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zozo-01 · 5 days ago

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J'étais prêt à graver ton image à l'encre noire sous mes paupières (demon to devil)

warnings: dead dove: do not eat (heed the warnings), implied smut (both referenced and explicit), depictions of violence (you stab open the doctor's chest compartment to squeeze his heart), fingering, wire play (you tug at his wires to give him stimulation), kidnapping (harley locks you in the office), reader was an experiment

word count: 10.2k || summary: You can only hope that hell is kinder to you both

Poppy Playtime has its fair share of controversies.

Your existence is one of them. Something only Elliot Ludwig and his original team of scientists knew. None of them remain as a result of the Doctor's efforts to join the team at nothing stopping him, but in that process, you had found yourself perfectly blended in with the other scientists, a feat only achieved by the mask on your face at all times. Leith Pierre never found you out, so why should you hide? Your existence was only in Ludwig's private files. Proof that his daughter could survive when put into a toy. Proof that immortality was only a matter of the right choices. Such a shame, though. He died before he could become like you.

Instead, you continue the experiments without telling anyone that you know how to fix everything. You're forever bound to the labs, but in true honesty you avoid touching the scalpel and playing stupid as much as you can while avoiding being fired. You're one of the few employees that can't be fired. You're simply not in the database, and the fact of the matter is that you can just alter their memories if they forget who you are. You're not a toy, as appalling as that may sound. Some twisted proof of immortality. Poppy gel replacing your blood, so you're careful to never get wounded. Coming as cautious to most. After all, only the eyes of the prototype truly believes that you're not quite human.

Luckily for you, you don't see him.

You spend most of your days organizing the lab paperwork and handing them off to whoever needs to receive them, and you keep the same stern composure you always do. Skin too tough to cut through with mere paper but gloves still sitting on your fingers, and mask permanently gluing into your skin. It's a pain to survive this way, but you do it anyway. You have to leave the office every day to get ample sunlight in the morning. It's like you're a plant. You try to ignore the headache that builds up when Harley Sawyer snarks off at another one of the scientists in the shared office, but no one speaks up against him. He's the one in charge, after all.

The one in charge of turning people into you.

Turning children into you.

You're fortunate enough that Elliot still had some of his humanity when he had decided to turn his experimentation towards humans, and you had spent most of your early time as an experiment forced to only wander around Ludwig but never show your face. You had become known as "The Doctor" prior to Sawyer simply for wearing a plague mask and following around Ludwig. You have no emotions for anyone, though. You fear that was one of the few things. Everything feels worse, so nothing feels good anymore. The poppy in your veins testifies that.

You no longer feel anything, and when you do, it consumes you like a disease.

You're cut off from your thoughts when you notice you've reached the end of the stack of papers, and you haul them into a box to get them to the Doctor himself. Long gone are the days of hiding behind a plague mask. You now hide only half of your face. It's a shame, though. Elliot was so close to giving into whatever twisted obsession he had with you right before his death. Fingers lingering too long, body pressed too close to yours. It was a shame. He should have picked someone who looked less like his ex-wife. The obsession ran deep, and it was a real shame that the same obsession was one of the few things you picked up from the man over the years. It's a shame that Harley Sawyer's picked up that same obsession with people like you because of Ludwig. Well, like mentor like child. At some point it'll become a competition, but it isn't right now.

"Doctor Sawyer." You call out to the nagging doctor, effectively charming him out of his spiel.

"What?"

Anyone can tell the frown on his face is a reflex and not out of actual disdain.

"I've finished the papers. It's your turn."

There are three of you in the office. Harley Sawyer's office is a smaller room meant to host him and two close assistants, but with the constant in and out of the third, your position of temporary assistant quickly became permanent even without the paperwork. You don't consider a raise. You have no need of the money since you live in the factory anyway. Instead, the money goes back to Harley so that he'll upgrade the material in your room. In addition to closing an eye to the fact that you'll go ahead and steal some of the poppy gel and food from others in the fridge. It's a shame you can't leave the grounds without being guaranteed your safety. You're not quite sure why you stay alive at this point. Maybe it's the bubbling obsession you can feel simmering beneath your body. It makes your blood boil. in a good way.

Harley Sawyer stops to look through the file that you hand him, and he waves his hand to have you back in your seat. You think of it as cute. The most powerless will always want to be more powerful. He doesn't care for money the way Pierre does, and neither does he care for his own morality like Greybur does. You know everyone after working for Ludwig for so long, and it's hard to ignore the fact that anyone who sees you in clothes too familiar for comfort would recognize you as Ludwig's little aide. Aide would be too specific, though. You were more his companion who had to doll up and be pumped full of fresh poppy blood to come off as slightly more youthful when in reality it didn't really matter. You were revitalized in the 70s with the introduction of the ECMO machine to come off as more youthful, and you fear you've only looked the same since.

You run your own replacement blood and pump the old one back into the packages. If the Doctor knows, he doesn't point it out.

After all, you're not exactly stealing. You're recycling.

The hatch around your neck covered by a turtleneck at all times of the year where your poppy gel is would go unnoticed. No one ever pries at your neck. There's no need for them to. You were designed to remain as human looking as possible without being given away. You're just a living human. You're probably someone's science fiction wet dream. You were Ludwig's, that's for certain.

Harley Sawyer's first successful experiment consisted of one pouch of the gel that had run through your body. It was concerning, perhaps. It was a revelation in the same way that you would on a sunny day. You realized it while he did not. He wouldn’t have been able to. It’s not like he’d know you cycle the gel through your body. It’s not like you’d know. Except you do. You know everything. The paranoia that Ludwig had rubbed off on you. It pays to know everything.

But dangerous is the mind that knows everything yet nothing.

When Harley Sawyer catches you actually taking a pouch of gel, you pretend you’re only organizing. It’s normal for you to, but you also know it puts you on Harley’s radar. Too offputting. Not in the official employee logbook, but paid nonetheless per request of Ludwig. Not even Leith Pierre could go against the word. It was concerning. Scary, even. It was just enough to have him notice you.

Being noticed is never a good thing. You’ve learned the easy things over time. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t anything to speak up about. It makes you sit there and stare quietly, observing Harley the same way he observes you.

The lifeless eyes of a human staring into the eyes of a lifeless doll.

Are either of you really human? Maybe you’re more human than he is.

It’s horrible to be both human and a demon. It’s quite horrible if you consider it. It sends an ache deep in your head as you claw at your flesh, and it’s painfully annoying when you go missing periodically to swap out the gel in your body, and it pains you to find out that they start using poppy gas on the children as well. You remember being put to sleep with it when they were first developing. You were awfully temperamental as a human. Unfortunately for everyone else, you were painfully human when that gel replaced your blood. It was a change to go from the devil’s spawn to god’s angel, but truly it didn’t change much.

Your mind still whirled with the horrifying reality that is blood and darkness.

When Harley Sawyer locks in on his interest in you, you stop replacing your blood as frequently as you had been. He starts abruptly with a 180 with how he treats you, and you understand that perhaps another bigger surgery was coming to torture you. If he found out, you’d most likely be stuck in a personally crafted utopia from him. Quite the dilemma, you think. Despite it all, you quite like getting to wander around in the after hours.

You wonder, sometimes, what Harley Sawyer would look disheveled and losing it from something more intimate rather than the exhaustion that comes with the experiments.

“Doll.”

“Hm?” You don’t bother looking up from your papers, and he stops at your desk, leaning down on one arm, hand reaching for the turtleneck.

Your hand flies up to stop him from touching you.

“Can I help you, doctor?”

“Why do you wear such a high neckline, assistant?”

“Maybe I’m getting it nasty and want to hide my hickeys.”

You hiss as he reaches again, and he hums, smiling with his eyes.

“Doll, do not—“

“Don’t try me, Doctor Sawyer.” You glare at him, and he releases his hand, handing you the coffee that was in his other hand.

“You’re welcome, doll.”

You force a smile past your lips at the nickname, setting the coffee down next to your papers as you close your eyes to pinch the bridge of your nose.

Harley Sawyer’s seen his fair share of women over the years. None compared to you, though. Hidden and mysterious, standing next to Elliot Ludwig when he was a child, lips curled upwards sweetly when you’d take off the mask on your face. You’d be around his age. You were just a child when he had met you, after all. A child born out of wedlock according to everyone. Elliot Ludwig’s second daughter. A shame, though. You look like you haven’t aged. If anyone knew anything, they knew that Elliot Ludwig’s eldest daughter was Poppy herself. Magic, according to everyone, but it was most likely an operation. If poppy came first, then you came second.

He’s seen his fair share of women while in school, attending pubs with his classmates in England, pretty dolly girls giggling too hard and clinging to his arms, really only after his body. It’s a shame that he prides himself in staying healthy. Too healthy. Something which has never once had an effect on you. He’d seen the kids in the YGP try and impress you when they found out you were Elliot’s daughter, and you had gone mostly unimpressed. It wasn’t enough to be smart to impress you. It never was. Nothing was ever enough for you.

Though, you’ve changed. He’s changed too, older, more grey, slightly more grown out.

He doesn’t miss the way you stare at him for longer than considerable to be a glance. You find him much more attractive. The age, perhaps. You always looked at Elliot Ludwig a considerable amount.

The truth of the matter was that you were adopted. You weren’t his child out of wedlock, you had been his wife’s, and there was this bubbling obsession that was just festering under the old man’s skin because of you. It was easy to tell that he had only adopted you after her death because he wanted to quell his burning conscience.

Harley had been no different. Pa’s an alcoholic, Ma’s dead. There wasn’t anything good about his home life. He was no different from the rest of the children in Playcare. The only difference, though, had been that he had a grandmother to return to. When she passed, he had already been in England studying Neuroscience. It didn’t matter anymore. Oh, how wonderful of a time it had been. He craved the day he would return to ruin Elliot Ludwig’s life, and how pleasant of a feeling it was to see that man die under his knife.

It was like the universe had handed him the perfect chance to ruin the man’s life and legacy.

He craved the golden title of fame. No, it wasn’t enough to be one of the youngest chiefs of neurosurgery in a renowned company. No, no. It wasn’t enough. After all, what he wanted was that medal of gold in his name. He wanted to go down in history as a man who changed the world. It was plenty enough to work with — not having any restrictions as he experimented on the children with a new team that wouldn’t speak. So much more cruel and dark. So much more free.

Now, with you stuck under his palm as his assistant, the stage was perfectly set up.

All he had to do was convince you he was in love with you.

It should be easy, after all. You’re so young.

You think oftentimes people forget how old you really are. You look young, sure. A young adult fresh out of college thanks to the poppy gel’s regenerative abilities, but you’re not young. You spent your whole life shadowing Elliot Ludwig. You’re not stupid either.

Harley Sawyer wants to play lovebirds? You’ll give him lovebirds. You’re too good at playing a young lovesick fool. It fooled even your foster father.

“I got you coffee.” He hums, setting down a cup the way you like it, and your eyes brighten.

“Doctor Sawyer, you shouldn’t have.” You blink slowly, taking the cup from his hand as you blow on the steam. “What’s the occasion?”

“I wish to pray some information out of you.” He hums. “About why Elliot’s experiments succeeded.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head. “I can’t exactly help you with that.”

“No, nightshade. You know better than anyone everything about Elliot. You’re his daughter, after all.” He smiles, but it’s more threatening than warm.

“I haven’t heard that name since Elliot’s death.” You’re straightforward, blinking slowly as Sawyer hums.

“He used to call you that when you were young.”

“He called me that because I was like the nightshade. A pain to his eyes.” You finish up the coffee, tossing it as you grumble. “What did you want?”

“How’d he succeed?”

“Oh, he used twice used poppy gel. You send it through a human body or toy, and then it comes out a couple shades darker than fresh poppy gel. Since it’s kind of living, it helps keep the toy alive for longer.”

“Is that what they did for the prototype?”

You raise a brow, pouting. “No way I know. Mister Ludwig wanted me as humanly far from the experiments as possible.”

“But you must’ve snooped.”

“Never the prototype.” You mumble. “I wasn’t there for the experiment.”

He tilts his head at you, and you sigh.

“I don’t know, Doctor Sawyer. I really don’t.”

He sighs, shaking his head.

“I should bring you something better next time, hm?”

“Oh, most definitely. Maybe I’ll remember something then.”

“Anything you wanted in particular?”

“Flowers.” You smile, grin on your lips. “Dying, dark, depressing poppies. Oh, and of course roses with their thorns still on.”

He scoffs.

“You want flowers to die down here?”

“Yeah.” You hum. “It’s a show of sincerity, Doctor Sawyer.”

“Alright.” He holds his chin. “A bouquet or—“

“A potted plant is fine.” You hum. “Who knows, maybe I’ll show you a magic trick in exchange.”

Harley Sawyer picks up a potted plant for you, but for the sake of sincerity, he does go out into the sun to find you a fresh pot of plants. If it’d get you to play into his hand, then so be it. It’s easy to fake the romantic needs, after all. He doesn’t feel love, only obsession, and he could tell why Elliot Ludwig had been so obsessed with you. Horrible, really. Horrific reality. You’re easier than he thought you’d be. You face him while talking, lean onto him when you think no one’s paying attention in the meetings, and stare at him more than acceptable.

How easy to play you into his hand.

When he brings you the flowers, your eyes light up the way he expects them to.

“Will you show me the magic trick, then?”

“Hm.” You cut your thumb on the thorn, letting the gel squeeze past your skin, and dribble onto the base of the pot.

The poppies sprout to life nearly immediately.

“What are you?”

“Ever wondered why I’m still so young?” You beam.

“Ah.”

Harley Sawyer is many things, but slow isn’t one of them. It clicks immediately.

“Which ones have you replaced?”

“Oh, oh, who said anything about—“

He lunges at you, hand finding your turtleneck as he tugs it down, eyes sparkling at the hatch.

You give him the whole flustered act, which frankly he sees through, but he doesn’t call you out on it. If you want to try to outsmart him, then be his guest.

He’s not stupid enough to let you.

It’s surprisingly easy for you to be shoved on one side and right into the palm of his hand, and he pries the answer out from your bones. It’s simple according to you. Once six or more weeks have passed, the blood in your body becomes totally processed — something imitating the blood of a human, yet still a gel. It becomes darker. That in itself becomes part of the recipe for the perfect science experiment. Test with smaller organisms, rinse, repeat. It goes on as smaller experiments in between the bigger ones,

Harley Sawyer starts two smaller experiments after succeeding with 1160. Both of them including toys for the Game Station, success finding him under the knife as he beams at the particular packets of blood he had the other scientists dig out from the rest. It was so easy. It was too easy. You would prove to be a painfully helpful asset. However, it cost too much gel for the bigger bodies and there was only one of you, so he slows down with the experiments, running them on children he finds expendable. You’re given breather room between the surgeries he deems as necessary to succeed, smaller portions of your blood used while he works out a way to successfully use the regular gel to create a way to keep the toys alive. Mixing the gel from your body simply wasn’t enough, and you weren’t able to speed up the process. Six week minimum.

It’s how long it takes human blood to be replaced totally on average. Painfully annoying for Sawyer, but it’s the price he has to pay for a perfect surgery. It’s worth it in the end. He gained a painfully loyal pet out of it, after all. 1166 was painfully attached to him after much isolation. The boy had been a bright child, and Harley had bright hopes for him, but he should have known better than to bet so early on. The toy had come out with little to no intellect. He should have known that he wouldn’t be able to recreate the prototype so early on. A shame. He’s one step closer now that he has you, after all.

The devil on his shoulder tells him to lock you up, but he has no need for it for the time being. You barely disappear, and when you do, you always let him know it’s to get some sunlight. It’s good. The artificial sunlight can only do so much in Playcare, and you both are even deeper down in the labs, so it was only apparent that you would need real sunlight. You don’t point how he might be deficient, instead just sitting under the sun outside.

He still needs to spoil you a little now and then, bringing you flowers during his rare trips out, your coffee order still memorized in the back of his head when he goes to the coffee room. He doesn’t bother with talking to the other scientists outside of the labs. The meetings are droning and boring enough as is, and it’s not as though he’s leashed by the company. He’s free to do whatever as long as he keeps it hidden enough. Everything is in the palm of his hand.

He could win everything so easily.

He can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

But he needs the preparations, and he creates a series of bigger smiling critters, storing up enough of the gel from you and figuring out the perfect ratio to balance out the effects so he can create helpers around Playcare while using less gel from you. The balance is reached eventually, and Harley Sawyer finds out quite quickly that adults take more gel than children, and he almost considers telling his team to just let Bron die so they can make a second bigger body. But he can’t. He supposes it’s some childhood attachment to the toy or whatnot, so he’s glad that his team successfully stabilizes the man, he sends them all for a break for the day. Bron’s put into his own facility until they finish the creation of the prison.

Prison’s an ugly word, so they call it The Shelf. Sounds much kinder than whatever was knocking behind people’s minds when they call it the prison. The experiments are starting to succeed in concerning amounts, they need a place to store all of them. The banging in the experiment rooms was starting to become annoying. He insists on taking part in all of the new surgeries. The ones for the Bigger Bodies Initiative he had proposed. It’s his experiments, after all. Sawyer stays out of the smaller ones in between that are still numbered. He trusts no one with the knife when it’s new surgeries.

It becomes apparent when Marie Payne is chosen as the next subject and he sustains an injury mid surgery from her thrashing in the new body. She’s promptly knocked out so that he could finish, but when he returns to the room with a bruise on his forehead as you rush over to take care of it, ice pouch placed over his head, he lets you. Wrapped around his finger, you are. There’s so much care fluttering past your fingers that it almost makes him sick. What a shame. He’s only using you. It’s how he is. This affection is better saved for someone who actually cares. Not him, though. Never him. Sweet girl. Horrible, really.

It’s how you are too, if he thinks about it. You’ve never once been too far from someone of power. Why you picked him as opposed to Leith Pierre is beyond his care. He only cares that you’re using him. No one else. Just him. He’d kill Leith before he even lets you approach the man. You won’t be his. He’ll kill you if he has to. He’ll stop at nothing to make sure you stay far away from that man. You’re part of his glory, after all.

“Doctor Sawyer,” You exhale, slowly, batting your lashes at him.

He doesn’t budge.

He’s grown used to the way you’d sit in his lap while he does paper like some housecat and refuse to leave until he gives you what he wants. Dare he says it you remind him of his old cat. She was less demanding than you, though. Female cats tend to have more of an attitude. You, on the other hand? Too demanding. You ask for too much. He gives you too much.

He ought to stop spoiling you sometime.

Yet, you lose your care in the world, arms wrapped around his neck as you bite his neck, teeth sharper than safe, skin softer than should. There’s this irresistibleness to you to him. Perhaps he was playing into your hand the same way you were playing into his. He doesn’t quite care. He pinches at your nose to get you to let go of his neck, hand finding its way to yours to hold your jaw in place, biting down on your collar hard enough for red. Your skin refuses to break from the gel, but he bites anyway, canines sinking into flesh, fingers digging into skin.

How horrible for the mind — to get you like this.

He doesn’t like that your skin doesn’t leave marks or bruises, too healthy too fast and regenerating too quick. You refuse to leave marks of him outside of his sanity, so he decides that perhaps it’s much smarter to keep you close. The paranoia is settling in. He has no faith that you wouldn’t leave him for Leith Pierre. He’s seen the man pull some of the smartest people to better positions because they had caught his eye. You cannot, so the solution presents itself simply while you hide under him. Too shy, not willing to show your face, perfectly hidden. So easy. So, so simple.

He sends you over the edge with a bite to your neck, and he starts the preparations.

Too easy.

You wake from your bliss, blinking slowly at the chain around your ankle. Probably from Harley.

"You're awake." He smiles.

"Harley. What is the meaning of this?"

You stare at the chain around your ankle at the bed replacing the other assistant's desk. You're captured for now. It's a shame, though. You could always just pop out ankle from the chain or dig a hole into the chain to free yourself. But the prospect of being locked up has you shaking, face hiding the ecstasy that you feel from the obsession that's now mirrored on your late mentor's pupil. Maybe you were just as twisted as everyone else. You never said you weren't.

Harley never said he would treat you well when he had sunk his teeth into your flesh that fateful night.

He doesn't bother hiding the pleasant smile on his face when you stare up at him like you're scared of him. The fear gets him off, perhaps. Sick and twisted of him to lock you up in the office when the use of the poppy gel in your body had better effects on the experiments that were staying alive. He tried the first time with a full batch 1160, and now that he has you in the palm of his hand, he's closer to his dream than ever before. All the fame and glory will be his in the company, and eventually he'll become one of the most-renowned neurosurgeons in the world. All with a little manipulation of the very girl who's been quiet and masked next to him the whole time.

What a stroke of luck. All for his sake, after all.

He had been observing, slowly, staring too long for comfort the same way you do to him when you think he doesn't notice. Except he does. He always does. The chain around your ankle is proof of that. The pages and pages of notes under your portion in the binder detailing how he never sees you eat or how you spit out all of the food in your system, and sit by the surgical table far too long, staring at the bags of poppy gel that are to keep the child alive for as long as they can before the consciousness is transferred. It's amusing. It's like a lab rat who's got more loyalty than 1166 to him. Your loyalty lies with the company, though. How wonderful of an opportunity handed to him.

"The chain is highly unnecessary, Harley. You still don't trust that I won't leave, do you? What will it take for my mobility back?" You try to step towards him, realizing that the chain is shorter than imagined, stuck falling to the ground as you reach towards him.

Harley realizes this satisfies the twisted curling in his stomach when you fall and hurt all because him. It has him feigning care and stepping by your side. He's much more affectionate than he should be, but he supposes it's fine to spoil you a little since you're practically human. If anything, you'd make a wonderful accessory by his side as a trophy of his achievements. The same way that he once watched you stand by Ludwig's side. He'll take everything from that rotten man who kicked him out, he swears. You're the perfect final piece. The accessory dangling off of his shoulder when he used to mentor him. Now, with Ludwig six feet under and your face revealed, you're all his to keep.

He presses his palm to your neck, feigning care as you blink at him slowly.

"Harley. Will you really stop me from being your good little assistant?"

"You can stay in the room." He coos.

"You don't want me to follow you around the same way I did with Ludwig?"

"You'll be a distraction."

"Do I distract you?"

He ignores the way your voice carries that same sultry tone he used to hear from you when you wanted to call Ludwig away, and he laughs.

"Do as you're told, pet."

"Your paranoia will kill you one day, Sawyer, if your ambition doesn't do it first." You smile at him innocently, letting him help you up. "You'll never be Ludwig. He's someone of my past, and I wouldn't want you to become him. I like you much better, you know. Despite the ankle chain."

"No. I'll be better." He smiles with too much teeth. "There's no competition if my competition was eliminated by me."

You laugh. "I know. And I thank you for it."

Harley Sawyer knows the game you play. He's seen through it since you were there next to Ludwig when he was a child. He knows the eyes you've been giving him the whole time are nothing short of trouble, but you're a key part of research, and it hurts his pride that he's willingly playing himself into your hand all for the sake of his glory. He'll use you and then leave you. He's not Ludwig. He's better than that man who had a soft spot for children and refuses to experiment on them despite being so much more versatile.

He's not full of emotion the same way you and Ludwig are.

He has everything in the palm of his hand, and it's all his.

What he feels doesn't concern him. He doesn't feel. He craves. The same way he craves the way your flesh spills through his fingers when he grabs you, the same way his nails leave crescent dents on your wrist when you refuse to listen to him. Never abuse. He's not an animal. He enjoys in moderation. He's not some savage man like Ludwig was in his finals years in the office. He was so easy to kill once he had bribed you to his side. It's surprising how long it took for Sawyer to recognize the same figure who had stood next to Ludwig in all public events. That same figure whose squeeze of the hand would have the CEO faltering whenever he berated him as a child. An enabler — you are.

You hand Harley his papers at the door when he walks in, and he looks through them at the door as you kick your ankle back up on the bed. You spin from your desk to your newfound bed, pinching at your skin to check if you were still soft to the touch. You don't feel heavier, but you worry for the lack of sunlight. You were known to break down after a certain period of no sunlight, so it's why Ludwig had build you a way up to the roofing in order to soak in some of the sun. You worry you'll die before you get to worm your fingers into Sawyer's skin, and that wouldn't be fun for either of you.

"Harley." You call.

"Hm?"

"I need sunlight before my body falls apart." You kick at your leg. "I can get rigour mortis if I don't get ample sunlight."

"Are you a plant?"

"I have poppy running through my veins, so yes." You hum. "You can leash me if that will make you less paranoid. You need some sun as well. It's sunrise right now. I know a shortcut."

Harley Sawyer raises a brow suspiciously at you, and you tilt your head back at him.

"You need sunlight too, Harley." You hum. "You look Vitamin D deficient."

"I'd know. I'm a doctor. I'm fine—"

"No, no." You hum. "You don't trust me going up alone. Won't you go with me, please?"

You give him the extra show of batting your lashes and squeezing your arm, and he relents. Be not mistaken. He relents because it's true that he also needs some sunlight. He's stayed up finishing the final specifications that the other surgeons had operated on in order to perfect 1188 that you had given some pointers on. But it's futile. In the end, he's the one cutting the toys under his scalpel. You can assist and cut, but the cut of the glory will be his. He has to get it through your head that everything he does is for you. Everything you do should be for him too. The same way everything you had done back then was for Ludwig. He'll hammer it through your brain if he has to.

You're not malleable, truly, but you're still smart enough to cooperate as long as he has the upper hand. You want to live, despite it all.

What a show of the indomitable human spirit.

You take him through Ludwig's office, through a series of vents before finding an elevator that takes you to the sunroof. It's reinforced glass so you wouldn't be able to break through, not that you would've been able to despite it all. You're too weak to be able to develop muscle, though your strength remains untested. You're not made of whatever the other bigger bodies are made of either, so you don't expect too much strength.

You lay in the lounge chair, closing your eyes as you just soak for a while.

Harley Sawyer watches you as he always does, eyes focused on the way you breathe, chest rising and falling as the sun reaches higher into the sky. Your skin does look healthier under the sunlight. Perhaps you were kept here all the time back when Ludwig was alive. The only time you ever took off that plague doctor mask that scared almost all of the children. Too bad he wasn't the rest of them. That curiosity piqued when you were the only person with high clearance to not show your face. What a blessing that the universe played your card into his hand. This time — for good.

You squirm under him, hiding your face and head thrown back as Harley holds you down with one hand, other’s fingers worming its way inside of you, forcing you still with a press of his hand. He enjoys the power dynamic. the trip of power where he forces you down to take it all, your skin just like flesh against his palms, and you think this is what Ludwig had wanted from you. You had been spared the hands because he knew better, but Harley Sawyer did not care for this or that. There are no morals from a man who will turn children into experiments. Harley Sawyer was not Elliot Ludwig, and it was painfully apparent in the way that he did not care for what you felt at any time.

If his hands would find themselves on you, then you had no choice but to accept it because he chains you down.

But you’re waiting for him to lock. You know it. There was such an apparent power dynamic between the two of you that you couldn’t help but want to wager your life. Bet on the slow psychology that you had picked up over the years. Harley Sawyer didn’t pick you for no reason, as much as he wants to make it seem that way. You’d lock him down and claw your fingers around his neck the same way he would with you when he was upset from a failed experiment. There were so many smiling critters that he was forced to send to the younger scientists to build them. There are no more bigger bodies for him to work through.

No good orphans. No good children. No one is standing out.

You spend most of your day fixing up papers and following Harley like some lovesick fool. If he expected you to be one, then you might as well embrace it. There was so much hatred and obsession bubbling through your skin that it was concerning. There it was. You were waiting for it. You were waiting for the exact moment that you would no longer feel more human than toy, and you know you’re going to crawl through his skin until there was no part of his body left that you hadn’t carved your blood into.

You wanted to ruin him the same way he had ruined you.

Then, a child falls into the dough mixer.

You hear it from the other scientists through the wall, and you know Sawyer’s going to take every opportunity to force a child into the body. Then, it’s how you know Harley to be. He sends you up for sunlight, poppy gel handed to you as you press the packets to your neck, hooked onto the machine as you watch the darker gel be replaced with new gel. He doesn’t touch you even when your fingers tug at the cuff of his coat.

“Not now, pet.” He hums. “I know I can’t rush you, but I can’t hold you alone, you know? Not when you’re changing gel. It’s not good for you.”

You pout, closing your eyes as he brushes his thumb against your cheek.

“Then after?”

“Yes. After. As long as you’re good.”

You are good. You know despite the disgust in the doctor’s bones, he still enjoys you. Fingers clawing at your skin and nails digging arches into your waist and bedsheets as yours claw at his neck and back, purple and yellow bruising your neck and shoulders whenever he would have his way with you. Clawed skin and matching reds on your necks. It’s a horrible relationship between the two of you. Broken wounds and saccharine venom. You think you could poison the doctor until there was nothing left in your body except for that hatred in his bones. If he wanted to poison you until all that was left of the poppy flower was its toxic properties, then you would crush him in the palm of your hand while he tried to crush you.

Either way, somebody has to lose.

Your presentation to swallow Harley whole comes when he starts talking about a bad day at work, and you have the grin on your lips like you’ve been waiting for this. You have. You know exactly what to do to scrape him down a peg. You’re not stupid, despite it all.

When a couple of the bigger bodies break out, you frame Sawyer perfectly. He was the one to give you the instruciton, but if he thinks you’ll take the hit for him, he’s wrong. You just set them out a little early. How fun, really. The innocent look of panic on your face that you have when confronted by the heads of everything was impossible to doubt. You aren’t capable of it. Everyone knew that you were Ludwig’s second daughter who never aged. The same way that Poppy was his daughter. It was impossible to just pin you down to something. You were different. Too different. Too human.

So you get off scott free, listening to the way the cleaners whisper amongst themselves on how the Doctor could force you to do something so cruel, and you wonder if it helps to remain so youthful. Two toys that could not be touched, and one of them was you. Horrible, really. A shame that Ludwig had lied to everyone to say that you were his daughter — an image of you framed by Poppy.

Then, Leith Pierre requests your assistance in an operation.

Blood for blood. The Doctor would become a toy like you. A machine. Inhumane. A request for your aid. He isn’t providing you with an option, but you wonder if you should do it. It’s a horrible reality, really. You’re shown the design. He’ll have the poppy smoke powering through his system to keep his organs alive. That’s it. That’s all. It’s horrible, maybe, but really. At least it isn’t the gel. Maybe you’d wager. You didn’t see the heart within any of the designs provided to you. You think it’d be his worst nightmare to become the pet.

“I want to keep the heart.” You request to Leith, and he raises a brow at you.

“A dead body? We’re plugging him for energy sources.”

“Oh, no” You tap your cheek. “Just the heart. I’m going to pay that man back tenfold. You know, ignoring the whole obsession thing.”

Leith Pierre considers it, pausing to consider the final design handed in.

“We’ll give you a body as a thank you for your loyalty to the company.”

You beam, lips curling upwards.

“And in exchange, you will continue to provide the services of the gel the same way that you did under Doctor Sawyer’s wing.”

“Alright.” You beam, lips curling upwards sweetly. Without adequate time in your body, the gel had no enhancing properties. Not that the company needed to know. After all, there was nothing else that was going to benefit you. You just wanted the heart and a body made of scrap metal. If he would be a computer, then it wouldn’t matter which body he’s in as long as he has his code.

Horrific knowledge, but knowledge nonetheless.

“What did Leith want from you?” You blink slowly at Harley, frowning slightly.

“Just asked me a couple of questions. He doesn’t trust you after the incident, you know?”

“I know.” Harley curses. “What did he want?”

“To see you.” You mumble. “He wanted me to bring you to him.”

Your end of the deal was up, and you stand by the surgery table as White locks the heart in a chest cavity for you in a body, disassembled as you’re handed his dead body as well. His mind is on its own. but its nerves are left for you, preserved all for you. When you’re given the full body and the operation is finished, you beam.

You won’t be seeing the doctor for a long time.

The operations under Doctor White are bad. You admit it. They don’t have the expertise that Harley had, but Playcare didn’t care anymore. None of the doctors could figure out why the toys suddenly stopped surviving. It was like the gel that they were submerging the children in was no longer as potent as it used to be. You knew Harley was peculiar about the times he did his experiments. Awfully superstitious. He’d only fuck you if he needed the boost of blood rushing through your system or a fresh source, and he’s only touch you if he knew something was necessary. It was horrific. but it worked.

Doctor White is none of those things.

He lacks the craftiness and slyness that Harley had. Harley knew something that they did not because he was constantly observing. White was simply a replacement. Everyone knew this. You knew this. When White needed something from Sawyer, he’d punch in code and force him to speak to him, but you’d turn him down every time he would request you to pull the information out of him. You couldn’t let Sawyer see you. He’d try to kill you. He’d wager you in a deal with the prototype, and it would kill you. You refuse to be chained to a bed by that rotten excuse of a man again. You’d chain him down before he would ever consider it.

“I don’t want to see my previous employer, Doctor White.” You hum, glancing at the room that he was lodged in. “He’ll kill me for selling him out.”

“You didn’t sell him out. He was the one who caused the theatre incident.”

“He just got bored.” You hum, handing him the stack of papers you had finished working on. “May I go back to rest?”

“Of course.”

You pass the doctor’s room on the way back, your nerves getting the better of you as you flick a penny between your fingers, sliding it under the door.

The scream that you get out of Harley Sawyer is worth more than any investigation in the lower section of the lab.

The depths of hell, as people put it. The operation rooms. Harley Sawyer sits above it all in a location only accessible by elevator, and you find your way at the very top of the building, flicking coins under the machine by the day, laugh on your lips when the doctor screams for you to answer him.

It’s freedom, but it’s also a haunting. To haunt someone else’s narrative means for them to haunt yours.

Still, you torture him with the mind, sending coins clattering into his room, potted flowers through Doctor White, despair and longing through his system. You avoid all areas with cameras. You refuse to even be acknowledged by the doctors. You go back to being the ghost you once were when you were under Elliot Ludwig. Horrible, horrible, girl, truly. Though, not a girl. You don’t know what age you stopped aging, but you are not a girl. It would have been horrific for Ludwig to have frozen you at that age.

You stick to yourself, taking days off to sit and soak under the sun when you don’t feel well.

Chatting with the Playcare workers becomes a regular thing, and you help out where you can, keeping an eye out for when Mommy starts to get out of hand. Horrible, really, but you were partially responsible for her making. You’re not that fortunate, unfortunately. The universe has never been partial to you. You’re not the world’s favorite for a reason. You simply exist. You even meet one of the mute workers and get to practice your sign language. You manage enough. They can hear you, though.

It’s truly a stroke of luck, though — that you survive the Hour of Joy.

You’re halfway up to Ludwig’s office and past Playcare when all hell breaks loose and some toys start chasing you down — thinking you’re a human.

Horrifying, really.

And reality is worse when you find metal bodies with TV heads and an all too familiar eye in the hall while you run.

You meet the Doctor once during the Hour of Joy.

His claw reaches for the plush of your skin, and you duck and dodge through the mess of toys and human, given the grace of being part toy yourself. You were not edible. You could not be consumed for food. It was that simple. You would most likely never see the light of day. The blood in your veins would kill the toys before it would cause it to live. It’s been rotting under your skin kept only alive by the sun you had managed to sneak during your breaks before the Hour of Joy, and you don’t know why some of the toys steer clear of you, but you worm and thread through the groups of toys that wanted you dead and were simply too hungry to care.

“You’ll be back for more, pet,” He laughs, and you gasp against the wall as you finally make it to the office.

The banging from the body eventually fades into nothing.

Yet, the nickname echoes in your head.

It’s like you can still hear his voice.

Your fingers curl around the wrench in your hand, and you bash the TV in.

“pet.”

“Harley Sawyer, you leave me alone,” You hiss, coughing uncomfortably from the dust. It was killing to be of flesh. You should have accepted the hand that would have clawed through you if you didn’t show total obedience, but that’s what you were used to, perhaps. It was uncomfortable to live in Ludwig’s office space, the TVs far off and away from what you think would be with you. Yet, Harley Sawyer haunts your ever corner, driving you further down the edge until you will inevitably die to someone. It’s a matter of who you can’t fight off first. Perhaps you would just sit and accept your fate. Your flesh won’t die from the sunlight, but you will dry up from the lack of fresh blood. Your heart is slowly giving away. Your age is truly coming to you. In the end, you’re not immortal.

Luckily for you, Ludwig’s paranoia forced him to keep as many pouches of poppy gel in order that you might be safe in the case of emergency. But even then. Ten years is a long time, and with the Doctor’s minions only trying to break in again and again, you’re stuck in place and where you are.

You won’t go hungry, but you will find death soon.

I don’t want to harm you, pet.

“Go fuck yourself.” You slam your head against the wall, eyes closed as you groan.

You think you’re closer to what the Miss Delights were than anything else. You came before them all, so it only made sense for you to be better than them. Not worse. You couldn’t possibly be worse than them when your skin was in tact and your lips were not porcelain. You’re no doll. You’re about just as human as any other horrible scientist out there. It was a shame, though. It’s a shame all humanity was stripped away from you when the gel had become your blood.

You were immortal. You’d outlive so many of the toys downstairs, and it was surreal. You can’t leave the facility yet you have to rest under the sun.

You wonder if it could be different. Perhaps you could pretend to be an orphan like the prototype and lie to Poppy. It doesn’t hurt to lure someone else downstairs so that there would be food or something else. You refuse to go despite the doctor’s promise of protection. You learned that his word only holds true for as long as he deems it to be. It’s worse to be down there.

So when an old worker from playcare shows up, you tilt your head at him and grin.

“Why, if it isn’t someone oh so familiar.”

The signing in response has you grinning.

“What are you doing here? There’s no one left downstairs. You should know, everyone down there would only tear at your skin to try and eat you. They’re starving.”

There’s an unimpressed look in his eyes.

“Say, I’ll give you the key if you pry Harley Sawyer’s code from his computer, hm?”

and return it to you?

You grin. “All I want is the chip when you finish.”

You send him down with an unlocking of the passageway, and you lock it behind him. He’ll be able to make it up slowly when he defeats everything down in the depths. But you only want Harley Sawyer’s code. There’s a body of his unplugged and unconnected from everything. You refuse to charge him out of a fear that the doctor would find you on the surface, but his heart remains beating the same way his mind sits on top of his actual code. He’s alive from an emergency generator in Ludwig’s office. Everything in here was out of paranoia from when he was live, yet now you sit here and watch as it all lives. You live because of his paranoia, but Harley Sawyer wouldn’t survive that poor employee.

Not when he stands so tall and outmaneuvered Huggy Wuggy so easily.

Your fingers work at the wiring, years of working alongside White stringing through your fingers as you finish setting up the wires. It had been hard to escape with the Doctor’s poor heart when he was operating, but it was easy to hide it afterward. No one touches your little section in Ludwig’s office, and it’s stayed that way after so long. You keep a bucket above his head for your sanity's sake. In case you ever have to hard reset him or render the body useless.

All that’s left is to plug the chip into the body’s hard drive, and you’ll have the Doctor with you at all times.

Despite it all, it’s an unfortunate reality that you’re absolutely in love with the Doctor. Perhaps it’s the twisted gel crushing through your blood vessels. It’s just so fun to torture the living daylights out of the doctor. Your fingers tug at his wiring, humming quietly. His nerves thread through the wiring, and his mind has been replaced by the actual chip. He would feel everything but be unable to move unless you finish connecting the last pieces of the strand.

Perhaps you are wrong in the head. You never claimed to not be.

When the Doctor’s chip is returned to you by the worker, the prototype defeated down in the depths, you take the chip from his hand and shoo him out the door, showing him out now that there was nothing left. You ought to fix up Huggy Wuggy to at least keep the urbex explorers dead, but it didn’t matter if the Doctor could just replace them. There are tons of bodies, after all. A good finger into the skull would do the job.

You wait for the doctor to boot, chip slipped into his mind as you rock on your heels and hum, lips curling upwards. Oh, how nice. You can’t wait for that awful doctor to stick under your thumb. You’d crush him alive if you could.

“Oh, how awful. Did you regret your choice of— pet.”

“Nuh uh.” You grin. Too much teeth. “You’re the pet now, Harley.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You couldn’t possibly—“ He notices the way his arms struggle to move, and he stares you dead in the eye. “Pet.”

“That’s not a sweet nickname, you know?” You sigh, holding your hand to your chest. “How about, my love? Dearest? Sweets? You know you love the god-awful English nicknames just as much as Ludwig does. So, pick your poison, Harley. We’ll be here for a long… long, time.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Not as condescending as it used to sound, but I suppose I can’t really pick and choose.” You tap his screen affectionately, grinning at him. “So? Anything you want to repent for before I plug you in?”

“Sweetheart, you can’t—“

You jam the plug into his head as he screams, back arching as you watch him grow used to his new body.

“You’re heavy.”

“Oh, yes, darling. And you’ll for sure feel it when I’ve had my way with you the same way you once did with me.” Your finger loops under his wiring, pinching it between your fingers as the moan from his speaker sends angels riveting above you. You revel in the way his eyes go half-lidded while he throws his head back.

“Wh—“

“Yes, Harley. You’ll be experiencing a lot more of that.” You hum, keeping him down as he flexes his fingers.

He scoffs, reaching to grip your wrist, and you laugh.

“I hope you feel this.”

You jam the tweezers past the glass of his chest, fingers clawing in to grab his heart, squeezing it in your hand as the doctor moans. It was plenty of fun to hack him so that he wouldn’t be able to feel pain, but you’ve saved the horrible reality of pain to come after the god awful pleasure. Neither of you deserve to live. You’re nothing more than proof of horrific scientific discovery, so it would only be fair that both of you return to death. Poppy chose the path of death, after all. Skin and bones you will return to, and he too will return to the dust of the earth.

“Sweetheart—“

“You know, Harley. I always wondered how you’d look if you’d ever call me something sweet. I hate you just as much as I love you, you know? So if I have to die, then so do you.” You press your finger into the squelch around his heart, and he groans.

“What is it you want, sweetheart? An apology? I can do that for you.”

“No, Harley. I want…” You remove your hand from the gel, sliding down the wiring around his spine, pressing your fingers to the rubber around his pelvis.

“You didn’t.” He hisses.

“Oh, Harley, baby. Of course I did.” You reach inside to tug at the wiring around his pelvis, his voice coming out garbled as he groans, hips bucking up as you continue tugging, fingers threading through the wire as some of them tug off with more ease than the others. Your lips curl upwards when his eye rolls back as a wire snaps off with a smooth scrick, the heavy panting and groaning like music to your ears. You always liked it when the Doctor was more voicy while fucking you. Too bad he refused to voice anything because you liked it. Now you get to hear him to your heart’s content.

“Sweetheart.” He whimpers. “I want to hear you.”

“This brings me plenty of pleasure, Harley, baby. Don’t worry.”

His fingers twitch next to him, reaching to grab your wrist as he pants, eye meeting yours as he reaches to force your chest to his, other hand clawing on your back as he rips at the fabric on your back. You hiss against the shards of his chest, but it seems he understands it just as well as you.

Both of you are to die tonight. It’s a matter of who dies before reaching the gates of heaven—

gates of heaven before being ripped down those stairs by the loser’s hand.

You tug at the wires on the back of Harley’s neck, careful to not break any of them, and he grumbles as he forces a finger into you.

“You always sound much better when you’re like this, dove.”

“Harley, baby. You’re wonderful when you’re mouthy.” You moan as his finger curls in you sweetly.

“Yeah? I wonder which of us dies first.”

“You, Harley. You’ll run out of gel before you get anywhere close to heaven.” You roll your hips against his fingers for emphasis, and he notes the gel around his chest leaking onto his spine. It makes you giggle a little, fingers going back to working at his wires.

“I was always curious to know if you could reproduce.”

“You want to know something, Harley?”

“Mm?” He speeds up his ministrations, adding another finger as you choke.

“Hah, Harley, sweetheart. My reproduction organs shriveled up and died ages ago.” You hum. “I could never let a child be born to such a horrible man as you.”

“Yet you— haah, continue to fuck me, hm? Sweetheart?”

“Why do you think the devil fell?” You pinch at one of the bigger wires on his spine, other hand snaking the box on his chest.

“What a stupid question, sweetheart. Obviously becau—”

He moans as you twist at the wire, and your eye catches the water supply you keep above his head. He speeds up with his fingers, and you pull harder at the wires, moving your hand to the edge of the TV on his head, groaning.

You slam the back of his head into the wall.

The water spills down.

The electricity is just enough to send you over the edge, whimper breaking out past your lips as a garbled scream makes it past his, and you gush around his fingers, totally sending his system into overdrive and death.

You lie back into the mixture of gel and water, aftereffects of your orgasm leaving you as you feel the burn of the electricity now, body slowing down as you stare up at the stars.

Somewhere, you think you hear banging on your door.

Too tired to move, you succumb to the exhaustion deep in your bones — something you had completely forgotten you could feel.

You can only hope that hell has something kinder for you both.

After all, you’ve done your fair share of falling.

#god i need him carnally in a way i didnt expect #the wire play was actually crazy of you and i adore you for it #evil man but he's MY evil man <33333 #need to be obsessed with a man's downfall the same way the experiment is for harley <33333 #another lovely fic from another lovely personnn

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zozo-01 · 10 days ago

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"round and round on a horse like a carousel."

Here we are!! We finally got this massive fic out and done! I've always wanted to write a fic with Sam and Gavin, anddd my official bodycount is now up to two (thousand)!!! Special shout out to my lovely 'zo keeper' @gingerbreadmonsters who is enjoying some perfectly desrved R&R on the other side of the world!!! Thank you for letting me play with your theory and shoving Sam and Darlin' into it!!!

CW: Angst, Multiple Major Character Death (most of it is shown but only one is described), Grieving Characters, (they are not handling the grieving process well), Hopelessness and Despair all around, Ambiguous Ending, Manipulation, Slight Coercion, Follows Ginger's "Echo is Gavin" Theory, Multiverse (kind of), Poor Sam is going t h r o u g h it, Echo doesn't care, Despite everything Echo does care for Sam, Mentions of Alexis invoking Sam to kill Darlin', You need to read 'have and hold' and 'reeling' to understand what is going on

click here for the ao3 link!!!

“Well you’re as handsome as the day I met you.”

He didn’t know what he let out, if it was a chuckle or sob. To be quite honest, he couldn’t hear anything except for the voice of the raspy shifter in bed. He needed to hear them, for what limited time they had left together. If he can’t go on with eternity with them, then at least let him burn their voice, their magical laugh, in his head. For the nights (or days he suppose) when everything is too much and he feels like he’ll burst, the memory of their voice will bring him back. Calm the angry threads that are barely bursting from the seams.

Although, one could argue that the memory of them in any capacity would shatter him more than what trivial and worldly matter will plague him.

“And you’re just as beautiful, Darlin’.”

Darlin’s hoarse chuckle led to a series of coughs. Realistically, Sam knows that their lungs aren’t what they used to be, but every cough had his core pulsating with the need to heal them. Not that healing magic would do them any good.

Another moment of silence passed, the clock ticking becoming louder.

“I’m sorry, Sammy.”

He shook his head and repeated the same phrase once again. “It ain’t your fault.”

With a stubborn glint, one that had weakened with time, Darlin’ replied, “But I don’t want to leave you!” Their eyes were watery and their voice strained with pain in their chest. Part of him was scared that they were wasting precious energy trying to stay strong for him. Leave it to them to not rest in their final moments.

(Wait a minute, was that crack in the corner always there?) He wiped their tears, feeling his own build up, not that he’ll ever let himself cry when they needed more comfort than himself. He’ll have all the time to be selfish later. “I understand, you didn’t wanna be turned, I get it more than anyone else.”

But his words weren’t enough to change their mind. He’s long accepted that fact yet he continues. “We both knew this day was going to come. And listen to me,” he kneeled on the ground and held their hands, “I had the time of my life with you. You’ve made me the happiest man I could be, and to this day I still think I don’t deserve it. But I am the luckiest man ever to call you my mate.” He kissed their temple. “I love you, Darlin’.”

They gave a weak smile. “I love you too, my Nashira.” Their breathing slowed and they relaxed on the bed. “I’m tired, baby…” Their voice drifted off and Sam accepted the worst.

“Sleep, my love, you deserve to rest.” He kissed their forehead for the last time and watched them take their last breath.

(Seriously, the hospital was brand new, why were there cracks in the ceiling?) Now that he was confident they were gone, he clutched onto this body, sobbing into their shoulder and mumbling about how they deserve peace in the afterlife.

But it wasn’t fair.

Why couldn’t he have been made human so he could at least join them soon? A selfish part of his wishes that Darlin’ was turned into a vampire so they could be immortal and happy. Whatever the case, why must he lose his love when everyone else can have theirs? Why must he have a bad ending after being dealt a bad life and bad death?

His mother always warned him to always be careful of what he wished for, but right now, he’d suffer any and all consequences just to meet them again.

(Ok this is getting concerning now, because now the entire ceiling is gone-)

“What a shame. Another iteration, another failed attempt.”

Sam had wondered if a foreign voice could sound so familiar. It was cold and distant, like a scientist viewing the results of an experiment. But it had a sense of sorrow, a type of exasperation. Whoever this ‘scientist’ was wanted his experiment to work, but something told Sam that he was used to failure. In a weird sense, it sounded like a mixture of every voice he heard in his life. A strange concoction of dialects and accents and tones that left him unsure who to pin the owner of this voice.

(There was one person that came to his head, but he shook that thought immediately. The voice in his head was too cruel to be him.)

There were other voices in his brain too. The ones that belonged to one of the few friends his mate made in their youth. (They’d always called it their Starboy era.)

An incubus that they had met in one of the many clubs they adored and his partner that he worshipped over anything else.

“You’re my sky, deviant. The space between my stars… In a lifetime of sensing the emotions of others, I never imagined I could feel like this... This much… And I am so grateful for it, and for you.”

Who the fuck was that-

Gone was the bed where his Darlin’ passed in their sleep, the world had cracked and broke around him, only for them to be replaced with a clear sarcophagus and an eternal night sky.

Inside was the body of the Freelancer that was once adored by his incubus friend.

(Wait a minute, didn’t he see them last week?)

Before he can think any further, from the neverending nothing, a body emerged. It was an incubus, that much Sam could tell from his aura, but instead of the pink colouring that most incubi had, this one was all black. The tips of his horns were a midnight shade, without any of the stars that make the night sky beautiful. His eyes were devoid of any light, and he had the feeling that something ripped the light from his eyes and used it to paint the stars.

There was something else that was off with him. Sam couldn’t keep his eyes off the outline of the not-so-incubus incubus, puzzled by the glitching effect that surrounded him. The false sex demon (or at least, he thinks it’s a fake) was outlined with a pink and white hue, not like the usual red and blue glitches he’s seen before. He was causing disturbances in the otherwise stunning galaxy themed room. It was clear that this… Whatever this being was, he didn’t belong here. Sam had an inkling that this irregularity hadn’t come to give his condolences for his mate’s death.

(He could never understand how the term incubus, a term referring to creatures of light and fun and sex could also refer to a dark and twisted nightmare.)

(He was about to find out soon.)

The demon smiled, leaning his arms against the sarcophagus and chuckled, “Hello Nashira.”

Sam bared his fangs at the stranger, distrust filling his body. “You don’t get to fuckin’ call me that.” There were only two people who could call him that. One of them was dead. And the other was about to become dead inside. (Shh. Don't tell Sam that, this is our secret.)

The demon pouted, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh? You don’t remember me, Samuel? We go all the way back.” He gave a sly smile that Sam found all too familiar. “Your mate loves- oh, excuse my language, I had forgotten, loved having me around.”

Sam growled, “Don’t you fuckin’ talk like that around me.” He glanced at the dead or sleeping freelancer in the sarcophagus. “Or else you’ll be seein’ my mate and that partner of yours real fuckin’ soon.” Sure it was a low blow, but this incubi impersonator struck first and Sam’s never been known to hold back any punches, especially when it comes to his mate. In his anger, he even forgot the contradiction presented by the body in the sarcophagus.

(Came. He meant when it came with his mate. No one tells you how hard it is to change the tenses in his words, let alone his mind.)

The impersonator raised an eyebrow, his eyes becoming darker, but that smile remained on his face. “Samuel, Samuel, Samuel. It’s adorable that you think a vampire can overpower a demon, but I shall let you feed your own delusions.”

The demon paused for a minute. “You know, you and I used to get along so well,” he sighed. “Though I can’t blame you. It’s been years since we last saw each other, after all.”

“As if I’d befriend a prick like you,” Sam scoffed. Ok, maybe pissing off a demon isn’t a good idea, even when he considers his own immortality, but man oh fucking man, this demon’s a dipshit asshole and he wants to knock him down a peg.

The demon barked out a laugh, and Sam wonders where he’s heard that before. “Alright, then I’ll just have to remind you, Nashira. How about a trip down our memory lane?”

It was a deal. With the way his voice sounded, it seemed like the impersonator made countless deals in his lifetime. The tone came to him naturally, he definitely has used it before. (Sam wonders if he was one of this creature’s past deals). Everything in him was screaming at him to turn away from this devil’s ploy, but his morbid curiosity craved the apple the demon was offering.

“Alright, I’ll bite.” …The pun was honestly unintentional, but by God, if this demon is going to make a comment about it, he’s going to-

The smirk from the demon said it all. “You vampires sure love to bite things don’t you. Am I the next thing on your ‘to-be-bitten list’?”

“Shut up, demon, and get on with your story,” he grumbled, fully knowing he walked into that himself.

“Alright, alright, I’ll get off your case, Nashira,” he said, the sly smirk faded into a small smile, his eyes giving away that he was reminiscing on a memory. “I brought them, your darlin’, home one night. They had decided to get absolutely inebriated, so I had to carry them.” He walked around the sarcophagus and in front of Sam. “You chastised them for going above their limit, and they insisted that they were absolutely fine and it didn’t matter because I was there.”

He went silent for a moment, a fond smile on his face. “They were always so stubborn…” His voice was quiet yet filled with adoration. Why was he talking about Dar-

The demon shook his head, breaking his trance and continued. “After you put them to bed, we caught up and I told you to be careful with their heart, that you were their ‘Nashira’. And you promised that-”

“That I’d burn the world and kill anyone in their way to make sure they’d never suffer another day again…” Shock filled his body, mouth hanging open and eyes embedded onto the demon. “How did you know?”

There was no way. His darlin’ was asleep and now permanently so, so they couldn’t have somehow told this stranger. And there was only one other person in the room that night. So it has to be him. But it’s impossible, there’s no way. The demon in front of him was far more cruel than the one he shared that sentiment with. Although… The body was similar to him, bar for the glitches and black colouring… And his voice was eerily similar, easily discernible from the cacophony of voices when the demon opened his mouth… And even that fucking bite joke is so him…

So then…

“Gavin? Is that you?”

There was a wistful smile on the stranger's face, almost happy by Sam’s attempt at discerning his identity. He let out a hollow chuckle, eyes glistening for a quick moment. “Ah, it’s been a while since someone has called me by that name, I almost forgot what it sounded like coming from another person’s mouth.”

Sam stared, aghast. Surely it couldn’t be possible.

The shadow-man continued. “I only hear that name within the fleeting memories I torment myself with, willing to endure the pain so I can hear my name with their voice, just as it should be.”

He paused, mockingly bowing in front of the vampire. “So thank you, Samuel, for reminding me of that accursed name, but you are mistaken, my Nashira.” He cruelly smirked, eyes becoming blacker than black, whatever sliver of light that remained had gone, leaving the bitter and powerful entity. “The Gavin you knew is dead within the stadium walls, along with my deviant and your mate, all those years ago in the Inversion.”

A friend, wearing a stranger’s face. Familiarity and foreignness mixing together in an uncomfortable manner.

“These days, I go by Echo.”

(Ok, that’s impossible. He can clearly picture his Darlin’ charging through the crowd in the aftermath in their gorgeous wolf form, and he remembers watching them like they were an angel sent from above. There was no way, no fucking way, that they could have died.)

(They weren’t even in the wards during that god forsaken day.)

Gav- Echo stood straighter, like he was proud of the person he’s become. Sam still couldn’t believe it. The incubus he knew was sweet and kind, with a heart of the purest gold that’s ever been mined. He was the type of man who’d carry old ladies’ purses while they cross the street, or make funny faces at the baby in the stroller.

He loves unconditionally, becoming immortal not by the magic flowing through his veins, but by the magic he leaves behind in the hearts of the people he interacted with.

But this person… This echo of the demon he knew… He was the furthest from what he remembered of him.

Echo chuckled at the puzzled thoughts that shone in Sam’s eyes. “This still is my favourite part, reminding you of our mission and updating you on how close I am to finishing it.”

Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about? What mission? I didn’t agree to shit. And that still doesn’t explain what the hell happen to you Gavin! I saw you last week with your partner at the hospital! So how are they in that glass coffin!”

Echo snarled at his old name and raised his voice. “I told you, I go by Echo now.” He caressed the clear sarcophagus in a gentle way, like a lover caresses their partner’s cheek. “Gavin died when they did,” he whispered, like it was a secret between the two men.

Sam understood it, recognized that pain. Part of him died with Darlin’ and now he might hurl any time someone not them calls him ‘Samuel’. It was their name to use and now it’ll have no use.

He furrowed his eyes, taken aback by Echo’s statement. But they were alive, he spoke to them last week. Despite their equal old age to his mate, them and their Gavin (the nice one, not this monstrosity in front of him), would constantly come by the hospital to see how Darlin’ was doing. It was nice, the support they, the clan and the pack provided was vital for him to keep his sanity.

Despite every logical sense making it seem like Echo is lying, the pain in his voice, the despair in his eyes, it was too real. The flinch his body did when he called him ‘Gavin’ was way too specific for it to be a simple mimicry of other grieving lovers. Whatever this version of the Gavin he cared for was, he’d experience the loss of his Deviant.

Either that or Echo should be given an Oscar for his performance tonight.

Perplexed by this paradox, he opened his mouth to ask. Surely he deserves some answers as to what’s going on in this fever dream. “But they’re alive… I saw them breathin’.” He dared to step closer, a small part of him wanting to comfort Echo over their shared pain.

A bittersweet smile graced his face, and yet again, it was too raw and real for anyone to fake. “They won’t be alive for much longer, Nashira.” With a wave of his hand, the starry night scene that they’d been in had morphed into a house.

This was Gavin’s and Freelancer’s house.

Sam looked over to the couch to see the human and incubus sitting there, laughing at the TV in front of them. Of course they were watching ‘Pingu’. He still couldn’t fathom why on earth either of them adore that show, but you can bet that their nights had consisted of curling up in their Cinnamoroll pajamas and laughing at the absurdity of the penguins on the screen. It was cute and wholesome and the exact domesticity that both of them deserved, so he never said anything. He can appreciate cuddles and a show to laugh at, even if he didn’t agree with the entertainment itself. Besides, it was nice to see the tradition be continued all these years later.

“I don’t even know why I loved that penguin show, but it’s just too damn loveable to not be obsessed with it,” Echo mused, walking towards the older version of his freelancer. “Admittedly, the pajamas were also my idea. I know, I know, seems out of character for me, but I digress. I do look damn good in a Keroppi onesie.” He chuckled and knelt before the older freelancer, caressing their cheek, even though Sam had a feeling the freelancer couldn’t feel his touch. His iconic glitches had calmed, and he became more grounded in reality.

Sam wondered if the freelancer calmed Echo’s rage, the same way Darlin’ did for him.

He felt a bubble of smugness burst through him, happy at the thought that for the first time during this fever dream, he got a leg up on Echo. “See? Told you they’re still alive, so you can cut the horse shit and tell me what the fuck is goin’ on here.”

A beat passed and Freelancer fell onto the ground, clutching their heart in deep agony.

Any and all pride that Sam felt a few seconds ago gave way to dread, forgetting that once again that darker incubus had been right again. He rushed forward, instincts taking over to try to heal his friend, only to be stopped when Echo put a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no use, Nashira, they’re already gone.” His face had a hardened look, like he’d watch this scene happen over and over, but his voice had a resigned sadness in it. That despite expecting this result, he wished it would end differently.

Wish carefully, listener. Actions have consequences. And wishes granted have a cost.

He tried to plead, struggling against the demon’s grip, “I can help! It ain’t fair that he loses his partner too! Send me back and let me save them-”

“Do you think I haven’t tried that?!” Echo responded with a question that Sam was sure rhetorical. His voice kept a steady tone, but it didn’t do much to hide the rage from his voice. “I have tried every single variation, every single possibility, changed every single variable but it leads to the same fucking outcome. Your mate dies and my deviant follows them to the River.” He pulled the vampire up on his feet and whisked them both back to the starry room that they began this conversation in. “How dare you be so arrogant that you think you can change this? If anyone can save them both, it will be me.” He seethed every word, and Sam could finally see the total toll it had taken on Echo.

That still didn’t explain what he had gone through, and Sam wanted to understand. Whether or not he could comprehend it was up to how well Echo explained everything to him.

Echo sighed, rage leaving his face and replacing it with apathy. “Apologies Samuel, I know you don’t remember anything. But can you blame me for losing my shit when you’re being, and I’m putting this gently, a goddamned idiot.” He looked back at the sarcophagus, affectionately rubbing it once again.

(Come to think of it, the way Echo rubs the coffin reminds him of the window cleaners on the skyscrapers he’s seen. He can even picture the cloth in Echo’s hand, methodically wiping it clean. Huh, no wonder why the sarcophagus is all sparkly and shiny.)

Sam had taken offence of the insult, but he remembered the ache in his voice a moment prior. He could see the gears turning in Echo’s head, a restless mind coming up with another plan to achieve his ultimate desire.

An unconscious part of him wanted to help the former incubus (the jury is still at the stands) succeed in his goal. Was it because despite evidence to the contrary, Echo looked and spoke and moved like his best friend? Or was it in his nature to heal people, lend a helping hand to those who needed it?

(Was it because his Darlin’ would have jumped at the opportunity to help a ‘friend’ out and he needed to keep their soul tethered to the mortal world for a little while longer?)

(But maybe he’s always been a selfish man, and this was his way to get his Darlin’ back permanently.)

Apple firmly in his hand, he weighed the consequences of taking the fated bite. His mind screamed that indebting his soul to the devil is a terrible idea. But he needed to get some answers, to understand the clusterfuck chain of events that leads him to this very moment. A deal with a devil never killed anybody, especially if he knows that the devil was once an angel.

“You mentioned earlier that we been through this before?” Sam recalled.

Echo nodded thoughtfully, choosing his next words carefully. “Are you sure, Samuel? You don’t understand what you’re asking to learn.”

“More than anythin’ in my life,” he confidently answered, stamping out any fear or uncertainty from his voice. His mate would’ve been disappointed in him. They hadn’t gone to law school just to see their mate agree to a contract without seeing the terms.

“If you’re gonna sign your ass away, at least do it with consent and knowledge, Sammy.”

God, he missed their voice. He wanted to hear it again like a dark forest craves the sun.

The far-too-demonic incubus narrowed his eyes at the vampire, his scowl growing deeper. His cold voice spoke, “Well fine, I’ll make that decision for you.” He stalked closer to Sam, the once pink and white glitches surrounding his body becoming more intense. The distortions seemed to respond to Echo’s emotions, and by the looks of it, he had a fury that rivaled the most spiteful Gods.

Had his teeth become sharper? His horns larger? Sam didn’t have time to answer these questions because faster than he could perceive, Echo stopped within striking distance of the vampire, snarling in disgust and rage.

“Absolutely no.”

Sam opened his mouth to retort, “Hold on, ain’t you the one who just said that we been through this before?” If there was anything he hated more than a two faced, back-stabbing, lying bitch ass, it’s a motherfucker who goes back on his word.

Echo pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering an ‘I don’t have time for this’ under his breath. “Look, I get it. You want to save your mate, really I do. But learning the grander plan at play would only bring you more pain.” He placed both his hands on Sam’s shoulders and gave them a comforting squeeze. “We can do this without you having to bear the weight of this knowledge. Let this be my burden to carry.”

Fuck that shit. Sam had never been the type to let someone else solve his problems, especially when it comes to his mate, and no dimension-breaking asshole imitation of his mate’s best friend is going to change that.

“Gav- Echo,” he said hesitantly, “I wanna help you save both of our partners, and me knowin’ will just help your cause.” Sam felt the urge to get on his knees and beg, just so he can understand what the fuck is going on. “Please, I need to know.”

He let go of Sam’s shoulder and takes a step back. Echo’s face conformed into a cold fury, a far cry from the comforting tone he used a second prior. “I tried to make this as painless as possible for you, Nashira,” he spat out, with an effort to remain as calm as he could. But with every word Echo said, his composure wavered, a strained frustration creeping into his voice. “Yet you clearly, want to make things harder for yourself.”

Sam watched as Echo’s glitches threatened to rip apart the reality they presided in. Tears appeared in the night sky and the stars were falling on the “ground” they stood on, crashing and exploding into a brilliant white light. For each star that descended from this makeshift heaven, Sam could hear Gavin’s voice from a life from long ago.

“I can be both a good man and a very bad incubus all at once.”

“You can let yourself feel everything right now, and I’ll weather this storm with you. Just like you did for me.”

“Now, there’s an idea. You know I’m a sucker for a callback.”

(Sam also noted that the sarcophagus carrying Freelancer’s body had vanished. Where to? He hadn’t the faintest clue, but something told him that even in death, Echo didn’t want his deviant to see him in this rageful state.)

His pondering was cut off with Echo’s booming and well, for lack of a better term, echoing voice. “Do you have any idea how it feels to carry millennia worth of memories that no one but I understand? How it kills me to know everything about you and your mate and Damien and Lasko and Huxley and them, but knowing all you will only exist in my life for a fraction of the time I’ve spent observing this world?”

A moment of silence passed.

Everything stopped.

Sam half expected for Echo to evaporate into non-existence. (What that meant he had no idea, but he didn’t have time to contemplate existentialism right now.)

Instead, Echo composed himself. He waved a hand and every fallen star rose back into the sky and the reality-breaking tears stitched themselves back. “If you wish to become a stubborn, unnecessary martyr, then be my guest. But don’t you dare regret this decision later on.”

Sam couldn’t get a word in before Echo spoke once again. The room went dark again, but before he could panic about the sudden blindness, Echo spoke directly into his mind, a cacophony of every voice Sam has ever heard blanding into one harmonious tune.

"Wish carefully, Nashira. Actions have consequences. And wishes granted have a cost."

(Glad to know Echo keeps the talks-a-lot-incubus tradition alive.)

On an unrelated note, Sam’s eyes felt heavy, like he hadn’t slept for eons. Sure he’s not known for his impeccable sleep schedule, but he’s never one to turn down the chance at some shut eye. Besides he’s had a hard life, let him lay down… And get some sleep… Maybe dream of them if he’s lucky.

(When has Samuel Collins ever been lucky?)

…

You know how when you fall asleep on a bus? Or on the train? (Or the tube as the British call it.) You don’t know when you fall asleep, and you know for a damn fact that you shouldn’t be sleeping in public where anyone can just… You’re sleeping on a train, you can fill in the rest.

That was what Sam experienced. Should he be sleeping in front of an omnipotent being that’s only one step away from a God? Absolutely no, but he did it anyway. Though on the bright side, at least he’s been blessed with a dream.

But it's not them.

“Samuel, I promise there’s a way to bring them back! But you have to believe me!”

“How Gavin!? How the fuck am I supposed believe when you say you’re gonna bring them back? I saw that shade fuckin’ drain ‘em! I saw the life fade from their eyes! You’re either delusional for thinkin’ you can save both of’ our partners, or your bein’ cruel for no goddamn reason.”

“Well you better believe me, because I can. But… It means watching them die over and over again until we get it right. Can you do that? Can you fall in love with them, only to know that you will only be guaranteed eternal happiness once?”

“...You do it everyday with your freelancer, don’t you? Why shouldn’t this be any different?”

“I’m not asking for me. Are you able to handle that kind of pain?”

“Lord knows I’d endure a thousand hells for them. I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

“Alright, my dear Nashira, just remember…

…Actions have consequences. And wishes granted have a cost."

Oh right. He agreed to a deal. There was no point in wondering if he was making a deal with the devil because he bit the damned fruit long before he could even remember it.

A snapping sound slowly drags him back to consciousness, and a harsh reminder from Echo brings him back all the way.

(Come to think of it, Sam didn’t even think he fell asleep. He just disassociated so hard that he felt his soul leave his body and relieve that past memory. Or maybe it wasn’t all in his head? Great, add time travel to the weird shit that’s happened so far.)

“Wake up, Sam,” he says with a harsh tone. If Echo had the same mannerisms, and everything tonight (or today?) proved that to be true, then Echo calling Sam ‘Sam’ and not some nickname or ‘Samuel’ or ‘Nashira’ meant that he’s pissed. Not in a ‘Freelancer not giving him affection for more than five minutes’ kind of way, but in a more ‘watching some professor antagonize Damien for being a fire elemental’ way.

Sam just hoped that perhaps Echo will have more mercy on him than the scarred professor.

(Emotionally scarred. She wasn’t worth having to deal with all the paperwork from D.U.M.P.)

“So you finally remember everything?” He may have posed it as a question, but the mocking undertone was a clear indication that he already knew that answer. It was silent for a moment, only to be broken when Echo clasped his hands together. “Well it’s always wonderful to speak to you, Nashira, but we have partners to revive, which if we’re being honest, would have been done quite earlier if someone would keep his reckless wolf alive.”

What… No, he can’t…

Again? He had to go through that again? How on Earth did Echo expect him to go through the same love story for the thousandth time? If the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over and over again, then he has long gone past the deep end. He didn’t even know what possessed him to agree to this fucking deal those lifetimes ago. God damn it, he should have never bit the apple. Bringing people back? From the dead? The closest anyone has gotten to that is a vampire’s turning, but he knew his Darlin’ would rather die than give up their wolf. So he has to find a way to keep them immortal without turning them.

Cool. No pressure. When you boil it down to a simple sentence, it seems doable.

That was before he had to watch them die a thousand times, and having to prepare himself from watching them die a thousand more.

He remembers it all now. The doomed timelines, the sinking and permanent dread that accompanied him around their death, the constant beratement from Echo whenever he failed. Given that he’s still here, talking to Echo and not enjoying immortal bliss with Darlin’ goes to show how much he has failed.

How dare Samuel Collins be so arrogant as to think as he could reverse an event so vital to the timelines he has the privilege of residing in. Does he not know his misery keeps his world spinning?

(Of course he knows why he agreed to all of this. Echo… Gavin’s voice held so much conviction, so much belief, that this plan could work. To call it a plan is giving it more credit than it deserves. It’s more of a hypothesis. However, theory can only be made fact if there is evidence behind it. At this point, it’s proving to be more fictitious everyday.)

In a meek voice, not out of fear but hesitation, Sam spoke for what seems to be the first time in a while.

“No.”

Echo halted. No, scratch that, the entire room just stopped.

Before the stars and little clouds in the sky moved, twirling and twinkling in the false night sky.

The room seemed to forget how to breathe. Sam had to remind himself that despite his undead status, he wasn’t allowed the luxury of forgetting.

Echo scoffed, once then twice. Then he started cackling, bending over and clutching his stomach in a failed attempt to control this burst of joy. Or perhaps the absurdity of the entire situation has finally caught up to him.

The ground cracked underneath the demon’s feet as he stomped around the room-dimension thing. “Of course, of course! I should have known that this would happen!” He muttered to himself. “Every single time we meet like this, you try to bail out because of your bullshit morals. Morals, that mind you, you only have because of them.” The stars heated up as his glare intensified. “Need I remind you how you treated Fred’s progeny?”

Sam was still living with the guilt of how he treated them and how they're relationship fell apart.

If only he met Darlin' earlier-

“That's exactly it!” He yelled and the room shook with his fury. Did Echo just read his mind? “You’ve always based your decisions on what they would want you to do.” He scoffed, the temperature dropping as ice laced his voice. “Not that it ever stopped you before.”

Sam didn’t know if the chill down his spine came from the cold of the room or the cold hard truth his deranged friend was speaking. He was right. Sam will whine and cry about morals and standards and questions and thoughts of ‘what would Darlin’ do’, but it didn’t matter. In the end, he’d continue on with Echo’s mad experiment to save them. (Save them both.)

Bite the apple from the snake, suffer the consequences of the sin, go back to the Garden of Eden and do it all over again.

(Does that make his darlin’ the Adam in this story? Convincing him that eternal damnation wasn’t worth the pain of immortality? It wasn’t that Darlin’ didn’t wouldn’t agree with the plan. His Darlin’ was as selfless and kind as the Saints he was forced to pray towards. Death was nothing to them if it meant they could be the cause of that salvation that saves their friends. No, they’d disagree with the plan because they couldn’t bear seeing their beloved in constant, perpetual and unavoidable pain.)

(Or maybe their mercy makes them Jesu’? A martyr destined to die over and over and over for the sins of those who have ruined them? If that’s the case, then he’s Judas, the fool who damned Jesus with a kiss.)

The demon rolled his eyes back in the dramatic fashion that he was known for. With a wicked smile and a faux concern dripping from his voice, he taunted the vampire, “Come on, Sam, we both know what you want.” Any and all anger was gone, replaced with the smug satisfaction of a man (or interdimensional magical being) who knows he’s been right in every scenario. Why, of course he is. Echo has had this same argument a thousand times over.

And he’s won every single time.

(What can he say, he’s had a lot of practice.)

“Do I need to remind you of the times where you were the one who killed your precious mate?” He asked to continue to poke and infuriate the vampire.

Of course he didn’t need to. There have been timelines where Alexis had invoked him to kill his wolf out of petty revenge. (Let it be said that the actions of these Alexises are not indicative of the Alexis you are familiar with.) He remembers the taste of their blood when he killed them. It wasn’t of fear or disgust, it was of acceptance and peace. Like he was making love to them in their bed and not violating their body. They had always said, “If I wanted anyone to kill me, I want it to be you, since you’ll make sure I’d be loved in my final moments.”

He wished they had hated him instead. The wild fire, the raging blizzard, within their blood hurt more than any acid in this or any world.

Echo, satisfied with the memories that were returning to Sam, put the final nail to the coffin carrying Sam’s flimsy convictions. “You don’t want all of that pain and suffering they had to endure to go to waste, don’t you? So I ask you again, Nashira, don’t you want to have them again?”

The most infuriating part was that he was right, so fucking right. This is what Sam wants.

He wants to drag his Darlin’ from the river by the hair he loved to pull when kissing them and hold them close and keep them safe and alive for all of eternity. Wants to gently place them down on their bed and play with his hair and tell them that nothing will hurt them. His arms were the shield they desperately needed after a lifetime of fighting. To make up for all the pain he has caused them in multiple timelines and create the most perfect future possible for them, just for them. Helping Echo with his own predicament is an added benefit.

The sunk cost fallacy is a phenomenon where a person is reluctant to abandon a strategy because they’ve invested everything ounce of themselves to see it succeed. Echo and Sam were becoming too familiar with the ocean floor.

Quiet resignation and deep laughter filled the room, with the demon wiping his nonexistent tears from his eyes. “It’s always fun to break you, Nashira, but we have work to do. And this time,” his eyes darkened and the stars flickered out, leaving the two men visible, “I expect results.”

Sam nodded and an apple appeared in front of him. When he takes another bite, the cycle of pain will continue, and it will end with him. And he will end it.

He has to.

If not for his happiness, than for the happiness of the twisted demon he once called a friend.

–

Now that the cycle restarted and Sam was sent back to the beginning, Echo remained in the room. Alone and perfectly still, like water that hasn’t been agitated.

The false memories always work. He gave himself a pat on the back for coming up with that idea after the first few cycles, when Sam was becoming resistant.

The ‘multiple timelines’ that Sam had experienced were really just simulations that Echo created to cycle through in order to find the perfect solution. Each one contained a different ‘what if’ to reveal more information about how this world works.

What if Alexis was a petty and jealous ex?

What if David turned on Darlin’ and let Quinn take them?

What if they had a normal life and died of old age?

They all had a different purpose, but none of them were real enough to have any lasting consequences, but lovely Sam didn’t need to know that.

In truth, while Echo can make all the alternate universes or lifelike dreams he wants, he can only reset the prime universe, the one we know and love, only once. So he had to make absolutely, one hundred percent sure that he can manipulate the right factors to create his desired outcome. And he finally thinks he did it. After years of self-isolation and watching his friend be tortured, he finally broke the crystal.

(Whoever gets that joke has quite good taste in TV shows.)

Echo looked up at the black void and smiled. “Are you seeing this?! You said I could never and I fucking did!” Silence was his only response but he didn’t mind.

It took him much too long to learn about the secrets of turning humans into concubines, but better late than never. Considering that Darlin’ is a shifter, a human that is closer to a demon than a freelancer, it only makes sense to make them his first and successful attempt. (Mark his words, he will succeed.)

From his pocket, he held a photo in his hands. It was taken in front of the local cowboy club in Dahlia and the incubus and shifter were smiling. Happiness coursed through their veins and unbeknownst to neither, more was on the way. Echo studied how lively and youthful Darlin’ looked back then. Before Quinn had forced them to let go of themselves and the carefree nature that made them loveable. While he thanks Sam for bringing that side out of them, he was going to make sure they stay like that.

Permanently.

He took a deep breath and braced himself. Once he saves them, he can save his beloved deviant.

He was going to see his beloved deviant again.

And he will make sure they all live happily ever after. (But do you know what they say about those who try to alter destiny? The fates will not take kindly to anyone to change their plans and will do anything to get back on the right track. Certain events can never change, lest the universe unravels on itself. But Echo would relish that type of destruction, wouldn’t he.)

#one thing about me is that i love a doomed timeloop

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