’s kinda better at stalking than you are.”

Vidia, shouted and gave a lazy salute. “What can I say? I get bored.”

Toby stared, “You dug me up? Like, what—a full government background check? Social Security number, too? Jesus.”

You ignored him, scanning the file. “Mmm… childhood trauma, big surprise there… oh, look at that, arson! Fun stuff, love the classics—ah! Here we go.” You tapped the paper, eyes flicking up to him. “Nowadays, selling drugs for extra cash, and—oof, killing the buyer at the end if they don’t pay up. Real entrepreneur behavior.”

Toby rolled his eyes. “C’mon, it’s not that simple—”

“Frat boys disagree,” you sing-songed, tilting your head. “They told me all about you. How your prices just magically kept going up. That’s how I figured out where to find you, by the way. So, really, you played yourself.”

Toby groaned, tilting his head back. “God, I hate frat dudes.”

Vidia snickered out loud. “Bro, you literally sell to them.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather kill them than talk to them.”

You smirked, snapping the file shut. “Guess that plan backfired, huh?”

Toby squinted at you, his smirk creeping back. “Yeah, okay, sure, whatever, you got me. But, uh—r-remind me again why you went through all this trouble? ‘Cause, like… not that I mind being stalked, but this is kinda giving crazy ex-girlfriend vibes.”

You clicked your tongue, stepping closer. “Because I was curious, Toby.”

He raised a brow, eyes gleaming as you leaned in.

“And,” you whispered, tapping his nose with your finger, “because I kinda like the chase.”

Toby inhaled sharply, and for the first time since waking up tied to a chair in a fucking parking lot, he actually felt a flicker of something close to thrill.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured, voice low, “aren’t you just full of surprises, babe.”

You shrugged, shoving your phone back in your pocket. “Boring-ass college town, might as well have some fun. Ruining dudes’ lives is kinda our extracurricular.”

Toby blinked. “You are so much worse than me, holy shit.”

Before he could argue further, the crunch of boots against gravel turned both your heads.

Vidia strolled back into the headlights’ glow, carrying a very concerning red gasoline canister in one hand and adjusting her leather gloves with the other. Her expression was deeply unbothered.

“Aight,” she said, tilting her head toward you, “so we killing him, or what?”

Toby choked on the air. “EX-FUCKING-SCUSE ME?”

You turned to Vidia, looking genuinely confused. “What? No? Who said anything about killing him? You always want to kill a dude after we are done.”

“Aww…” Vidia gestured lazily with the gasoline can. “I mean… it kinda felt like that was where we were going.”

Toby was fully invested in survival mode now, eyes darting between you and your disturbingly nonchalant roommate. “Okay, real quick, let’s all agree that murder? Not the move here. Like, I get it, I’m an asshole, I stalked you, I may or may not have terrorized a few people—”

“Understatement,” Vidia muttered.

“—BUT,” Toby pressed on, “if I suddenly go missing? That’s a huge problem for you.”

You folded your arms. “And why’s that?”

Toby’s smirk returned, though there was a flicker of actual warning in his eyes. “Because of my buddies—Kate, Brian, Tim? Yeah, they kinda like me. If I don’t come back, they will come looking. And trust me, babe, you don’t wanna be on their radar.”

Vidia exhaled through her nose, rolling her eyes as she very slowly put the gasoline down. “All right, fine. You got a point.”

Toby let out a relieved breath. “Oh, thank God—”

“But now what?” Vidia cut in, turning back to you. “Because this ain’t a hit-and-run anymore. We just kidnapped a dude, roughed him up, and now we’re in a very awkward hostage situation. So what’s the plan, genius?”

You pursed your lips, pretending to think.

Toby, still tied up, still half-dazed from the bat, muttered, “Oh, I hate where this is going.” He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “All right, babe, you gonna torture me? Maybe have your girl over there cut me up while you monologue about how you ‘won’?”

Vidia scoffed, adjusting the leather gloves on her hands. “Dude, I don’t have the patience for torture. And I don’t monologue—that’s her thing.”

You shot her a look, but she wasn’t wrong.

Toby watched the exchange, eyes flicking between you both before he spoke again. “Right, well. If y’all aren’t gonna kill me, what is the move here? ‘Cause lemme tell ya, leaving me alive? Probably not the smartest idea.”

You shrugged. “Never said we were smart.”

Vidia sighed, stepping up beside you. “Listen, I’m all for ruining men’s lives—”

“—she really is,” you muttered.

“—but,” she continued, “this is not just some dude. This is a serial killer with, like, friends in the business. Friends who will notice if he goes missing.” She jerked a thumb toward Toby. “And if we kill him, that’s just extra work for me.”

Toby grinned. “So, I live? That’s sweet of you.”

Vidia gave him the driest look imaginable. “Not what I said.”

You sighed, tapping your chin. This had started as just a game—track down the dangerous guy who thought he was in control, flip the script, and then… well. You hadn’t exactly thought past this part.

Dipping town with Toby? Leaving everything behind—college, your boring little life, your hard-earned reputation? That was a huge fucking leap. But at the same time, what else was there? You didn’t have a grand plan for your future. The closest thing you had to excitement was this—and the fact that you didn’t know what came next? Kinda thrilling.

You glanced down at Toby, who was watching you like he could see those gears turning in your head. His smirk was lazy, but there was something sharp in his eyes.

“Y’know, babe,” he murmured, voice dropping low, “I could help you figure it out.”

Your lips parted, but before you could speak—

“Absolutely not,” Vidia cut in, glaring at you. “Do not get wrapped up in this shit.”

Toby raised a brow. “Damn, you don’t trust your bestie to handle herself?”

“Oh, I do—I just don’t trust you to not be a psychotic little gremlin who drags her into some fucked-up murder cult.”

Toby made a face. “Wow. Hurtful.”

“Good.” Vidia sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Okay. New plan—we leave, he stays, and we pretend this never happened.”

Toby scoffed. “Yeah, like I’ll just let you walk away after all this.”

Vidia narrowed her eyes. “What are you gonna do, Rogers? Bark at us? Jitter threateningly?”

Toby’s smirk widened. “You are kinda funny. I get why she keeps you around.”

You bit back a laugh, and Vidia shot you a betrayed look. “Don’t encourage him.”

You shrugged, crossing your arms. “You did hit him in the head with a bat. I feel like we gotta let him have at least one-joke.”

Toby tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Y’know, babe, I’m real tempted to like you.”

“Yeah?” You leaned in just a little. “Then maybe you should prove it.”

His grin turned downright feral.

Vidia groaned. “Oh my god. I hate you both.” She turned her head to see the horizon was bleeding into a dull shade of orange, morning creeping over the city like a nosy neighbor. The distant hum of patrol cars still echoed through the streets, their searchlights carving through alleyways and abandoned lots. 

They were looking for someone like him, no doubt. 

Toby Rogers, Ticci-Toby, the boogeyman with a shit-eating grin. And yet, here he was, tied up, smirking like he held all the cards.

"Y'know, babe," he started, voice lazy, teasing, "technically, I'm supposed to kill you for all this."

You tilted your head, unconcerned. "Technically, you already tried to kill me once, and look where that got you."

Vidia snorted, arms crossed. "Yeah, tied up like a dumbass."

Toby just grinned wider. "See, that's exactly why you two should join us."

Your brows raised. "Join?"

"Yeah. I mean, you did hunt me down, crack me over the head, and nearly set me on fire," Toby said casually. "And, uh—no offense, but most people who try that shit end up dead."

Vidia scoffed. "Most people aren't us."

"Exactly," he said smoothly. "That’s why I’m offering—we could use people like you. Well, I could, at least." He glanced at you, then at Vidia. "You? Sharp, quick thinker. A little impulsive, but I dig it. And her?" He nodded toward Vidia. "Efficient as hell. Probably smarter than half the guys I work with."

Vidia rolled her eyes. "That’s a low bar."

Toby ignored that, his grin never faltering. "Look, there's only one chick in the group right now, and honestly? You two would be a perfect fit."

You and Vidia exchanged a look.

Vidia squinted at him. "Wait… you mean that same chick that deadass almost choked her out?" She jabbed a thumb toward you.

You sighed. "Yep. That's the one."

Vidia blinked. "Kate?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, no. Hard pass."

Toby laughed. "Okay, in her defense, she's a little on edge. But hey—she's got her quirks."

"Quirks?" Vidia repeated flatly. "Dude, she's scared of the flashlight on my phone."

Toby blinked. "…Oh. Yeah. She does hate that thing." He thought for a second, then shrugged. "Anyway, my bad about the whole choking thing. If it makes you feel better, I’ll tell Tim you guys are off-limits."

"Tim?" Vidia echoed. "And what? Do you think we're just gonna sign up for murder club? Like, 'Oh wow, what a great opportunity, where do we apply?'"

Toby smirked. "Hey, I get it. Big decision. Life-changing and all that. But let's be real—it's not like you guys got some grand future lined up. You're already playing with fire. Why not burn something down?"

You inhaled deeply, considering. It was a tempting offer.

A little murder. A little chaos. A little more of this.

Vidia sighed, rubbing her temple. "This is a terrible idea."

Toby grinned. "But you’re considering it, aren’t you?"

You exhaled through your nose, looking up at the sky. The night was fading, the real world creeping back in. But standing here, with Toby still tied up and grinning like a madman, with Vidia beside you rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out—

You were starting to think… maybe the real world wasn’t where you belonged.

At the end of the day?

It was a hit or run.

[eatmyheartoutjpg]

ARM'S LENGTH // Previous: Oh Shit ;; Rom! Soulmates AU. Insight with your dynamic with Silco, your unlikely soulmate.

12.10.24 Masterlist

Your soulmate being the kingpin of Zaun? It was the last thing you’d ever expect. Out of the billions of people in the world, fate had tied you to him. The Eye of Zaun. The man whispered about in fear and reverence across the undercity. The mere thought was enough to make your head spin.

You often wondered how you ended up here, standing at the entrance of a world you had no business being part of. One moment, you were navigating the gritty streets of Zaun, trying to avoid drawing attention to yourself. The next, you were tethered to one of the most dangerous figures in the city.

Since the fateful moment you exchanged words, your life had been flipped belly up. Silco—your… soulmate—had insisted you stay by his side. It wasn’t a request. It was a command, one delivered with the same authority that made lesser men crumble.

At first, you were reluctant. Terrified, even. You wanted no part of his life, knowing full well the danger and depravity that came with it. Yet, when faced with the alternative—remaining vulnerable and exposed in a city teeming with threats—you reluctantly agreed. Not because you trusted him, but because you didn’t trust anyone else. You knew that if word got out about your connection to Silco, your head would have a price on it by sunrise.

Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he resented your very presence. Soulmates or not, it was clear that Silco didn’t want you here. He didn’t need you. To him, your bond wasn’t a blessing; it was an inconvenience.

He treated your connection as a mere obstacle, something to be tolerated rather than cherished. While you stayed in his line of sight, he hardly acknowledged you unless absolutely necessary (which was slim to never). Conversations were curt, directives delivered without room for discussion.

You were certain he saw you as an object—something fate had saddled him with. An obligation to manage, a liability to his empire of power.

He's discovered the end of the rope that tied you to him and now he's done with it.

And in some ways, you couldn’t blame him. He was a man with a singular vision, a relentless drive to shape Zaun’s future. In his world, attachments were a weakness. Trust was a currency he didn’t spend lightly. And you? You were the unwelcome variable in his otherwise carefully calculated plans.

He kept you close. Too close.

Silco’s insistence on your presence was suffocating. You could feel the atmosphere and his intentions, it wasn’t out of affection—there was no warmth in the way he spoke to you or the sharp glances he threw your way when you stepped even slightly out of line.

What unsettled you most was the secrecy. Despite your proximity to him, he hadn’t introduced you to anyone—not his workers, not his chem-barons, not even the bartenders at The Last Drop, where his office was directly above, where he conducts his business.

The only person you’d made any sort of contact with was Sevika, his right hand and infamous powerhouse. You’d seen her often enough to recognize her effortlessly intimidating presence, the way she carried herself with confidence was all from countless battles won. Sevika wasn’t someone to cross, not unless you had a death wish.

Her reputation preceded her: a woman known for getting tasks done with brutal efficiency and unapologetic force. The whispers about her around Zaun painted her as unshakable, her loyalty to Silco as steadfast as her punches were devastating.

And you? You were thoroughly intimidated.

Sevika never spoke to you. Not a word about your sudden and constant presence at Silco’s side. Not about the obvious tension hanging in the air whenever she entered the same room. She didn’t even spare you a questioning glance. If she had thoughts about the situation—or about you—she kept them buried beneath her cold exterior.

Whenever she passed you, her gaze remained straight ahead, her indifference as sharp as ever. She didn’t so much as glance in your direction, as though acknowledging you might disrupt some delicate, unspoken balance.

At first, her silence was almost a relief. You weren’t sure what you would have said if she’d confronted you, weren’t sure if you could withstand the force of her scrutiny. But over time, her indifference began to grate on you. You couldn’t decide what was worse—the way Silco scrutinized you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve, or the way Sevika ignored you entirely, as though you didn’t even belong in the equation.

You often wondered what she thought of you. Did she resent your presence? Did she know the truth about your connection to Silco? Or did she simply not care, too focused on her own responsibilities to spare you a second thought?

Whatever the answer, her silence only deepened your sense of isolation.

In a world where alliances were everything, you had none. Silco kept you close, but not close enough to trust. Sevika barely acknowledged your existence. And the rest of his network? You were just another shadow trailing behind their leader.

“What are you thinking about?” Silco’s voice cut through the heavy silence of the room, flat and devoid of warmth. It wasn’t curiosity that drove his question but rather an obligatory check-in, as though he were asking a subordinate for an written report.

You didn’t answer right away. Sprawled on the leather couch in his office, you lay there with an almost detached stillness, your gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling above. The faint smell of tobacco lingered in the air, mixing with the faint metallic smell of Zaun’s pollution that seeped through every corner of the undercity—though it was stronger the closer to the center of Zaun's underground you got.

Your body felt heavy, the kind of weight born not just of physical exhaustion but a deeper, lingering weariness. You slowly turned your head toward him, your movements sluggish, as though even this small effort was a monumental task.

He was seated at his desk, the usual mountain of papers and reports spread out before him in a disorganized sprawl. A cigar burned lazily in the ashtray nearby, its smoke curling upward in thin, ghostly tendrils. It was clear he hadn’t bothered to put it out; maybe he enjoyed the reminder of its presence, or maybe he simply didn’t care.

For once, Silco wasn’t hunched over his desk in the midst of his tireless work. Instead, he was leaning back in his chair, arms resting on the armrests, his pen abandoned beside the document he had been signing. His mismatched eyes were fixed on you, their gaze as impassive as ever.

He looked at you like he might glance at a stray dog lingering too close—an idle sort of indifference, mixed with vague curiosity but devoid of any real emotion. It was a look you were used to by now, one that never failed to make you feel even smaller in his presence.

“Well?” he prompted again, his voice as dull and unhurried as before.

For a moment, you held his gaze, meeting his detached expression with one of your own. Then, slowly, you turned away, breaking the silence with nothing more than the soft rustle of your clothes against the leather couch.

The ceiling reclaimed your attention, its worn and water-stained surface more comforting than the man sitting across from you. What could you possibly say to him?

"'Oh shit,'" you mumbled under your breath, almost as if testing the weight of the words on your tongue. They felt foreign now, despite having tumbled out so naturally when you’d first met him. “I can’t believe that’s it.”

The words hung in the air, awkward and unpolished, just like the first time they’d been uttered.

There was another lingering pause.

Silco didn’t immediately reply, his eyes fixed on you as he leaned further back in his chair with composed authority. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—at least not for him. For you, however, it pressed down like a weight, making your chest tighten as you waited for his reaction.

He finally hummed, the sound low and almost dismissive, as though your musings barely warranted a response.

“It’s undignified,” he said, his tone carrying that familiar edge of disapproval.

You didn’t flinch at the criticism; you’d grown used to it by now. He had made no effort to hide his disdain for the phrase since the moment it became clear you were his soulmate. The phrase on his wrist—the one you’d unknowingly delivered in that fateful moment—had been etched into his very being for years, and it was abundantly clear he hated every letter of it.

“You’ve mentioned that before,” you replied, keeping your tone even. It wasn’t worth snapping back.

His lips twitched into the barest hint of a smirk, though it lacked humor. “Because it bears repeating.”

You sighed softly, slightly adjusting to make yourself more comfortable, as if trying to retreat from his judgment. “It’s not like I chose it. If anyone should be offended, it’s me. Who greets their soulmate with ‘Don’t move,’ anyway?”

Silco’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his posture remained relaxed. “It was a pragmatic response to the situation.”

You arched a brow as you turned back to face him, meeting his expecting gaze, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. “Pragmatic? That’s what you’re calling it?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he clasped his hands together. “Would you have preferred I be poetic while you stumbled out of an alley, ready to flee?”

You opened your mouth to retort but stopped, realizing you didn’t really have a better answer. You shook your head.

“Fate has a terrible sense of humor,” you muttered, slowly pulling yourself to sit up.

Silco didn’t immediately respond. When he did speak, his voice was quieter, though no less measured.

“Fate,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of distaste. “I don’t put much faith in it. Fate is… inconvenient.”

“And yet, here we are.” You murmured, barely loud enough for him to catch.

He held your gaze for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, without another word, he leaned back in his chair again, reaching for the cigar that had been forgotten in the ashtray.

tgs ;; @trixie541 @90s-slasher-seji @miffysoo @sevikashimmerstrap @magicaltigerking

[sforzesco]

so the 2025 eleksyon, huh! what a time. vote buying, violence, red-tagging, the ongoing uniteam (derogatory) divorce shitshow, entitled dynast families and their fuckin nepo baby politician children. good grief.

anyway. following tradition, we're bringing back the roman stage! it's octavian & friends! discussing politics and power, with uhhhhh less enthusiasm than octavian might be hoping for. the jury is out on what's going on in agrippa's head.

technically, this is part of an early roman empire comic that I've been writing but not posting: this is goofy abridging of a more serious scene discussing the currency of victory and legacies (additionally roman bossism dynamics and assimilation into a national identity) and the return to appropriating the divine. it's early on in the narrative soup that everyone is kind of thorny about octavian's empire-nation building project some way or another.

@ octavian: this conversation would probably be better received by your wife and/or your sister lmao

[xixovart]

lost trio headcanons because theyre my mini fixation for the day

for starters i’d like to remind you that the first time jason felt like a person and not a soldier was when he was with leo and piper

ok now actual headcsnons

jason’s hair grew out after a bit and ended up covering the scar (“undercut”) he has on the side of his head from that one bullet. leo likes to surprise people by putting jason’s hair up bc its funny to see their reactions

l: “and look—secret undercut!!”

j: “it’s not an undercut leo, it’s a scar”

p: “the bullet didn’t even touch your skin drama queen”

j: “might’ve. my head could’ve exploded and—“

[groaning and arguing and leo laughing]

—canon convo guys rick told me

leo knows a lot of car games which is very beneficial for long days on the argo ii

piper always has a lollipop in her mouth and no one knows where they come from

leo comes up with the oddest nicknames and piper and jason are just. so used to it? jason could be talking to like reyna or smth and leo will come up to him and say

l: “oh hey jason gracer razor blazer”

j: “hi leo”

r: “what the fuck”

leo is really bad at picking up social clues so jason does it for him

the wildnerness school had a really early curfew that piper and leo blatantly ignored

they would stay out and wander the halls and hide in classrooms whenever a teacher was nearby

leo was poor and homeless, jason was raised with no regards to currency, spending, or finances, and piper is a nepo baby. the ultimate trio dynamic. arguing for hours about whether $50 is a lot or not (it is.)

leo shares food as a love language

jason loves video games, surprisingly enough (mario kart. MARIO KART.)

piper is constantly taking leo’s and jason’s stuff. hair ties, jewelry, mostly clothes, also mostly food, leo’s homework,

the trio has a movie marathon every friday night. there’s blanket forts, gummy worms, matching pjs, and fairy lights involved. they borrow rachel’s cave, since cabin 1 is too depressing and the aphrodite and hephaestus cabins are way too packed (sometimes rachel hangs around for a bit :D)

picture me this. it’s winter, the lake is frozen over. they somehow find ice skates. utter chaos. leo fancies himself a figure skater, jason is on all fours because he keeps falling, and piper actually did figure skating as a kid

GUYS GUYS THE TRIO GOING ON A QUEST AND HAVING TO HIJACK AN UPPER-CLASS PARTY/GATHERING IM LOSING MY SHIT IMAGINE THE POSSIBILITIES

im gonna have to draw this but like

piper giving them very strict instructions on what to do and what not to do (they end up forgetting half of it)

yk that one quote from new girl?

“where are you piper?? this place is fancy and i don’t know which fork to kms with”

that’s leo

jason just hanging around quietly and not engaging in conversation and keeping everyone under close radar like the little fucking wolf he is

everyone ends up thinking he’s a bodyguard

the trio just goes along with it

YH THATS IT I HAVE MORE I THINK BUT THIS IS GETTING WAY TOO LONG SOOO BYE LOSERS GOODNIGHT AND DONR FORGET RO SLEEP EAT AND DRINK WATER (you hear that, @kindred-spirit-93? water. not pink milk. water./j)

[glowettee]

don’t trust pretty girls with dark pasts | alison dilaurentis (pt 1)

════════════════════════════════════════════ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　 . ✦ . ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧

alison dilaurentis is one of those girls you can never quite forget, even if you tried. she’s the girl who disappears and somehow becomes bigger in her absence. she’s perfume and poison. the kind of girl who’s always watching, even when she’s gone.

and she’s also the reason so many of us wanted to become mysterious.

in the glowettee world , we love our study girls and soft girls and it girls… but there’s something so necessary about talking about the alisons of the world. because here’s the truth: being pretty is a tool. being feared is a shield. being misunderstood can be a power. and ali? she knew that long before anyone else did.

so today, we’re swiping on a little too much lip gloss, and whispering secrets behind other girls’ backs. not because we’re mean, but because it’s survival. (lol)

today’s lesson is: how to be a pretty girl with a dark past… and how to make people afraid to hurt you.

☠︎ 🕯

✧ who is alison dilaurentis? the girl who made you question everything.

alison was never the main character in a conventional way, she was the shadow behind every scene, the whisper at the end of the hallway. she was gone, but omnipresent. haunting and ethereal. dangerous and delicate.

she was the kind of girl who used her beauty like a weapon, her words like a scalpel, and her secrets like a currency. she curated her identity with every glance, every outfit, every manipulation. and what makes her iconic is the duality: she was always lying, but it was because the truth had hurt her first.

a product of trauma, survival, perfectionism, and pressure. she played mind games because life was a game, and the only way to win was to stay one step ahead of everyone. especially the people who loved her.

✧ mindy’s dissection of the duality

“she looked like she’d ruin your life, but you’d let her.”

if you want to embody and recreate alison’s energy, you have to master this soft-yet-lethal balance. she was coquette meets cunning. she looked like a doll, but she was built like a fortress.

this is how you start in real life:

🗝 be hyperfeminine⭑but calculated. ali always wore lace, pastels, ribbons, gloss. she embraced girlhood. but on her terms. her femininity wasn’t innocent, it was strategic. everything she wore said “look at me” but also “don’t get too close.”

🗝 create a sense of absence. alison’s most powerful tool was her disappearance. mysterious girls know how to pull away, how to let people wonder, how to be unavailable just enough. you don’t always need to post, explain, or show up. disappear for a bit. reappear glowing.

🗝 hold secrets like sacred texts. ali knew everything about everyone. and even if she didn’t, she made it seem like she did. she controlled people with information. in real life, this means being observant. don’t talk too much. listen more. remember details. let people overshare while you stay a little foggy.

🗝 manipulate softly, ethically. this is where we walk a fine line. you don’t need to hurt people to be powerful. but you can influence energy, social dynamics, conversations, and outcomes just by knowing when to lean in and when to step back. ali wasn’t cruel for fun, she was protecting herself from a world that had hurt her too soon.

🗝 let people project their version of you. everyone thought they knew ali. they didn’t. mysterious girls let people assume… and never correct them. you don’t need to tell everyone your whole life story. let your vibe speak louder than your words.

✧ lifestyle inspo: the alison aesthetic for girls who look soft but hold knives behind their backs. (figuratively lol)

♡ appearance:

wear soft, pastel or baby pink tones with dark eyes or bold lip moments

matching lingerie sets even if no one sees them (especially if no one sees them)

hair ribbons, delicate jewelry, baby doll tube tops + skirts and jeans

signature scent: something too sweet with a dark twist (something like: ysl black opium or viktor & rolf flowerbomb)

manicures always. preferably pale pink or dangerous red.

♡ habits:

keep a secret journal. not for feelings, but for data. screenshots, observations, ideas.

play music while walking like you're the main character in someone else’s downfall.

know the gossip. don’t be in it.

use strategic compliments, it confuses enemies and disarms rivals.

disappear sometimes. rebrand when you return.

♡ home/life:

pink bedsheets, but with a lockbox under your bed

twinkle lights and scented candles next to hidden files and folders

an organized vanity but a cluttered hidden drawer with photos, notes, secrets

books stacked next to makeup palettes. duality, always.

✧ emotional strategy: how to be misunderstood in a way that protects you

the world always misunderstood alison. they thought she was a mean girl. a liar. a manipulator. they weren’t wrong, but they also weren’t right. she was traumatized. she was in danger. and she didn’t trust anyone.

to recreate and take from ali’s power, you don’t need to be cruel. you need to be self-protective.that means:

♡ never telling the full story ♡ letting your silence sting louder than your words ♡ choosing emotional detachment when necessary ♡ never giving second chances to people who betray you ♡ being okay with being the “villain” in someone else’s story

✧ mindy’s personal tips for being the ali of your friend group:

— always have the screenshots. — be the girl who disappears after the party. — know what makes people tick, but never let them know yours. — compliment girls who hate you. it confuses them. — never argue when you can smile and walk away. — keep a diary like it’s a vault. and keep it hidden. — have a playlist that makes you feel dangerous. play it when you walk down the hallway. (using headphones/earphones) — when people underestimate you… let them. and then prove them wrong silently.

✧ closing thoughts from mindy ♡

being a “pretty girl with a dark past” doesn’t mean being toxic. it means being resilient. it means knowing that the world won’t always protect you, so you have to protect yourself. it’s softness with steel. sweetness with shadows. the glowettee girl who knows how to cry in mascara… and then ruin your life with a smile. (i love you angels <3)

alison dilaurentis was the kind of girl everyone feared, because she made you look at your own reflection a little too closely. and maybe that’s what we need more of: girls who hold up mirrors, girls who say no, girls who come back stronger than when they left.

you don’t have to be perfect. you just have to be unforgettable. and ali? she never let anyone forget her.

— mindy ♡

════════════════════════════════════════════ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　 . ✦ . ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧

[gav-san]

Chapter Two

A Lineage of Red Masterlist here

One Piece Masterlist

Masterlist here

Word Count: 6,500+

A Delicate Catastrope

This story is not commendation on slavery, cruelty, sexual assault or violence. It’s also held together with tape and war crimes. Read responsibly. 18+

Themes: enemies to lovers, espionage, too many ballrooms, arranged marriage, forced proximity, Celestial Dragon dynamics, fear, manipulation, mutual hatred, uneven power balance, no redemption, literal war crimes, slavery, and slow burn

Previous/Next

After the debutante presentation ended, the real games commenced.

Noble families reconfigure like chess pieces on velvet, weighing new bloodlines, reassessing dowries, and comparing social capital. 

The jewels of the season: Two homegrown Mariejois beauties, a foreign princess shipped in like a rare wine, and a tight-lipped heiress with too much money to ignore. They were quickly identified and ringed by would-be suitors. They glowed in silks and sapphires, orbiting the gravity of legacy.

The shifting of alliances in low voices was the subject of the night. Nobles gathered in tight knots beneath cascading chandeliers, forming and reforming as rumors passed hands like heirlooms. Introductions were reprised, and family names were weighed like currency. 

You weren’t high enough in rank to promise advantage, nor low enough to be forgotten. You were that terrible in-between, a second-hand debutante. A footnote in every conversation.

But one quiet word from a steward surprised you. You were welcome to stay for dinner. You smiled and played your part.

They fed the girls like pets, seated them at smaller, lower tables, made them wear silk too sheer for winter air, and told them to smile. The men who watched them, fattened by luxury and authority, grazed on their fear more than their beauty.

Your posture was flawed, and you were too shy. You replied briefly and stupidly. You were a foolish, timid little creature, more interested in food than flattery.

“That one,” a nobleman drawled near the head of the room, indicating you with a thick, jeweled finger. “The one with the hair. She’d breed out nicely, but that hair. Do they bleach them after marriage, or are we meant to tolerate the red?”

Another chuckled.

“Low-born dye. I’d pluck the root.”

A third leaned closer, half-whispering, half-snarling:

“I’d wager half my estate on her being a screamer.”

Your spoon stirred gently through the tea, and your face remained blank.

You had trained for this. To endure.

So you circulated. Met as many nobles as possible, to let them see your face and hear your laugh, to appear stupid, harmless, maybe even sweet.

The House Vauntierre considered you a girl meant to be thrown away, that a minor noble might desire your meager dowry. A girl someone could own. The more interest you drew, the higher your bride price might climb, and the more options your family could consider before trading you like a diplomatic gesture in pearls.

The revolution had other goals.

You moved between groups with practiced ease, eyes wide with feigned curiosity. You asked the younger sons of noble houses about their favorite battles, and the older ones about trade disputes. You smiled when you got answers. You asked about the weather in disputed territories, the stability of eastern ports, and the status of lighthouses along the Marelin coast, where suspected revolutionaries were targeting.

“I only ask because I heard a port was attacked recently, but no one seems to know which. Do you suppose they’re hiding the name so no one panics?” They laughed. They answered. They assumed it was curiosity.

You misnamed treaties on purpose, so they’d correct you. You called titles by the wrong forms, so they’d explain them to you. You asked simple questions, but always the kind that invited elaboration.

Your laugh is so childish that it provokes a response.

“You're doing well,” Thorne mutters as you pass, leaving a kiss on your knuckles. “Just like that. Now go hide before the God’s Knights get drunk and bored.”

You rush to the main hall, hoping to avoid it.

It is an unspoken tradition.

The matrons tell the new debutantes it’s a cultural outing—an exclusive tour of the upper galleries reserved for the most ‘promising’ debutantes. 

Unfortunately, you aren’t quick enough, and get shuffled into the mix of tittering young women. You are led past mythic tapestries, glass cabinets filled with ancient, gleaming weapons, relics from the so-called “Holy Age.”

But everyone knows the truth.

Somewhere in the vaulted hush, the God’s Knights linger in the shadows. Dressed in their bright armor and capes, they prowl like stage villains. A snap of boots. A too-loud laugh. A breath at the nape of your neck.

It’s a favorite pastime for them.

Who will cry?

Who will faint?

Who will stammer and beg and flee?

You pause before a towering tapestry—an embroidered epic of the World Nobles’ dominion over the seas. Your head tilts as you examine the stitches, fingers brushing the threads like a mourner at a grave. Bonnet tied. Gloves perfect. You look like something half-forgotten and sad.

“Boo,” a voice murmurs just behind you.

You flinch. But you don’t turn. You keep your head down, bonnet covering all expression.

Instead, you smooth the embroidery with slow, deliberate fingers. You follow the practiced lines for this exact situation.

You don’t look at them, staring at the ground.

“You’ve come to hunt, haven’t you?” You ask softly. “I’m afraid I’m spoken for.”

The air changes.

One of them snickers. Another sounds upset. “Pretty thing’s been briefed. Who tattled?”

“No one briefed me,” you say quickly, catching yourself. Your voice slips, just slightly. “I—I only heard the girls talk—”

Footsteps.

Measured. Clean. The kind of stride that didn’t bother hurrying, because the world stepped out of its way first.

Closer.

You didn’t need to look to know. His presence pulled the gallery taut—something in the floorboards, in the air. Even the chandeliers seemed to hush.

“…the Vauntierre girl.”

Your stomach dropped like a stone through ice water. You couldn’t stop the slight shake of your chin this time, nor did you try.

“The one and only. Can’t mistake that hair,” a knight quipped with mock cheer. “You interested, Commander Figarland?”

The men who had started circling you took a quiet, collective step back.

You didn’t look up.

“Hm,” came the reply. The voice that answered was smooth and sharp, like polished bone. “Looks more like a Fox in ribbons than a lady.”

A few of the knights laughed. Not kindly.

“She might bite,” one of the others offered.

“No, she won’t.” His tone was final. “They don’t raise teeth in houses that breed by debt.”

The laughter this time was louder, crueler. And he hadn’t even raised his voice.

Then it stilled.

He approached. You didn’t flinch, but every nerve in your body felt the proximity. The faint, deliberate brush of fingers at your bonnet knocked a curl free. It fell across your shoulder.

He inspected it like a man might glance at lint. “Hn. Real. Unfortunate.” A pause. Then, dryly: “I like your hair.”

You swallowed.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

“I didn’t say I liked it on you.” He snapped back. 

More laughter. Harsher. The kind men offer when cruelty is the expectation. He seemed to enjoy rattling you.

“I wonder what that old man selling you thinks he’s offering the nobility,” he mused. “This one can’t even hold her head up. Tell me—did they send you because all the proper daughters ran off or slit their wrists first?”

Your fingers clenched in your skirt, but your face remained neutral. Nearly.

He stepped closer, circling—not predatory. Disdainful. You were an afterthought in fine fabric.

“It’s rather rude, you know. You haven’t looked at me once.”

“How dare I?” you replied, just above a whisper. The response was automatic, cautious. It didn’t matter.

He chuckled.

“No one here cares what you dare. You’re decorative. Barely that.”

You bowed lower. His boots gleamed beneath your lashes. Still, you didn’t look up.

“You’re not as frightened as you should be,” he observed after a moment.

You didn’t answer right away. Just enough of a pause to make it noticeable.

The pause stretched. His knights watched, waiting for the snap.

“I am simply trained, Commander Figarland,” you said at last.

“Hm.” He tilted his head. “Not well. Hunting dogs obey. You’re just trembling prettily and hoping someone finds it appealing.” 

Then, just as you braced for another blow, his attention seemed to drift. His interest was already fraying. He turned slightly, waving a hand as if brushing you aside from his mind.

“Do with her all you want,” he said, voice light, dismissive as he spoke to those around you. “She’s not worth the chase.”

Your breath caught.

For the first time, your head lifted.

No one answered. They didn’t have to.

His footsteps were already retreating, heading toward another girl. One who was trembling. One who might bark or cry.

A hand touched your elbow. It’s not kind, and you’re not going to end up in a good place if you don’t say something.

“If I’m not worth the chase, Commander,” you finally spoke up, tone even, and daring to snap your elbow away, “why did you still speak to me?”

Silence. Like ice snapping in a pond.

He stopped mid-step.

The room held its breath.

His head turned. Slowly. You didn’t look up, but you felt it, the stillness, the way his eyes narrowed.

One heartbeat. Then another.

A soft, amused sound. Not laughter. Not quite.

“Noted,” he said at last.

Then, quieter, so only those nearest might catch it-

“Escort her out,” he said. Not to you. “She’s not a rabbit tonight.”

Your head lifted, just barely. Enough to catch a glimpse of his absurdly striped trousers. You blinked, stunned.

No one replied.

His attention had already turned—like the sweep of a searchlight—to some other trembling girl clutching the edge of a display table.

A knight’s hand found your elbow. This time, it didn’t grip.

You felt the weight lift. Not his presence, but something subtler. The men no longer closed in. The knight at your elbow adjusted his grip—not a shove, but a guide.

The luck that had saved you from the God’s Knights was short-lived.

You had escaped the upper gallery, but that didn’t mean your evening was over. You and Maria regrouped and decided that you could continue.

But any forward momentum you’ve gained is undone by a quiet misstep born of overconfidence and a drink you didn’t know contained alcohol.

You slipped.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a soft unraveling, like a single thread tugged loose from an otherwise perfect weave. It began when a waiter offered you a glass of juice. Harmless, you assumed.

You didn’t taste the sharpness beneath the fruit.

Didn’t feel the warmth until it was already coiling in your limbs. And by then, the floor was no longer as steady beneath your feet. You sat near some men, just drunk enough not to notice your own words until they slipped out.

Curled on a velvet settee near the marble fountain, the din of conversation is just loud enough to disguise your eavesdropping. Two lesser Saints were speaking of an incident at sea, of an old skirmish, buried in bureaucracy. Two ships down, supposedly to a storm, but no wreckage had ever surfaced. Pirates, said the other. One of them joked that perhaps the sea had taken offense. 

They more or less ignore you.

The wine bubbles your thoughts.

You smiled, demure and thoughtful. “I suppose that’s what Lafarre meant,” you said lightly. “‘Even the sea resents its chains.’”

The silence that followed was sharp—the kind that doesn’t strike but carves. Cleanly. Quietly.

The younger of the two Saints blinked, slow and confused, a touch too green to catch the moment's weight. But the elder tilted his head, eyes sharpening with something you couldn’t quite read. Not yet.

Your heart thudded once. Just once.

Too late.

Lafarre.

You’d said his name aloud. Carelessly.

A former noble turned philosopher. Executed publicly. His writings were seized and burned, his name scrubbed clean from every textbook and lecture hall in the Holy City. It was illegal to own his work. Treasonous to quote him. Unthinkable for a debutante to do either, especially with such casual, razor-sharp precision.

You recovered with instinctive grace.

“Oh—” you laughed lightly, raising your glass, “I may have misremembered. Wasn’t he a playwright? Or a poet? One of those doomed romantic types.”

The younger saint chuckled, reassured. A pretty girl saying silly things. Nothing more.

But the elder gave you a long, thin smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Indeed,” he said quietly. “History has a way of romanticizing fools.”

Your gaze drifted lazily, bored. Calculating.

You needed to exit quickly, without rippling the water.

And then a shadow slid in beside you.

Thorne.

He arrived without fanfare. No greeting. No smile. No trace of the easy charm he usually wore like a second skin. He leaned down slightly, just enough to offer his arm. A lifeline disguised as routine.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice soft and even. “I believe your next dance was promised to me, unless I’ve lost my memory.”

You blinked once. Just once.

Then you smiled. Smooth, practiced, lovely.

“Hues, I think so?” you said lightly, placing your hand in his with flawless grace. “Of course.”

He guided you away without hesitation. His steps were calm. Controlled. One arm anchored yours. The other hung loose and ready, if needed. He kept his body just slightly between you and the rest of the court.

Only when you reached the edge of the ballroom, where candlelight waned and voices dipped to murmurs, did his voice change. Quiet. Low.

“You quoted Lafarre.”

You didn’t meet his eyes.

“They’re drunk. They won’t remember tomorrow.”

Thorne exhaled once. Almost a laugh, but not. He was quiet for a beat too long. His gaze drifted down—not to your lips or hands, as others so often did, but to the tilt of your wine glass and the way your posture had begun to relax. Too much. Not in the artful, calculated way you usually feigned.

In the real way.

“You’re assuming they were the only ones listening.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “…You’ve been drinking,” he said.

You arched a brow, amused. “I drank what the other debutantes drank.”

“You careless fool-“

You looked away, the flick of your lashes a touch too slow. “It was just juice. The waiter—”

Thorne cut a glance across the room, fast and sharp, scanning the attendants.

Of course.

It wasn’t juice.

You had taken the offered glass without question because that was what you were expected to do. Because it was easier to blend in than refuse. And now, just beneath your composed exterior, the flush in your cheeks and the softness in your eyes told him what you hadn’t noticed yet: the alcohol was working.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice low, his eyes already moving. Calculating. Choosing the safest path.

You blinked. “I’m not—”

Thorne lifted one hand slightly, signaling across the ballroom. A small, precise motion. Just enough. From the far wall, Maria moved. Her gown whispered as she glided through the crowd with the silence of trained grace, expression smooth and unreadable.

When she reached you, Thorne’s voice was gentle, but final.

“Miss Vauntierre needs a moment in the ladies’ parlor then an escort home,” He said, tone polite but brooking no refusal. “Will you see to her comfort?”

Maria curtsied faintly. “Of course.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Thorne was already brushing his fingers over your knuckles. Just once, a silent reminder to listen to him. 

Then he stepped back.

Maria’s hand found your elbow, light but steady.

“Come,” she said warmly, like a friend who understood. And as she led you away, Thorne stayed behind.

Watching. Calculating.

And already planning who to kill for slipping you the glass. Damn these Celestial Dragons and their games. 

The door to the gentlemen’s salon closed behind Thorne with a soft click, sealing off the scent of cologne, smoke, and aged cognac. Velvet drapes dulled the light, and polished glass decanters gleamed like trophies of old blood. Conversation simmered low, but the moment he stepped in, the air shifted.

He was expected.

“Ah,” drawled a knight in silver-trimmed uniform, legs crossed too casually by the fire. “The fox-tamer returns.”

A low ripple of laughter rolled through the salon.

Another, broader knight leaned forward, swirling amber liquid in a heavy crystal glass. “Heard you had to drag her off before she started quoting heresy and throwing up poetry.”

Thorne poured himself a drink without looking at them. “Some idiotic fiend spiked the punch, and now half the girls are babbling. She’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s very well,” A younger Celestial Dragon said. He was Saint Shepard Sommers, a prominent God’s Knight, and was lounging across a chaise like a hunting dog. “That red hair alone suggests a certain… temperament. No wonder you’re so taken.”

A pause. Thorne didn’t look up.

“Come on, gentleman,” A handsome man, Lyonel Carienne, joked, waving his hand and showing off his rich coat. “Let the man have a rest.”

The nobles chuckled, like they would at a pet. Lyonel is tolerated not thanks to his status, but because he is the golden boy of Mariejois’s fashion and textile economy, a charming aesthete with a mercantile brain sharper than most swords. 

But the eldest of the Gods’ Knights in the room, older, with a white streak in his hair and a permanent sneer, set down his pipe with a hollow clink of porcelain. 

Saint Diente DonQuixote.

“You know, I remember when her family still begged for court recognition. Dirt under their fingernails. That hair of hers? Common. Bordering on vulgar. Isn't that right, Lewis?”

The man next to him, Deronne Lewis, nodded slowly. The man is pragmatic, precise, and composed to the point of suspicion, and a favorite of older Celestial Dragons for his ability to bring whatever they want from wherever, quick as a dream.

“Can’t say that I respect it, Thorne.” The men give each other long looks. “The color is too much.”

“It’s the color of rust,” someone offered helpfully.

“It’s the color of scandal,” said another.

Thorne took a slow sip of his drink.

“And you,” Saint Diente continued, voice dropping with that special edge reserved for righteous mockery, “Your own fortunes are finally rising, but you're looking to marry a vulgar little peasant. What is it, Thorne? Are you hoping to polish her into something fit for this court? Or do you just like the idea of having something wild in your bed?”

The room stirred with cruel amusement.

Thorne finally lifted his gaze. Calm. Unmoving.

“I wasn’t aware courtship was a crime,” he said.

“It’s not,” the eldest knight replied smoothly. “Poor taste, however, is treason of its own sort.”

More laughter.

But Thorne only gave a faint smile.

They circled Thorne like old comrades too familiar to be safe. Holy Knights and Celestial Dragons he’d made acquaintances with, drunk with, and sold good liqueur to. Their camaraderie wore the brittle shine of old brass, warm in tone, but sharp at the edges. Gleaming with just enough history to cut. He was never as noble as they, but he'd do, for his product was exquisite.

Their voices rose, not by chance. Never by chance. Just loud enough to draw the attention of those nearby, the curious and the cruel alike.

“So, you’re actually serious?” Laughter rippled behind the words, but the barbs gleamed underneath.

A man from the far end of the room came forward, leaning next to Thorne, and making him sigh.

“Miscaviage.” Thorne acknowledged. Elias Miscaviage gave him a long up and down, ending with an open grin.

“Didn’t think she was your taste, Thorne,” someone said, eyes glinting over a half-filled glass. “I always took you for cold steel and careful lineage. Not… impulsively crimson. You know I could sell her hair for you when you’re done.”

Thorne sighed.

“You're going to have to give me at least a month ruining her before we start talking about auctioning off her hair.”

“Scarlett’s a bold choice,” added another, lazy and sharp. “Louder than most pedigrees would tolerate. But it would sell.”

They were teasing, yes, but also probing. Testing the tension. Watching for weakness. Waiting to see if he’d rise to defend you, or pretend you were nothing.

Thorne smiled.

Mild. Easy. The way he might smile at a junior officer about to embarrass a governor.

“You’re right,” He said, lifting his wine to his lips. “She’s not a diamond.”

A few chuckled. Others leaned in, scenting more.

He let the pause stretch, just long enough to feel effortless, before adding casually. “Too inquisitive. Loud when she should be quiet. Lacks the refinement to carry herself before the right people.”

Elias raised a brow. “Like you?”

“Exactly,” Thorne said without missing a beat. “Terrible judgment.”

That drew real laughter. For a moment, the tension dissolved into amusement. But one of them, sharper, more sober, pressed further.

“So why waste your time?” Deronne asked. “There are a dozen other girls this year with quieter mouths and better blood.”

Thorne shrugged, light and pleasant. A man among friends. No stakes.

“I want to see if the hair matches everywhere.”

Silence dropped like a stone.

Then the laughter erupted, louder this time, but edged with open mockery.

“He does share Figarland's taste, then. Red and ready to be ruined.” Murmured Shepard Sommers. “Though I didn’t say that.”

“God help us if they fight over her. The palace would burn in three days.” Lyonel joked, clicking his glass against Sommers.

“Thorne would lose,” Deronne said, slouching deep into an armchair. “Figarland doesn’t tolerate competition.”

Thorne laughed with them. Relaxed. Charming. A little too practiced.

“I’ve no plans to challenge anyone,” He said with a wave. “Especially not someone like him. I doubt Commander Figarland would be interested in her. She's half-feral with nothing but vulgar hair to her name.”

That line earned sharper laughter from a few—and, from others, a subtle shift. A beat of stillness.

The door clicked open.

Saint Garling Figarland entered.

He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to.

His presence unfurled through the salon like a pressure drop before a storm, silent, total, unmistakable. The warmth bled from the air. The fire seemed to flicker low. Chatter faltered mid-sentence. Laughter thinned into brittle echoes, unfinished and half-swallowed.

He didn’t look around. He didn’t need to.

The God’s Knights and World Nobles adjusted their stances with the unease of old dogs scenting a wolf. Some stood straighter. Others subtly stepped aside, clearing his path without thought, because thought had nothing to do with it.

It was instinct.

Figarland didn’t speak.

Not yet.

He simply moved, unhurried, unbothered, like the room belonged to him and always had. His gaze slid across the velvet hush, past wine-dark glasses and loosened cravats, past the cluster of courtiers still pretending to be comfortable.

He carries himself like a man who’d never been told no.

No herald, retinue, or flourish. Just the cold certainty of someone who was in authority and didn’t share.

A glass clinked too loudly. Someone cleared their throat.

The commander's eyes swept the room once, disinterested in the men, the goblets, the smoke-thick gossip, before landing on Thorne at the far end.

The he stood alone, cradling A half-finished wine glass with a poise so seamless it might have passed for indifference. But Figarlands' assessment was clinical, a lion watching deer. He saw the subtle tightness in his hand, the way his chest rose just a shade too slow. 

The men had done half his job for him.

Then, finally, Figarland spoke.

“Thorne.”

No title, no respect, just acknowledgement. 

The name dropped like a blade.

Conversation died instantly, collapsed like a tent slashed from its center pole. Glasses were lowered. Voices clipped off. Attention shifted, fast and collectively.

Thorne turned without a rush, his face unreadable, carved into the same calm mask he wore in committee halls and war briefings.

“Commander Figarland.”

It was the first time they had spoken to one another.

But both knew the other by reputation and watched from opposing corners of the same stage. Thorne, the lesser noble, was looking to salvage his title. A man with clean boots and a sharp tongue, always circling the edges of true power. Figarland, the executioner in silk, the old law given breath and muscle and judgment. The blade behind the throne.

Commander Figarland's voice was light, polished. But his eyes were knives.

“Word is you’ve taken an interest in the little red fox.”

Thorne didn’t blink.

“Yes,” he replied, tone even and cold. “I need a breeder. She fits the bill. Cheap, disposable. The usual qualities.”

Figarland’s brow barely moved. “She’s got quite the mouth for a witless breeder.”

“The champagne ruled her tongue tonight,” Thorne said with the faintest shrug. “She’s not usually so loose. Just…” he gestured vaguely, dismissively, “Foolish. Quoting whatever nonsense her peers think sounds revolutionary this week.”

Figarland's smile appeared, but it was hollow. An expression with the shape of amusement and none of the substance. “She quoted Lafarre.”

The silence in the room deepened.

“She misspoke.” Thorne offered. “Someone spiked the punch, and now all the ladies think Verde is Vermello.

Figarland's steely eyes didn’t soften.

“Misspeaking here has consequences. Do you think she understands what that means?”

Thorne let the silence stretch. Not long, just a fraction longer than it should have. Enough for weight to gather in the pause.

“I think she knows enough to regret it,” he said quietly. “And enough to avoid it again. Though she isn’t clever or intelligent, she can learn.”

Figarland tilted his head, slow and deliberate like a scholar eyeing something rare beneath glass, uncertain whether to admire it or dissect it.

“You helped her,” he said. “Redirected her and tucked her away.”

Thorne didn’t look away.

“I value discretion, Commander Figarland. I didn’t want the evening spoiled by a girl trying too hard to seem clever.” A pause. Then a faint smile, touched with something bitter. “Besides… her family won’t entertain a match unless I look suitably possessive.”

The Commander stepped forward. There was no threat in the motion, yet the space between them vanished as if the walls had shifted. He moved like someone used to claiming rooms and silences alike.

When he spoke, it was lower now—not quite a whisper, but near enough to tighten the muscles in Thorne’s throat.

“Very well.”

They stood there, still. The fire crackled softly in the background, but neither moved. Two men who had never spoken before, now watching the same ember smolder from opposite sides of the same dry field.

Thorne didn’t flinch. Didn’t yield. Held his ground.

Figarland’s mouth curved. Not into a grin, not quite.

“I wish you patience, Thorne.” The words were smooth, almost cordial. “You’ll need it.”

Thorne’s pulse cooled by instinct, but his chest burned because he knew.

Figarland didn’t poke. 

He pried. He pressed. He mapped the soft places in a man’s armor not to strike them immediately, but to know exactly where to apply pressure when the time came. That was his key: timing.

Thorne gave a nod. “I’m much obliged, Commander.”

A flick of Figarland’s eyes. 

A breath of disinterest. And the machine around him moved.

One knight stepped into Thorne’s path with a sudden inquiry about trade routes in the southern territories. Another shifted toward the corridor, shoulders angled to quietly obstruct. A servant arrived with fresh wine and a practiced murmur about a missing entry in the guest registry—urgent, of course.

By the time Thorne turned his head, Garling was already retreating into the crowd.

The fire stoked. An unfortunate wild card entered the game, and an unwelcome guest was in the play.

The morning after the mixer dawned pale and cloudless, too clean, too still. The sort of morning that pretended nothing had happened.

But in the borrowed parlor, the illusion didn’t hold.

You sat curled into the window seat, knees drawn up beneath your borrowed nightgown, a cold cup of tea forgotten at your side. The slim poetry volume lay open on your lap, untouched since you cracked the spine hours ago.

The silence in the room was not restful. It hummed.

You heard them before they knocked, footsteps familiar now, steady, distinct.

A maid opened the door, face drawn, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. She said nothing.

Thorne entered a moment later.

His uniform jacket was folded over one arm, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned just enough to imply he’d dressed fast, but precisely. He looked freshly shaved. Unruffled. Clean.

But his eyes were tired. Watchful. Calculating.

The maid quickly bowed and left, off to get a suitable chaperone.

Thorne didn’t greet you.

He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and studied you with a single, slow sweep. Silent. Measuring.

“Our little romance has a few more issues,” he said mildly, “Thanks to your careless catchphrase.”

He crossed the parlor, poured himself a second cup of the now-cold tea, and didn’t bother to drink it.

“I apologize,” you said, and meant it. “I’ll make sure to bring my own drink next time the lemonade is spiked.”

He didn’t respond right away. He was watching you, eyes narrowed in thought.

“I know you don’t have much experience,” he said finally, “but this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to discover just what these damned Celestial Dragons are hiding. Temper yourself.”

You looked up at him—really looked.

He was angry.

But he was strategizing.

His stillness wasn’t calm; it was pressure, neatly folded beneath a composed exterior. He’d seen how power moved when it decided to take something. You recognized it now, too.

You lowered your gaze.

“How bad is it?”

Thorne’s voice came quieter this time.

“That was a warning. Figarland doesn’t offer many.”

Before you could speak, the door creaked open again.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” came a dry voice. “I brought pastries.”

Maria.

Your official chaperone. Unofficial spy. Reluctant den mother. Lifelong professional menace.

She swept in with a tray balanced expertly in one hand—bread, fruit, and something that still steamed faintly. She set it down with more ceremony than necessary, raised a brow at both of you, and folded herself into a chair like a judgmental cat.

“So,” she said, tearing a piece of bread. “Shall we talk about how one of the most dangerous men in the world looked at you like a man choosing a pair of gloves?”

You groaned. Thorne sighed.

“Maria—”

“No, no, I’m the chaperone,” she said sweetly. “My job is to observe. You lot thought I was going to sit around gossiping? Please. I’ve been indentured here longer than both of you combined.”

She popped a grape into her mouth, chewed, and turned her gaze on you like a scalpel.

“You made enemies last night,” She said, matter-of-fact. “Two daughters of House Ferrendo, who’ve been eyeing Thorne for months, and one Celestial Dragon, who was this close to speaking for you before he realized you quoted Lafarre. In a room where the walls bleed.”

Your face burned, a blotchy sting crawling up your cheeks.

Maria shot Thorne a sidelong glance.

“And you, sir, just declared war wearing silk gloves. Let the others laugh in the salon if they want—I heard how the commander of those dreadful Knights tore into you.”

Thorne didn’t flinch. “Worth it. I slipped messages to the Archivist while they were too busy posturing. If I had to scuff that blond rat’s polished shoes to do it, so be it.”

Maria’s smile faded.

“Don’t make a game out of crossing Garling Figarland. He’s not like the others. There’s a reason even the monsters here give him space.”

She paused—then added, quieter,

“And whatever you’re after, don’t let him think it’s something he should want.” Maria narrowed her eyes as you folded your arms over your knees.

That hit harder than you expected. You looked down.

Thorne said nothing.

Maria leaned back with a sigh and jabbed her bread at you like a weapon.

“So, here’s the situation. Depending on what happens at the Juniper Ball next week, this mission either succeeds or implodes.”

She pointed the bread again—this time directly at you.

“You need to be as stupid and boring as humanly possible. No wit. No flair. Powder your hair if you must. Heaven knows how inbred these men are, thinking your color is exotic.”

You wrinkled your nose. “But—”

“Not. A. Word.” She cut in, sharp enough to silence the air.

“Depending on Commander Figarland’s mood—suspicions, more like—your entire social stock will either fold or triple. If he even looks at you again, expect offers. Dozens. Half these houses bid against his just to prove they can.”

She set the bread down with finality. “Let’s hope you bore him to death.”

You stared, heart climbing into your throat. “What—?”

Maria didn’t blink.

“Welcome to court.”

Then, with false cheer, she added, “Don’t worry. We’ll decline most of the offers. Elegantly. But maybe stop quoting philosophers who were dragged from their homes and executed in public, hm?”

You swallowed hard.

Unexpectedly, Maria smiled. A small thing. Real.

“You let Thorne do what he does best—pretend not to care. And you?” She nodded toward the window seat. “You smile. You drink your tea. You act harmless. You let the Holy Knight believe he’s winning… by not being interested.”

Your heart thudded behind your ribs.

Thorne rose at last and crossed the room until he stood beside you, hands in his pockets, eyes on nothing in particular.

He looked down at you with the weariness of a man fighting hard to survive an idiot.

“You drank alcohol,” he said flatly. “You quoted a forbidden revolutionary. Attracted the commander of the God’s Knights.”

A beat.

“…You’re lucky I don’t have a better option.”

Maria choked on a grape.

You blinked up at him, caught somewhere between offended and flattered.

“Was that meant to be reassuring?”

“It was meant to be accurate,” Thorne muttered, already turning back toward the cold tea. “You’re a walking liability in petticoats.”

Maria grinned into her pastry.

“Gods help us all… he’s starting to like you.”

[trypo-p]

(ship asks) heavymedic?

rubbing my hands together like a mischevious little fly

What made you ship it?

I'm going to be 100% honest with you here. It was the heavymedic mic spam from like 17 years ago. I think it was 8 or 9 years ago now when I had gotten into TF2, and along with the Garry's Mod animation obsession, came me discovering the mic spam. After that I had seen more fanart, I watched Meet The Medic, and overall saw it as an OTP at the time. I was very isolated from the shipping community however, and thought that heavymedic was the only ship possible in TF2.

What are your favourite things about the ship?

Oh god, where do I even start. Heavy and Medic have not only great compatibility personality wise and are visually appealing, but their in-game dynamic adds to this too. More often than not, Medics are left defenseless if they aren't healing anyone (unless you're really good at being a battle medic), and Heavy is tanking all the damage from incoming fire. If you mix the two playstyles together, you get this sort of inpenetrable force field. Their voices compliment eachother, I can see and feel deep reds and blues mixing together in their voices like blood-filled veins and healing wounds. They're the kind of dynamic you can see aging together in retirement, living a more quiet peaceful life despite their natural lean for chaos.

Is there an unpopular opinion you have about the ship?

Someone had to address the elephant in the room; most of the time, heavymedic is written and portrayed horribly. As much of an amazing ship this is, I feel like it's more often than not seen in the wrong way. A lot of people love Medic's character, and forget that Heavy is not just some sort of play thing written only to give love and affection to his beloved doctor. Heavy has *so* much character and people seem to refuse to write him as an actual character. Whether it's intentional or not, I'm very tired of seeing Heavy's well developed story and history get thrown out of the window in place of his love for the doctor. Also; I hate seeing Medic being portrayed as the "weaker one" in the relationship. Yes, he is a healer, but Heavy and Medic's power dynamics go beyond just physical strength. Medic is assertive, manipulative; he can easily get what he wants because he's good with his words. HOWEVER... Medic is not apathetic. He deeply cares about everyone on the team. He manipulates for the sake of what he loves and cares about, not for his own, personal desires. AND. HEAVY ISN'T STUPID. He's very intelligent, but often get's portrayed as the total opposite. He has a kandidat nauk in russian literature (shown in Poker Night), and is very good with math (calculated the cost per bullet in Meet The Heavy, and did the conversion rates for the currency Merasmus was in debt by in the 7th comic) I know these two are moreso about the characters than the ship itself, but it has great importance to the ship nonetheless. These aspects do not fade out when put into a relationship; it's like if you put a mass murderer into a relationship with an innocent person and the murderer immediately recovers from the guilt and stops their murderous behavior. No, it'll stick with them IF on the road to recovery would take ages to work out.

I yapped a lot more than I thought I would, but I'm very specific when it comes to heavymedic.

[syndrossi]

resonant ch30 dvd commentary

Favorite line(s):

A walk through the yard proved fruitless. The hatchlings abandoned him briefly to greet Caraxes, and Daemon trotted away in the moment of their distraction, unheeding of the strange looks it garnered, to duck back into the holdfast. But they hunted him down within a minute, gleeful in their success, as though it had been a delightful game instead. “I hope Jon and Rhaegar are enjoying themselves as much as you,” Daemon said, unable to maintain his sour mood.

A few people mentioned this part in the chapter comments, which is my own personal favorite, though pretty much all of Daemon's attempts to dodge the hatchlings made me crack up writing them.

The runner-up is some tonal whiplash after the hatchling cuteness:

My sons should not be without their dragons. The dread that had lodged in his stomach surged, fear gripping his heart at the thought. They must not be without their dragons.

Look, my favorite thing to write other than hatchlings apparently is Daemon being repeatedly haunted by the candle and its visions, sucker punch after sucker punch, without even the awareness to curl into the blow.

Favorite detail(s):

Lys coinage! GRRM has described the currencies of all (I think?) of the Free Cities, but only a few of them are actually named. Ironically, the coinage of Braavos, aka the home of the Iron Bank itself, hasn't had its currency named by GRRM yet!

Lys coinage is depicted as a naked woman in an oval coin, believed to be the goddess of love. Given its famed pleasure houses and the woman on the coin, I decided to call the Lys currency "favors." It felt like it matched well with Volantis's honors, while having a uniquely Lysene flair. What do you ask of a woman or the goddess of love? Her favor. (Or wink wink favors, perhaps.)

The other one is the name of Mysaria's establishment, the Ebon Plume. Who has been rising to power in Lys? None other than the Black Swan. You can take Mysaria naming her place the Ebon Plume as some sort of reference to the Black Swan; whether that's because she admires a woman who can rise from being taken as a pleasure slave to practically ruling all of Lys, or because she owes some allegiance still to her home, who can say?

Favorite dynamic:

Oof, having to choose is hard here, because there are some fun ones! Hatchlings vs Mysaria and hatchlings + Daemon are near and dear to my heart, but Mysaria and Daemon are the ones with the history and conversation, so we'll go with them.

As with Rhaenys, I enjoyed getting into Mysaria's head to figure out what makes her tick. My Mysaria is much more heavily show-inspired than a lot of the Resonant characters, in part because F&B is quite sparse on the details for her. And the thing that is so striking about show!Mysaria is how much of an opportunist she is, and how skilled she is at manipulating people. She's very good at listening, and being comforting (she does this a lot with both Daemon in S1 and Rhaenyra in S2), and becoming what someone needs her to be.

Daemon can be charming, and he's certainly very useful, so it's in Mysaria's interests to re-establish some kind of relationship with him if she can, even in a more business-like context, ideally with a level of trust. He's even more of a rising power these days, which does make her deal with Otto a tiny bit awkward unless she's careful about playing both sides. Daemon's importance is in his relevance to the most powerful men of the realm: Viserys and Otto.

I also interpret her as having a prideful streak of her own, not unlike Daemon's, though she's better at hiding it. I didn't call it out as one of my favorite lines, but her defiant "I raised my own head high" was a moment that resonated when I wrote it.

She's an ambitious woman, and she holds a lot of power right now because Daemon needs her, with Reyne being useless and Daemon in desperate need of answers.

(How will Viserys feel about this development? Uh...stay tuned.)

Quick hitters:

The original chapter title was going to be "Dangerous Paths" but then I realized I have a chapter called "Dangerous Games" and I didn't want the repetition. So "Spiderweb" it was, for the many ways it can be applied to the chapter.

Ser Steffon was also the Kingsguard who was accompanying Rhaegar back in chapter 21, when he went into Rhaella's old/future room to sob on her bed. So he definitely has a history of being hands-off with children in his care.

The Forked Spears stuff continues to be incredibly frustrating to work in without leaning too far into a more modern detective novel vibe. It's probably the stuff I rewrite/edit the most.

Originally, I had considered a more action-oriented plot for Daemon's first meeting, with either an attack that causes Caraxes to dramatically fly to his aid. (Also exposing to Viserys that he was most definitely in Flea Bottom.) Or one that required him to slip out through a secret stairway when the Forked Spears came calling on Mysaria. But it didn't feel like the right time for it, especially so recently after the candle business.

Alas, Daemon's first non-platonic kiss goes to Mysaria. She was angling for more, to re-establish their relationship in hopes of better access.

I've complained about it before, but establishing currency values for things like ransoms/rewards is such a pain, even before exchange rates between different nations' currencies (honors vs dragons vs favors) comes into play...

Ask me sometime about my own spider trauma. (Tbh, I am both Rhaegar and Jon. Spider in my hair = a thousand nos, but I'll try to peacefully relocate spiders outside unless it's a black widow.)

Aegon and Aemond successfully negotiate some Daemon time! It goes without saying that if Viserys catches wind of the supper arrangement, he will almost certainly want to crash it.

[ttrpgcafe]

HOLY SHIT INVISIBLE SUN IS COMING BACK AND IT'S MY FAVORITE RPG OF ALL TIME PLEASE BACK IT SO I (or we, I guess) CAN GET THE WELLSPRING:

https://www.backerkit.com/c/projects/monte-cook-games/invisible-sun-return-of-the-black-cube#top

For those of you unfamiliar with Invisible Sun, it's an rpg where every single player is a spell caster of some variety, each with their own unique way of interacting with magic.

The Vances are the most traditional spellcasters, but they eschew spell lists in favor of literally filling a grid with spell cards, representing their limited cognitive space being taken up by spells. They get more space, and literally bigger spells as you progress.

Weavers take two concepts and combine them to produce an effect, very much like Ars Magica or Mage: The Ascension, if you're familiar with those. They get the ability to combine more concepts together, and to have mastery over more concepts as they progress.

Makers are this game's artificer, and they have a robust system for making quirky magic items that have fun, interesting, unique side effects or downsides every time you use them. Their progression is the most straight forward by the numbers "the things you make are more powerful and you're better at making them" of the bunch, but the system lets you, for instance, make a gun out of the body of a dead(?) god, so I'll give this a pass.

Lastly, there are the Goetics, who summon and bind otherworldly creatures to their wills. This takes the form of a conversation and negotiation with your GM over what you have to do for your bound creature, and what exactly they do for you in exchange. If you've ever played a warlock and felt like patrons weren't a big enough deal, this is an entire "class" that lets those relationships (yes, plural) take center stage.

The entire system feels very much like Cypher system 2.0, with a d10 dice pool system with a straight forward level of difficulty to hit, very much like the levels of difficulty in base cypher system, just made easier to manage. It even uses the "I'm an Adjective Noun who Verbs" character structure from Cypher system, here made much more interesting by the addition of a funky little xp system.

Invisible Sun has one of the most interesting advancement systems I've ever seen: aside from normal, average, "you do a thing, you get xp" system, here called "Acumen" (used to increase your stats and skills) there is a separate xp system related to good and bad things happening to your character, called "Joy" and "Despair" respectively. You combine one Joy with one Despair to get a "Crux" which is the xp currency you need to advance your class and focus abilities. This incentivizes players to not only let bad things happen to them, but to SEEK THEM OUT, which is huge! Players often think they want to win all the time, but they don't actually want that, it makes for a boring narrative. This is one of the very few systems I've seen incentivize this story structure, and I'm absolutely in love with it.

Lastly, because the game focuses so heavily on Magic, it has the only system for simulating the ebbs and flows of magic I've seen done well! This involves "The Path of Suns" and the "Sooth deck" which is the in game name for a specific pattern of laying out what amounts to tarot cards that make magic dynamic, interesting, and unpredictable in a way I've never seen before, and rarely since. (Pathfinder's Secrets of Magic is the only other supplement I can think of, and that was almost 5 years after this game came out)

Anyway, I can't recommend this game enough, the systems are unique, the vibes are immaculate, and it's so fuckin WEIRD in the best way.

[telomeke]

4 MINUTES – COUNTING DOWN

We're now just shy of the mid-point in 4 Minutes (three eps down with five more to go) and I've been avidly watching, but getting quite confused at the same time by all the twists and turns.

Part of that confusion stems from not being able to watch the "Sultrier" version at first, despite getting Viu Premium. (How do they come up with these euphemisms though? Remembering that KinnPorsche also had a "La Forte" incarnation. 🤣) The sanitized 4 Minutes was annoying, not just because the sexy bits were cut out, but also because we missed important, informative parts of the narrative.

For example, Korn and Ton Kla's Ep.1 sex scene was actually an in-your-face illumination of their relationship dynamics, and also a parallel with Win and Ton Kla's own Ep.3 turn in the sheets later, that revealed so much about their characters in the vein of show-don't-tell.

Ep.2's tryst between Korn and Fasai was also missing, as was (inexplicably) the conversation between Korn and a smoking Great in Ep.1. I can only presume it was Great's cigarettes that caused that scene to be snipped, because other scenes also had alcohol and ciggies all blurred out. Highly annoying, but anyway – I finally found out what was going on with Viu Premium, so if anyone else is having trouble finding Sultrier, I will share some tips in a different post.

And with that out of the way, I finally got to watching the unbutchered 4 Minutes – and I'm finding it smart, sexy and oh-so stylish in the mold that we've come to expect from Be On Cloud. Sumptuous cinematography and visuals are now quite a BoC hallmark, that started with KinnPorsche and continued in Man Suang – and 4 Minutes so far has been a delight to take in, a cinematic and super-twisty supernatural thriller overflowing with signs, symbols and scenes (possibly) pregnant with hidden meaning, so much so that the fandom is all a-flutter, me included.

Directing (and editing) has been taut, and I think Director Ning Bhanbhassa Dhubthien does much better when given free rein (unsaddled by screenwriting duties, and P'Pond maybe! 🤣) My take is colored by Man Suang – its huge potential for intellectual engagement (all that historical drama and political intrigue!) was unfortunately not developed to a satisfying extent; its most potent elements were given insufficient screentime, watering down what could have been a truly juicy experience for the viewer. Perhaps it might have done better as a mini-series with a longer timeframe for the developments to unfold, but that's a remake for another day perhaps.

Anyway, back to 4 Minutes. They've been really stoking the furnace with clues to the truth underlying the narrative, and fan theories abound as to what it all might mean while we breathlessly await revelation.

So I can only guess at some of the stuff, and nod at some of the visuals. But here's some of what I've picked up on.

The title 4 Minutes (especially with so many references in Ep.1 to cardiac arrest) is quite likely a nod at the widespread belief that when the heart stops beating, you only have four minutes to start resuscitation before the process of brain death begins to set in. (I'm seeing a lot of different opinions about this online, with some sources insisting the window of time is much longer. But there are enough mentions of the four-minute deadline in more than a few Thai sources that I think this is probably the intended significance, especially since screenwriter Sammon is also a medical doctor who would know of this notion's currency in popular culture. Here's an example in Thai media: CPR กู้ชีวิต ก่อนสมองตายใน 4 นาที/CPR saves life before brain death in 4 minutes.)

After the four minutes are up, it is too late to save the stricken patient – so there is a sense of urgency underlying the notion. (For another work that plays on this, see Madonna's song 4 Minutes where the urgency being messaged is about saving the planet instead.)

But with cardiac arrest, the premise is that even when corporeal death is signaled (cessation of the heartbeat being the traditional marker of this), a person's life-force still has that small window of time for human intervention to make a difference, a sort of ultimate last chance beyond the final frontier, if you will.

This aligns somewhat with what we're seeing of Great's do-overs, each time he is thrust back four minutes into the past. But I think there's also a bit more to it, based on what we're seeing in Episode 3.

Among all the fan theories online, this one by @myezblog caught my eye: Theory - plot is pretty much revealed.

Now, whenever Great is alone, we see that his clocks reset (and Great is aware of this too, by Ep.3). In Ep.1, his clock showed 11:00am (at timestamp 05:00, after his call with Title). And in Episode 2 we were shown Great's clock turning to 11:01 at timestamp 35:06, and in Episode 3 it went to 11:02 (timestamp 41:37).

But the ominous 11 o'clock actually put in an appearance even before these instances. Looking back, at the start of Episode 1 we were shown that the patient in the Emergency Department Resus bay basically flatlined at 11:00 – that was their time of death.

If it's really Great whose heart stopped on that Resus trolley in Ep.1, what we appear to be seeing is a flashback of events playing in his head, leading up to the time of his cardiac arrest (11:00).

And what his clocks are showing him (and us) whenever he's alone during that flashback is basically a countdown of the four minutes that he has, before he is brought back (hopefully) or is gone forever (I hope not – it wouldn't be much of a series then!).

So in the coming episodes, we should be watching for Great's clocks to tick up to the 11:04 mark – that is likely the time horizon when Great is jolted back to the present, hopefully having learnt some lessons reviewing his past that will be key to solving his conundrums in the present and the future.

[theink-stainedfolk]

New WIP!!!

A Colder Kind of Fire

---

In a world where loyalty is currency and trust is a knife to the throat, Yannis Gailamas and Mirek Lebedev are elite operatives bound by a partnership as volatile as the missions they undertake. Yannis—cold, controlling, and carved from violence—meets his match in Mirek, a razor-tongued strategist whose icy composure hides a defiance no one has ever dared to wield against him.

Their dynamic is a war of quiet glances and unspoken threats, a push-and-pull of dominance and restraint. But when whispers of a rogue agent, Eidolon, begin unraveling the agency’s darkest secrets, Yannis and Mirek are forced to confront the dangerous truth: the greatest threat might not be the enemy in the shadows, but the fire igniting between them.

---

Yannis Gailamas

Age: 32

Birthday: November 12

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Ethnicity: Greek-French

Height: 6'2" (188 cm)

Build: Lean but defined, wiry strength

Eyes: Dark amber, almost gold under certain light

Hair: Jet black, cropped neatly with a slight wave

Skin Tone: Olive-toned with occasional bruises and cuts

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: Tailored and militant—black trench coats, tactical boots, fitted shirts, leather gloves

Personality & Traits

✔ Calculating

✔ Possessive

✔ Ruthlessly intelligent

✔ Short-tempered

✔ Fiercely territorial

✔ Emotionally repressed

✔ Control-freak

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

The silence before a kill

Precision weapons

Mirek’s silences (though he'd never admit it)

Thunderstorms

Power dynamics

The idea of owning someone completely

❌ Dislikes:

Being disobeyed

Emotionally vulnerable conversations

Weakness in others (and in himself)

Disloyalty

Alcohol (it dulls his instincts)

Mirek ignoring him

Favorite Food:

Lamb souvlaki with tzatziki

Dark chocolate with sea salt

Strong, bitter espresso

A Line That Defines Him:

"Obey me or bleed—I don’t care which you choose, as long as you don’t walk away."

Mirek Lebedev

Age: 29

Birthday: March 2

Zodiac Sign: Pisces

Ethnicity: Russian-Ukrainian

Height: 6'0" (183 cm)

Build: Toned, swimmer’s build with long limbs

Eyes: Steel grey

Hair: Ash brown, undercut with the top swept loosely

Skin Tone: Pale with a cool undertone

Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous (naturally left-handed)

Style: Minimalist—dark turtlenecks, gloves, long coats; always neat, almost too perfect

Personality & Traits

✔ Stoic

✔ Razor-tongued

✔ Intimidatingly calm

✔ Emotionally unreadable

✔ Sharp-witted

✔ Secretly nurturing (in strange ways)

✔ Willing to wound to protect his boundaries

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

Quiet mornings

Puzzles & cryptic messages

Watching Yannis unravel

Ice baths

Books on human psychology

Sweet milk tea

❌ Dislikes:

Being underestimated

Loud, impulsive people

Unnecessary bloodshed

Authority figures

Cigarette smoke

Being touched without consent

Favorite Food:

Honey cake (Medovik)

Black tea with condensed milk

Cold soba noodles

A Line That Defines Him:

"You want control, but I’m not afraid to make you bleed for it."

Extra Details & Their Dynamic

Yannis pushes; Mirek lets him—until he pushes back harder.

Their chemistry is explosive, shifting between violence and intimacy.

Mirek never raises his voice; his silence cuts deeper than shouting.

Yannis is obsessed with Mirek’s reactions—those rare moments when his mask cracks.

Mirek is the only one Yannis hasn’t been able to fully control—and it’s driving him mad.

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass1 @seastarblue @keeping-writing-frosty @oliolioxenfreewrites @vesanal @orphanheirs @dauntlessdraupadi @oros-ash3s @pheonix358

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: This chapter is dark. If you're uncomfortable with the things I put in the warnings, do not read it. If you are old enough to be reading this fic, then you are old enough to monitor your media consumption. This is a work of fiction inspired by an equally dark TV show. If the things that happen in this chapter ever happen to you in real life, there are resources online and people you can talk to. Coercive sex with substances is assault and never your fault.

Warnings: 18+, drugs, alcohol, references to past abuse, dubious consent, coercion to have sex: experienced by both parties, smut, references to sex work, references to sexual violence

Drenched in opiates and regret: Rust's current state of mind. Cold sweats, a power drill mashing into the soft pulp of his brain and an incessant need to vomit the liquor and random drive-thru burger congealing in his stomach: consequences of chasing the dragon. Cassandra isn't talking to him, having spent the past two days sulking and abstaining. Not since he left her like that, trembling on the bathroom floor which Rust doesn't have much sympathy about; something that only infuriates Cassandra further.

He'd found her bookmarking something in one of her textbooks when he got back, perched on the end of the mattress in her cotton sleeping shorts and some faded t-shirt with the hem coming loose. She hadn't even glanced up.

'Gonna kick up another one of your fusses, Cass?' Rust had stated rather than actually asked, opening the fridge to find the carton of Tropicana in an attempt to stave off the impending withdrawal. Cassandra had stayed silent, underlining a specific paragraph on Tort Law with laughable concentration. The slammed fridge door and soft thud of his jacket on the counter had roused her,

'That's real fucking mean of you. What you did before,'

'You sound like a kid, Cassandra.'

That had made her clench her jaw, 'Just cause I'm younger than you doesn't mean you can call me a kid and speak down to me whenever we argue.'

'We ain't arguing,' Rust had said, lighting a cigarette with a nonchalance that had only served to piss Cassandra off even more,

'I am.'

'You are,' he'd agreed with that same aloofness.

'Oh, screw you, Crash,' Cassandra had said, dumping her textbook to the side of the mattress, 'You want to take that fucking attitude with me? Fine but you ain't touching me. You don't get to play that shit with me.'

'All this cause I didn't make you come?' Rust had sucked the air through his teeth in mock condescension, 'You gotta be tougher than that, baby. You ain't gonna last two fuckin' seconds if you pout this much over a lil' fun.' It's not about that. Well, maybe slightly but far from entirely. What Rust did completely fucks the power dynamics between the two of them and scares the shit out of Cassandra. In a place where the pleasure that a woman can give is her currency, a man who can upheave the situation, like Rust did, is terrifying to a girl like Cassandra. That smooth, slippery heat between a woman's legs and the place where the perfume collects between her neck and jaw has seen more men tamed than any guns or money ever have. Even in this, the shittiest armpit of Houston's outer bayous, more deals have been struck and information shared on the creaky plastic covering of cheap motel beds, in hazes of post-orgasm cigarettes, than in any biker bar. Rust's unwavering clarity is dangerous to Cassandra; it plunges her into a near total state of vulnerability that no languid neck rubs or 'Come to bed, baby''s can salvage her from. This isn't some tantrum of a neglected, over-stimulated brat (for the most part) but a desperate scrambling of a girl who's had her entire way of securing safety ripped from underneath her. Rust had almost felt pity gnawing at his gut as she stands there, smooth, tanned limbs and thin cotton. Almost. He'd left the conversation at a biting,

'Grow up.'

He's doing her a favour, really. Rust has warned her of the man he was. He's always considered the mark of a weak person to be an obsession with fulfilment and satisfaction. You didn't get exactly what you wanted? Life kick you right in the fucking teeth? Tough shit. All these fucking plans, all of these futile, paper thin dreams, all this me-me-me; people too blinded by the convictions of their own desires, blinded by how things should be to see how they really are. Judeo-Christian God type shit, Rust thought, Givin' people that false sense of cosmic importance and righteousness. Cassandra can't afford that type of naive idealism and she has never indulged it until now; Rust is making her soft. Cassandra has spent the past couple days giving him monosyllabic answers and looking like she's eating sorrow by the spoonful before Rust shatters it.

It all comes to a head when Ginger tells him to bring Cassandra that night, to the Iron Crusaders' clubhouse. To get better acquainted with your new piece; gotta make sure she's worth the trouble she gave you last time, he'd said with Rust practically being able to see the slobber foaming at the corners of his mouth. And Rust agrees coming to the resolution that those fuckers would never touch Cassandra without him giving them the get go. For once, the archaic machismo of biker gang rules have their perks. Rust is many things and green isn't one of them; he knows whatever is happening tonight isn't going to be the usual liquor, gambling and shooting random shit routine. They would've just pestered Cassandra at the club, if so. He had considered leaving her here, denying Ginger would've aroused suspicion and been a one way ticket to a bullet it his temple, but the best chance she has at getting through whatever perverse shit they have planned is with him. So, Rust does another line to offset the impending cold sweats and to iodise his blood with some of that sharp, hot sting that only something completely fabricated in a lab by man or grown by the raw fucking ingenuity of nature, deep in the Colombian jungle, can give you. As Cassandra comes out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, Rust fixes her with a frigid tone,

'Get dressed. We're goin' out.'

'I ain't going anywhere with you,' Cassandra bites back, making her first eye contact with him in 48 hours. Rust can feels the coke frying his nerves to a fucking charr,

'I didn't ask, I said we're goin'. Don't play around with me tonight, Cassandra. This is serious shit you're fuckin' with.'

She stares at him with those deep, glossy eyes: colour of the molasses Rust used to eat straight from the jar as a boy, that turn to the colour of whiskey in the sun, the one he drinks now that he's a man. He sees it click, she's too smart for it not to. Not the same, calculated intelligence of wariness, in an attempt to avoid the meat thresher. No, that's reserved for girls who exist with the downy padding of money and someone who actually gives two shits about what happens to them. The other girls, those who exist in the dirty cracks between church on Sundays and family dinners, in liquor soaked childhoods with busted bathroom locks and hard leather belts, don't get that luxury. They have the opposite intelligence of momentum: knowing when to ride fast and hard, saying fuck it right into the maws of the beast cause no one's ever protected you so may as well go down looking the fucker in the eye instead of hiding in the corner, like you did as a little girl. Cassandra has that momentum now, as she asks,

'Where are we going?' wrapping the towel tighter around herself, almost as if to comfort herself for the answer she knows is coming.

'Iron Crusaders' clubhouse. Ginger wanted to see you again.'

She looks at him like a spooked horse: head rearing back, eyes wide with fear. Rust plants his hands firmly on those delicate shoulders as she panics,

'I ain't going there, Crash. No, no, no. I'm serious, they'll-'

Rust cuts her off, pulling her into his chest and stroking her hair; his own tenderness taking him by surprise,

'Easy, easy, baby,' he leans down to murmur into her ear, cigarette smoke on his breath, 'This ain't somethin' I'm taking lightly. They won't do anythin' to you that I don't let them do first. Biker gang ethics.'

'Will you? Let them do something to me?'

'No,' Rust says and he means it. Not them.

They ride Rust's, or Crash's, Harley over to the clubhouse. Nights like these are when Rust feels his definitions fading. No more Sophia, no more mowing his lawn and having to watch out for her toys in the grass, no more of those incredible fucking birthdays that there will only ever be two of, no more of those horrific fights with Claire over whether his baby girl should be reduced to a pile of ash or shut in a box and shoved under the cold, wet dirt. That shit is gone and the only thing worth a damn to him, in a way that he can't yet reconcile, is gripping onto him for dear life with trembling hands and stiff arms. Rust is past empty platitudes. He knows who Crash is and it nauseates him when he thinks of what he's going to have to allow himself to do. Cassandra swings her leg over the bike to dismount, her bare leg red and raw from the wind on the ride over. She looks over her shoulder at Rust coming up behind her, placing his hand on her lower back before sliding it down to her ass. As they walk up to the entrance, he mutters gruffly to her,

'Whatever I tell you to do, you do it, you hear?'

'That's not real reassuring,' she glances up at him.

'I ain't trying to be.'

'Course you ain't.'

'I ain't gonna give you a fuckin' forehead kiss and gold star, if that's what you're askin',' Rust states, dryly.

'Yeah, cause that's exactly how we've done it up until now,' Cassandra shoots back, an acerbic sarcasm to her tone.

'That's exactly what I mean. That attitude. You got anymore of that, you get it out of your system now.'

The cold authority of his tone catches her attention,

'Crash?' she asks, her voice a fraction of what it was a moment ago.

'Yeah, Cass?'

'Why the hell am I here?'

'Pure, dumb fuckin' ontological chance. And a damn unlucky one at that.'

'I meant literally, asshole.'

'If we're bein' crass about it: eye candy,' Rust says and internally begs for that to be it. That Ginger and the rest of the boys just want a look at some tits that they've had their eyes on for a couple months and maybe, with a bit of liquor in her, get an idea for how Rust fucks her in bed. And Cassandra, ever the sharp one, is playing the part. A slight thing, all clad in denim and leather, with the outline of her bra's thick embroidery pushing against a cheap, cotton tank top. Their damsel in distress, a trailer park princess that they can save from those stifling, cicada serenaded afternoons of heat and boredom. Plunge her into the cool of the wind whipping past a cruising Harley, of the condensation on a loaded Jack and Coke, of that cold needle sinking into her vein for the first time. They want her, right there in heavily inked arms and bulging biceps, hands that'll hit just as hard as daddy did but in different places until they too become the same. Who'll warn her paternally to be wary of nasty men like them, before kissing her in a very un-paternal way. So Rust leads her through the clubhouse, to the backroom where Ginger told him he'd be and right into the lion's den, hand on her ass and self-loathing in his gut.

'Crash! Over here, brother!' Ginger is sat surrounded by other Crusaders, all varying degrees of drunk and high, most both. Kit is strewn on some greasy table, along with an assortment of Lone Star and Blue Ribbon cans. Rust settles himself on the chair that Ginger pulls out for him, patting his lap to indicate to Cassandra to sit on it which she does, to his relief. Ginger leers at her,

'Well missy, you calmed down since I last saw you? You ain't givin' our Crash anymore trouble, huh? Cause we ain't got much patience for women like that 'round here. None at all. Ain't that right boys?'

Ginger is met with a bunch of whoops and Damn rights before looking back at Rust,

'She behavin' herself?'

Rust pinches a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers,

'Damn right she is. Gave her a good lesson,' he smacks the inside of her thigh, causing Cassandra to inadvertently open them, 'Open your thighs, baby. Let 'em see that you know how I feel about that insubordination.'

That purple bruising is still visible and, earns whistles and laughter from the Crusaders. Cassandra clenches her jaw and snaps her legs shut, a defiance that doesn't go unnoticed from Ginger,

'You still got somethin' to say, girl?'

'No,' Cassandra replies softly but firmly.

'No, my ass. You got a hell of a chip on your shoulder, girl. Can see it from here.'

Rust takes another sharp inhale of smoke,

'Easy, Ginger. She's still learnin' how to be. Practically still wet behind the ears about half the shit I teach her. Fuck man, you should hear the sounds she makes,' throwing in the crude remark as a way to appease the hoard of doped up, drunks with their dicks almost in their hands and their .38s right next to them.

'Figured. S'why I got you a present, brother.'

'Oh yeah? Fuckin' Santa come early?' Rust drawls dryly, thumb rubbing circles on Cassandra's thigh. Ginger chuckles, eyes full of malice,

'Nah, not exactly,' he pulls a white block from the inside of his own biker jacket and dumps it own the table. Rust looks at it, unimpressed, and asks,

'Coke? Is it the good shit?'

Ginger pulls out his switchblade and grabs the saran-wrapped block off of the table, again,

'Courtesy of Miles. Special batch cut with some Molly, real loopy shit.'

'Who the fuck is lookin' for that mix?'

'Pimps. Both get their girls going quicker and faster, for longer.'

A muscle in Rusts's jaw twitches at that and he feels Cassandra tense in his lap,

'I look like a pimp to you, motherfucker?'

'Nah, Crash, but you havin' problems with your lady, ain't you?'

Rust's stomach churns bile at the implications of what Ginger's suggesting and he feels Cassandra go completely rigid. He takes another inhale,

'I don't need coke to get my girl to fuck me, Ginger.'

'Oh I know you don't, 'way you've got that bunny perched in your lap all pretty. This is just to relax her up a bit, show her that one way or another she gon' give it up to you,' Ginger says grinning, ill-intent smothering his words like a slime. He pulls out his switchblade to cut through the seran-wrap and scoop out some of the powder.

'I don't need to coke to do that, either,' Rust says, with the bile now threatening to creep up.

'Consider it quality control, then. She takes a hit and you see how good this shit really is. Then, I report back to Miles,' Ginger's tone now taking on an edge of hardness. Rust recognises the switch, the cool, gun metal against his and Cassandra's temple feels tangible with every syllable pronounced. Harming himself is one thing, this is entirely another. So, Rust doesn't know if he'll ever forgive himself as he looks at Ginger and says,

'Let me do the honours,' carefully taking the blade from Ginger as to not spill any powder. As he holds it under Cassandra's nose, she looks like she might cry. A shaky exhale blows some powder off of the blade, coating Rust's dark jeans in it,

'Don't fuck around, baby. Inhale the goddamn stuff,' Rust says, voice stiff from anger and tension. A trembling hand comes to press her other nostril shut, those same raw nail beds he first noticed in his truck, driving her to that crappy diner. She takes a jerky inhale, like a kid would; trying to imitate how she's seen people snort a line on TV. Those same trembling hands come to hastily brush away the powder smeared around her nose. It's not enough. If Rust is going to have to do this to her, he wants her so far gone that she won't have to deal with any emotions apart from complete ecstasy during the act itself. He wonders momentarily if it's more unethical to drug her up even more, to strip her of personhood and bodily autonomy more than he and Ginger already have, but pushes the thought away. What part of any of this is fucking ethical? He grabs the block and digs out some more powder with the blade, before taking it on his thumb and roughly smearing it against Cassandra's gums. Much to Rust's revulsion, Ginger and the other Crusaders laugh gleefully, like little boys throwing stones at dogs, all over again. Cruelty as entertainment. Only this time, the dog is Cassandra. She blinks hard a few times. This is the coke, Rust thinks, The molly will take another half hour. Rust wants to get her out of here, minimise the degradation. He pats her thigh,

'Let's go to a backroom, baby. See if Ginger is all talk 'bout this shit.'

Cassandra stumbles up, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather on her temples, pupils blown out. Ginger and the other Crusaders let out jeering laughter, tinted with unmistakable hunger, as they watch Rust stands up and land a heavy smack on Cassandra's ass, as his says,

'Right down there, baby. First door on the left.'

Some Iron Crusader who reeks of beer and day-old sweat shouts behind them,

'Fuck off some of her baby fat, Crash!' and Rust makes a promise to himself to make that fucker swallow his teeth when this is done.

The coke is making Cassandra jumpy as Rust pushes her into the backroom: just a mattress on the floor and some random lamp next to it. It looks like the set of some fucked up, illegal torture porn movie. Not too different from what actually goes on in here, with the sounds he hears and the way some of the hookers emerge from the door. Rust briefly feels a pang of guilt for having to screw Cassandra in this room, on that mattress but he quickly pushes the arrogant sanctimony of the thought away. Who the fuck does he think he is? What truly separates him from those other men? Neither of their girls had any choice in the matter, not really. Prostitution is a way that men can justify abusing and objectifying vulnerable women just to get their dick wet, by paying them some cash. What choice do you have when you're 17 with a raging Crystal addiction, two cents to your name and a home that you'd rather fuck a truck driver for a twenty than go back to? He hasn't given Cassandra a choice, either. She's now pushed him against the door, the drug throbbing hot through her veins, as she sloppily licks and kisses at his jaw,

'Fuck, Crash, I can fucking feel it,' she bites at his neck, the coke making her agitated, ravenous. He pushes her back,

'Just take off your shorts and underwear. This is gonna be fast, baby.'

Cassandra gives that defiant, little pout,

'I don't want it to be fast. I want you to take your time, be mean like you usually do.'

'This ain't like usual.'

'I know. I'm so much wetter than I've ever been.'

Rust clenches his jaw so hard that the vein in his temple starts to protrude,

'I ain't fuckin' playin' games, here. Take off your shorts and underwear, and lie down on the goddamn bed, Cassandra.'

She stares at him cooly before peeling off that thin leather jacket followed by her tank top, and then throwing her top at Rust's face,

'You made me take it.'

'I know I did.'

'Yeah, you did. So, the least you could do is fuck me good, like you usually do,' she says, stumbling out of her boots and shimmying out of her shorts which she dangles on her foot, before kicking them in his direction, too. Now in just her bra and panties, she sits on the edge of the mattress,

'Please.'

'I'll fuck you however I want. Get on your hands and knees, Cassandra,' Rust says, unbuckling his belt. She does as he says, too eagerly for his liking, as she arches her back: deep and low,

'Please, please, Crash,' and from this angle, he can see that wetness she was talking about; making the thin, grey polyester of her underwear dark and shiny. He palms it roughly, the stress and repulsive nature of the situation making him cruel,

'I'd keep that shit to yourself, Cass. This wet and I haven't even had to work for it?'

She moans, too far gone to feel any embarrassment,

'I'm always wet for you. I've been like this for the past two days.'

'Too proud to just suck it up and let me fuck you, hm?' Rust says, moving her panties to the side to see the glistening slit. Just the feeling of the cold air on her dampness has Cassandra arching her back even deeper and whimpering,

'Please, please, I'll take it anywhere you want me to. Even-'

Rust clamps his hand over her mouth,

'Don't.'

When he lets go, a small string of spit follows Rust's hand. Cassandra has desperately unfastened her bra, the sweat on her body starting to shine and drip. This is the Molly kicking in, Rust thinks. He grabs her throat, pulling her up from her hands and knees, to where she's on her knees with her back pressed against his chest. A calloused hand reaches down into the waistline of her panties and down to caress her swollen heat,

'Never in my goddamn life have I had pussy this eager, This the drugs or just you?' he mutters into her ear.

'The drugs,' Cassandra says back, just to be her usual incorrigible self. A futile task with how she's soaking through her panties and rubbing her ass on the hardness in his jeans. Rust lets out a deep, rumbling scoff of laughter at his girl's incessant need to be a pain in the ass and plunges a two fingers deep inside of her,

'Bullshit.'

The sudden feeling of being filled up is almost too much for Cassandra's ecstasy riddled brain to reconcile with. Everything is so sensitive, so swollen with blood and heat and chemical euphoria. She squeezes and pulses around his fingers,

'Crash, if you move, I think I'm gonna have to come,' she gasps out.

'This ain't about that, tonight.'

Spoken too late. All Rust was trying to do was ease the pain of the stretch, allow her that mercy, at least, but that's enough for Cassandra, who lets out an obscenely load moan, writhing against where he keeps her firmly in place, on his chest. Rust hums pensively,

'You make a mess and you're gonna have to clean it up, baby,' he murmurs, shoving his soaking fingers into her mouth before pushing her back down to being on all fours,

'Hold still.'

She hears him unzip her jeans and shuffle around behind her, as aligns himself to her slit,

'You're not even gonna get undressed?' she says, too out of it to sound really hurt as she tries to ease herself onto his dick.

'Like I said, this ain't gonna be like we usually do it,' Rust grits out, not wanting to make this any closer to what real sex should be.

One firm hand holds her hip still, while the other pushes on her lower back, making her back arch and her face press into the mattress. Cassandra thinks it's for the sex appeal, Rust knows it's cause her can't look her in the eyes as he does this: fucks her while she's out of her mind on the drugs he forced into her. Some twenty year old girl, living with him, helping him shave when she can't take the stubble burn on her thighs and throat, cooking her terrible, lumpy pancakes and leaving him some in the fridge for the ungodly times he gets back. This kid, no mascara or lingerie or practiced 'tough girl' ease can hide the juvenile trust in her eye as she looks over her shoulder,

'Please. It kinda hurts. Just fuck me and make it stop. It's so....much.'

Rust could be sick as he pushes herself into her heat and she fucking whimpers. The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping; he's being too rough. He can see the poor thing desperately gripping onto the soiled mattress as she grips onto her hips, leaving more bruises. Good. Let it hurt. I want to see it. Don't let me forget what I've done to her, Rust thinks. Cassandra opens her legs wider and sinks deeper into the mattress, practically limp from pleasure except for her hips which firmly meet his thrusts and the trembling of her thighs. A shaky hand comes to rub the nub at the apex of her thighs,

'Jesus-fuck,' she chokes out, a tear dripping down her face as her first orgasm hits while Rust is still inside of her. The stretch of him compared with the intense pulsating of her walls becoming borderline painful. Rust clenches his jaw, not one to succumb to tight pussy that easy. He runs a hand up her spine, along the smooth outlines of her vertebrae,

'You need to eat more, baby,' through a grunt.

'There's-fuck-there's no fucking way you're lecturing me right now,' she gasps out, squealing when Rust's hand slips down from the base of her spine to caress her little nub, himself.

'No, no, it's still too sensitive,' Cassandra says, trying to squirm away. Rust isn't in the fucking mood, though; just wanting to keep her drunk off of sex and drugs until he makes himself come as fast as possible, and get her the fuck out of here.

'Shut the fuck up and take it. I ain't askin' you to do a goddamn thing but lie there and fuckin' take what I give you,' Rust mutters, voice thick with exertion and the crescendo of his orgasm.

'But-'

A loud smack on her ass shuts her up,

'Stay. Still.'

And she does, letting out lewd moans as he fucks into her, watching her arousal literally drip out of her. His course hair semi-rubbing against her clit is enough to bring Cassandra to come as Rust reach his own orgasm, grunting and wallowing in self-disgust as he watches himself seep out of her. The sight, had it been in another circumstance, would have probably turned him own: the milky fluid running down those tanned thighs. In this case, it only cements that anti-natalism that has started to permanently solidify itself in his psyche. That an act as brutal and exploitative can qualify as the origins of a pure, innocent life which will be subjected to similarly brutal and exploitative things. Fuck it. Fuck this goddamn filth and squalor of a world. As he stands up, pulling up his boxers and jeans simultaneously, Cassandra is lying crumpled on the mattress. As if the seduction of drug induced stupor has been ripped away, she reaches between her legs and scoops up the mix of their arousals, wincing slightly due to the extreme sensitivity. The copious slick coats her fingers and Rust is unsure of the vacant expression on her face; usually, she would've made a show of licking it off, slowly and staring him right in the eye. Now, she bursts into tears. Rust doesn't know what to do but dress the poor girl. She's fucking terrified, he thinks, She doesn't want a hug or a kiss, she needs to feel some semblance of control, again. Slowly, he eases her off of the mattress, trying to ignore the stab in his gut when she initially flinches.

'Easy, easy, baby,' he murmurs to her, for the second time that night.

He slides on her underwear, cleaning up the trail of his cum with a pack of Kleenexes that Cassandra keeps in her pocket, another devastatingly intimate detail that only amplifies his self-loathing On goes the rest of her clothing: shorts, bra and tank top, all the while with silent tears running down Cassandra's face. Rust guides her out of the room, pressed tightly against his side, as he guides her through the heady haze of cigarette smoke and acrid sweat on leather balsam that characterises the Iron Crusaders' clubhouse. Some stare, others wink at him or smack him on the back in congratulations, no doubt at Cassandra's tear-stained face and shaking legs. She keeps twitching and rubbing at her nose, the drugs fizzing in her nose are probably turning her capillaries to mangled, bloody sludge. Rust reminds himself to give her a towel tonight to staunch any possible nosebleeds. The air is cloying and humid when they exit, like you could eat it with a spoon; while the nocturnal sounds of cicadas and bullfrogs paint a deceptively picturesque scene. Rust leads Cassandra over to the Harley, going to ease her leg over the seat before she sharply interjects,

'I can do this shit for myself.'

'I know you can,' Rust replies, stiffly but in a soft tone.

'I can do this shit for myself and handle myself, I-I can-' her train of speech, almost a mantra, is cut off by big shuddering sobs. Rust looks her in the eye and sees that 18 year old again, showing up to the strip club for the first time in a freshly washed set, smelling of fresh cotton, with a need to make rent, that 15 year old knowing that if she wears that dress to the mechanic he'll probably give her a discount on her daddy's oil change, money that can go towards keeping the lights on, that 10 year old girl sitting on cold bathroom tiles at 2am, telling herself that her daddy won't hit her cause he's her daddy. A girl who has always known how things need to be handled and has no qualms about getting her hands dirty in the lurid shit expected of a young girl at the mercy of poverty and men.

'I know,' Rust mutters, getting on himself, and guiding her to wrapping her arms around him. It doesn't surprise him when she holds on for dear life, wrapping her arms around his torso and taking deep inhales of the smell of his biker jacket, as the engine rumbles to life. This tranquility lasts for a couple minutes before Cassandra is digging her nails into his neck, shouting Pull the fuck over against the wind. Rust obliges and watches as she scrambles off to vomit on the edge of the road, crumpling to her knees in the process. He doesn't get much closer, watching her cooly from the Harley which is parked on the side of the dark road. After a few more retches and dry heaves, Cassandra turns to regard him over her shoulder, still hunched on her knees. A look in which Rust sees hatred, fear, rage and a morbid sense of almost respect. She spits the last remnants of sick out into the foliage before speaking,

'I don't know who the fuck you are, Crash, and I don't want to know. You read all those fucking books, you never talk about yourself, you ain't like the other Iron Crusaders. I can see it in your eyes when they spew that chauvinistic, white supremacist bullshit that you can't fucking stand them. You have your own twisted and oblique set of rules for yourself which you never deviate from. You ain't a fucking biker, not like these ones.'

Rust looks at her cooly, 'You threatenin' me with somethin', Cass?'

'No. I told you: I don't want to know. Only thing it's gonna do is get me into deeper shit.'

'So, why are you telling me this?'

'Cause I want you to know that I ain't stupid.'

'I know you ain't stupid, Cass.'

'And I ain't okay with what happened tonight.'

'Neither am I.'

She starts to work herself up again, her breaths becoming fast and shaky, 'I ain't safe here. I ain't never been safe anywhere but I definitely ain't, here. Tonight proved that.'

'Tonight proved a lot,' Rust replies, a trace of self-loathing evident in his tone, 'I'm a bad man, Cass.'

'I know.'

'So, what the fuck are you doin'?'

'I don't give a fuck if you're a bad man. I've spent my life around them. I just need to know that you'll keep me fucking safe. That's it. I just need to know that you can keep all those other bad men away, like those tonight,' she's now crying again, voice thick with it as she asks,

'Can you keep me safe, Rust?'

Rust looks at Cassandra, taking a look at her pathetic form and plea. He recalls reading something that Nietzsche wrote: eternal return. Does he want to do this action an infinite amount of times, into perennial continuity. He knows his answer, what he wants to reply an infinite amount of times over, he has a duty here,

'Yes.'

[sprnklersplashes]

writing commissions

I have gone back and forth on this for ages but I would benefit from some extra income, so I've decided to start doing commissions. unfortunately, I have a lot going on atm (two jobs plus political organising) so I am going to try to keep them less than 1000 words, maybe 2500 as an absolute max.

pricing range and other info under the cut

I'm setting the price for now at £1 per 100 words, so 500 words is £5, 1700 words is £17 etc and breaking them up into three categories:

drabbles, up to 500 words (typically a very small scene or interaction between characters)

flashfic, up to 1000 words

full fic, up to 2500 words

It would be a great help if you specified what type of fic you wanted at first so I can charge you fairly.

The fandoms I most often write for are:

heathers the musical (this includes my not beyond repair universe)

next to normal (natalie-centric)

epic the musical (athena-centric/odypen/telemachus-centric/ithaca royal family centric)

mean girls the musical (cadnis/damian+janis/janis-centric)

six of crows (kanej/wesper/helnik/any crow dynamic)

heartstopper/osemanverse

but if you know we share a fandom and you'd like to request it, feel free to ask me for it. I just wouldn't write for a show I've never watched or book I've never read.

I take payments through ko-fi, and take requests through dm or asks. I might want to have a bit more of a conversation about your prompt so you get your absolute money's worth. I also won't charge over £25 even if I go over a bit on the word count because times are hard. I do price in GBP but I will work out the conversion rate for whatever our currency is and try to come to an arrangement that works for both of us because conversion rates are a nightmare.

I will say that I will not be posting these commissions on AO3 due to their terms of service.

[v-ividus]

22. The Illusion of Trust: Decoding the Broken Bonds of a Widely Fractured Society

“It is right that you learn all things — both the unshaken heart of well-rounded truth and the beliefs of mortals, in which there is no true trust.” — Parmenides

In a world rife with superficial relationships and digital interactions, trust has become a currency that is both devalued and yet relentlessly sought after. This paradox creates an unsettling backdrop wherein individuals often mistake the vibrations of social media engagement for genuine connection. What is deemed “likeable” often outweighs what is “trustworthy,” leading to a collective condition where the heart of truth is obscured by the smoke and mirrors of curated online personas. One might argue that as modern society embraces the fleeting dopamine hit provided by attention, it simultaneously compromises the very essence of trust itself.

Authenticity, in its purest form, is rapidly becoming an elusive aspiration. Individuals engage in a dance of façade-building, projecting idealized versions of themselves that are far removed from reality. This self-betrayal extends beyond personal identity into relational exchanges, breeding a climate of codependency. Rather than forging genuine connections, individuals become entangled in webs of emotional manipulation and parasitism—using one another as means to end. The moral ramifications of such behavior create ripples that undermine the foundational ethos required for healthy, fulfilling relationships.

Amidst these dynamics, we must ask: What does it mean to trust in a world where vehement likes eclipse heartfelt conversations? The delicate weave of trust is frayed by fleeting validations that occur at the speed of a thumb swipe. Amid the echoes of endless notifications, the quest for authenticity often finds itself buried beneath layers of curated commentary and attentiveness that serve selfish ends. The gravity of these choices stretches our understanding of interpersonal agency, raising profound questions that challenge our very conception of morality and connection.

Paradoxically, the price of this social currency is steep; it demands the sacrifice of depth for breadth. In an age where every interaction is structured to serve the fickleness of engagement metrics, the more profound human experience—characterized by vulnerability, reciprocity, and, fundamentally, trust—stands endangered. As we deconstruct the intricate ties that bind us, it becomes imperative to reassess not only our motivations for engagement but also the ethical frameworks that sustain our relationships amid chaos.

The Currency of Connection: Emotional Dependency and Social Parasitism

As Parmenides reminds us, the beliefs of mortals are often steeped in treachery rather than truth. The manifestations of emotional dependency in contemporary society reveal a troubling trend: humans are increasingly reliant on one another, not for authenticity, but for mere affirmation. This reliance is amplified through the dynamic of social media, where validation occurs at the cost of genuine connection. It is a paradox of modern life, where the abundance of voices drowns out the quiet power of meaningful discourse.

In this milieu, one must confront the uncomfortable reality of social parasitism—the phenomenon where individuals derive their sense of self-worth from the accomplishments and affection of others rather than fostering their own identity. Individuals become emotional leeches, thriving on the accolades initially designed to bolster communal trust. However, this destructive dependency ultimately erodes the very fabric of society, stranding individuals in a quagmire of unsustainable relationships and hollow connections that masquerade as fulfilling bonds.

Emotional dependency breeds a toxic environment wherein the intention behind interactions becomes muddied. As individuals align their worth with social media engagement, they inadvertently reinforce cycles of manipulation and disengagement. Such practices serve to attenuate the intricacies of ethical decision-making, prioritizing personal validation over collective responsibility. The foundation of mutual respect is undermined, giving way to relationships characterized by a transactional mindset, where emotional debts replace real connection.

To disentangle ourselves from this emotional mire, we must re-establish a hierarchy of values that prioritize depth over superficiality. Authentic connections must revolve around more than mere acknowledgment; they must root themselves in a shared commitment to truth and vulnerability. As social currency continues to proliferate, so too must our defiance against the corrosive impact of emotional parasitism, which threatens not only our relationships but the very essence of humanity itself.

Deconstructing the Ethics of Engagement

The landscape of moral engagement is fraught with ambiguity. Trust, once the cornerstone of productive relationships, now teeters on a precipice of peril, challenged by the fragmented narratives that populate social media. In this kaleidoscope of opinions, the individual voice often becomes an empty whisper devoid of moral grounding. In a world where every tweet and post serves as both a weapon and shield, the ethical dimensions underlying our engagements fall victim to the whims of societal approval.

In tracing the contours of ethical betrayal, we must confront our role as actors within this dynamic. Each user is an architect of their digital identity, wielding the power to shape their perceptions and, by extension, influence others. However, the clash between genuine engagement and performance raises a new dilemma that demand both introspection and accountability. Are we crafting honest-hearted narratives with integrity, or are we merely participating in a tragic masquerade designed to satiate a hungering and insatiable audience?

To build a restoration of trust, it becomes paramount to reevaluate our incentives for engagement. As the boundaries between virtual interactions and tangible relationships continue to blur, the ethical implications of our choices carve marks into the social psyche. Every engagement bears the weight of intention, summoning us to reflect—are we there to uplift our fellow users or are we doing so merely to preserve our status? Amid this reckoning, it becomes increasingly evident that the loss of trust is a consequence of collective inaction as we falter under pressures to conform rather than embrace authenticity.

Rebuilding relationships calls for the courage to engage in uncomfortable conversations, the willingness to dismantle harmful patterns, and the strength to resist the palpable lure of superficial engagement. Only by courageously questioning our motives and the ethics underlying our interactions can we hope to regain the trust frayed by years of emotional neglect and social manipulation. Escaping the clutches of social media-induced isolation requires a steadfast commitment to fostering genuine connections born from realness, empathy, and transparency.

The Renaissance of Resilience: Redefining Trust in the Digital Age

In recognizing the deficiencies propagated by the viral age, we face the exciting challenge of redefining trust. This effort calls for a revival of resilience as a principle, wherein the reclamation of real human connection stands as a primary goal. Acknowledging the pervasive fragmentation necessitates a conscious divergence from the familiar patterns of codependency and emotional parasitism that have marred our collective experiences so far.

At the heart of this quest lies the recognition that we, as individuals, possess the power to effect change. By fostering emotional independence and resilience, we cultivate environments that prioritize authentic connections over hollow affirmations. Such a transformation germinates from collective introspection, where honesty becomes the cornerstone of our interactions, and the delineation between genuine engagement and superficial dialogue is sharply defined.

A call to resilience urges us to dismantle the external validation mechanism that has permeated our relationships. Trust should embody a principle that transcends individual engagement, spreading its roots into the fabric of societal ethics. Cultivating a climate of open communication and shared vulnerability becomes imperative in this transformation, ensuring that our relationships are not merely transactional engagements, but rather profound encounters that affirm our shared humanity.

As we navigate the tumultuous waters of trust in the digital age, we must champion a commitment to authenticity, instilling hope and renewal within the morass of emotional dependency. The path forward illuminates the potential for deeper relationships, urging us to cultivate an understanding of trust that transcends its superficial trappings. The arduous pursuit of this remarkable transformation demands immense strength; yet, in its wake lies the promise of reinstituted kinship founded upon cooperation, compassion, and collective resilience—a true renaissance of trust.

Conclusion: Reclaiming Trust as the Cornerstone of Meaningful Connections

As we reach the culmination of this discourse, it becomes evident that trust transcends mere abstraction; it stands as the essential force that fuels human connection. The disintegration of societal trust compels us to scrutinize our moral compasses, demanding unwavering introspection from both the individual and the collective. We must become acutely aware of our roles in perpetuating cycles of mistrust and ethical decline, while fervently striving to nurture authenticity in a world rife with superficiality.

The harsh truth of our present circumstances—a society plagued by codependency and social parasitism—necessitates a confrontation with our own complicity in this chaos. We are not merely observers; we are challenged to dismantle the walls that obstruct genuine connection. It is crucial to grasp that the cultivation of trust demands relentless effort, the audacity to embrace vulnerability, and a resolute commitment to mutual respect and accountability.

Ultimately, by reclaiming trust, we lay the foundation for relationships imbued with depth and meaning. In championing authentic connections while resisting the seductive lure of external validation, we awaken our potential for profoundly enriching interactions. As we embrace the path ahead, let us acknowledge the transformative potency of trust—an enduring force capable of bridging the divides that fracture us, empowering us to rise above the limitations imposed by social media and our own insecurities. We stand at a pivotal crossroads, where the imperative to restore trust and authenticity will shape the very essence of our future and the bonds we create within it.

[childotkw]

Can we hear a bit about your original stories? I just started writing one and it is So Hard just to come up with the characters and their environment so I wanted to hear how you came up with those if you didn’t mind

Very interesting question! For me, a lot of my ideas come from wisps of inspiration from tropes or other concepts.

Characters and worlds and environment go through some pretty intensive edits in my head, so the roots aren't always obvious - and often I smash together multiple ideas, carving and chopping and smoothing things out until I have something workable that gets me excited.

(Buckle up, this post might be a long one)

Coming up with a concept

I'm not sure how it might work for other people, but I am constantly on the look out for inspiration for stories - asking myself 'what if this happened?', 'how cool would it be if this person had to do this thing?', or 'how could this trope work in a different genre?'.

Keeping myself open to these kinds of outlandish and sometimes hilarious thoughts means I've trained my brain to constantly churn up interesting concepts and ideas. Some barely have life breathed into them before I'm moving on. Others cling to me and live in my head for years.

The point is, be on the hunt for interesting ideas, and let your imagination have room to run free. Don't get boxed into an idea in its infancy. Let it grow crazily, let it get wild, before you break out the pruning tools. You're human. Let your mind have fun. Let your imagination explode.

Coming up with a character/s

So when I'm thinking of a character to inhabit my crazy new concept, I tend to go for vibe before anything else. I ask myself things like:

What kind of character do I really want to play with? Good, bad, morally grey? Cool, morally grey it is.

What species do I want? A god, a human, some fantasy creature? Human.

What type of human? A fighter, or more cerebral? Both? How 'bout a strategist? Okay that works.

And I go from there. I basically build a vague construct before worrying about things like physical description, name, age, gender, sex, etc. Those come later, once I've got a vibe I find interesting for a main character. Then comes the fun part.

Bringing concept and character together

For this to work, I've gotta figure out how these two elements to interact. To do that, I ask myself a whole bunch of questions.

How does my shiny new character fit in this world? Are they a grand figure or are they a nobody? What do I want them to do? What challenge would be interesting to watch them overcome? What can only they do? Why should my audience care about this random little guy?

This is normally where plot comes to me in fits and bursts, and once I have an idea on the overarching aspects, I start hammering out the finer details. This is where I really let my imagination out to play. I go wild, spinning off in multiple different directions, chewing on ideas and concepts and finding what works best for me.

Here you can also start developing things like other characters, relationships, dynamics, worldbuilding (e.g., currency, religion, factions, hierarchy, magic, science, how the bloody postal system works, etc.).

An example (through a conversation I regularly have with myself)

So, here's an example of an idea I've been playing with the last week.

Coming up with a concept

Okay! I've been inspired by the Old Guard, so I want to explore immortality and the idea of humanity and what life actually means. But how do I make this concept even cooler? What would make being immortal hard to conceal in a modern world?

How about instead of a modern world it's a futuristic society where everything is captured on some form of phone / camera / recording - and that makes dying and coming back to life extremely difficult to get away with. Where it's getting harder and harder to be able to cover their tracks, where falling through the cracks of society is damn near impossible with instant identification and other such measures.

Nice, nice. What else? How does the immortality work?

From the moment of their first death, the person now has increased healing and cannot age; though they can physically change (i.e., gain or lose weight and muscles, grow their hair and whatnot). Injuries heal at a rate relative to the seriousness of it - even amputations.

How does amputation work though? What if they lose their head? Does a new body grow or does the body grow a new head?

I'll have to iron this out but maybe it depends on the largest body piece? So the body would regrow the head, but if the body was completely blown apart, then whatever piece was biggest would become the 'main' one that the rest of the body would regenerate from?

What causes the immortality?

(I have an idea but wanna keep it a secret for now 😉)

So how does this world work then? It's futuristic - but how futuristic?

I'm thinking we've just achieved space travel. There's a colony on the moon and one being developed on Mars. We're spacefaring but it's not quite to the level of say, Star Wars or Star Trek. No aliens yet either! We've also got rudimentary robots running around, but they're machines more than fully autonomous. Basically, it's that time just before a massive technological leap in human history. We're on the verge of realising a lot of 'sci-fi' technologies.

Coming up with characters

Who are our main characters?

I was thinking of using Helen of Troy, since she's a mythological / historical figure that I've always found really interesting! So instead of her dying way back in the day, she actually became immortal during the Trojan War and has been enduring through the last 3500ish years as best she can.

The other main character I was planning on focussing the story around was Aethiolas - Helen's (disputed) son and former Prince of Sparta. I thought it'd be cool to explore an immortal mother and son dynamic, where almost 4000 years of sorrow and bitterness have tangled their relationship into something complex and...heartbreaking.

So what are they both like?

Helen has turned towards pacifism, whereas Aethiolas is and always will be a warrior. Helen is a leader - usually calm and collected and capable of commanding respect. Aethiolas, for the longest time, acted as her second in command and is quite a confident person. While Helen might long for the past, Aethiolas looks to the future with excitement and fascination.

Helen's group have become more observers, whereas Aethiolas takes an active role in shaping history - joining causes that speak to him and seeking to bring positive change into the world.

Aethiolas is viewed as reckless and dangerous to their way of life, killing humans who threaten him without hesitation; whereas he views his mother and the others as too rigid and afraid of change, and far too morally righteous and superior. A common argument between them would include lines like -- "Just because we can't die, mother, doesn't mean we should allow ourselves to be killed."

Helen views their immortality as a punishment. Aethiolas views it as a gift. But there is still love and loyalty between them. Despite everything, Helen is Aethiolas' mother, and he cares for her. And she for him.

Bringing concept and character together

How do these characters fit in with the world now?

Well, Helen is in charge of their group of immortals; whereas Aethiolas has become more of a 'lone wolf'. While he and his mother have had a falling out, and they fundamentally disagree on the use of violence and interacting with the world, Aethiolas still acts as the group's sword and shield. He doesn't live with them but he protects them from threats and they rely on him when issues crop up that do require swift action. There's some hypocrisy there, and it is one of the major points of conflict between them.

The story would likely kick off with several new immortals being born - and in a rather public and difficult to cover up manner. This has the risk of dragging all of the immortals into the spotlight, and prompts them to have to quickly decide whether living in the shadows is even possible any more.

--- -- --- -- ---

This became very long and rambling, but this is essentially how I create ideas from scratch. I'm super tired atm so it might not be super coherent! But if anything particular jumps out at you or you want me to focus in on something, please let me know!