🔮Dreaming Out Loud🌙 (now a Tom Blyth characters' Blog)

Someone should really fix these leaks…

With all of the funding his father is flooding into the Gamemaker ‘Romulus’ initiative as part of his ‘glorious’ Presidential campaign, Coriolanus thinks there ought to be a line of handymen, eager to get close to the Creation of it all. Yet, here he sits, waiting on the apparently urgent summons from Gaul—and that blasted trickling just Does. Not. Seize. Like maggots crawling through his brain, each drop is a frustrating reminder of the Head Gamemaker's overstep, of her playing with her food.

She is definitely observing through her digital eyes—the cameras all but a testament to her ever-reaching control. Every minute reaction he may let slip is another data point for her observation of human nature, a self-satisfied smirk pulling at her facial muscles in that disjointed, puppet-like fashion.

If there was one thing he can undoubtedly say Gaul enjoyed, it was playing games. And what greater joy than her toys being animated with worry, fear or worse…? It’s a lost art Coriolanus had come to find deep appreciation for—the ability to hold someone’s mind so thoroughly, in the delicate balance between sanity and madness. It is an intensely intimate affair, if one would ask him, to hold their brain and take it apart only to put it back together in whatever designs you can fathom. Not to void the subject of their life, but evolve it—study it, better it.

His specialty definitely lay with corrections, as he dubbed them. Carefully curated, be it behavioral or in more extreme cases chemically altering—his animal experiments are a glory to behold. He often finds himself falling asleep to the reports. Joined and soothed by the smell of his late mother's rose compact powder, he relives that blinding moment of ultimate control—when an experiment concludes successfully.

Ravenous, cannibalistic rabbits, bats that could tune their echolocation to the exact frequency of their prey's skeletal and muscle structure, causing the target to implode… Tendencies and markers that Crassus’ simple mind cannot begin to conceive of being displayed in a species’ lifetime, are now reality. By virtue of Coriolanus’ divine spark, the field of mutt designs thrived and will fuel at least a decade of Games to come.

Who would've thought that exploiting the naturally evolved behaviors of these creatures while splicing them with, at a first glance, totally incompatible genes can lead to scientific wonders?

Ingenious on his part, really.

His subjects may have been resistant little things—struggling and shriveling against the antagonistic genomes introduced—but the end always justifies the means. True enough, in his very beginnings, through his first steps on this wet floor that resembled a frozen game of kings, Coriolanus was a bit overeager. We live and we learn.

Science is precise like that. It doesn’t lie, doesn’t pretend—just reveals: what is strong enough to persevere… and what will sink and drown in the endless whirlpool of the natural order. That certainty gives him serenity like nothing else can.

It's of no surprise then, that he'd much rather have someone under his magnifying glass. Has Gaul forgotten his brilliance? Is she ignoring it to intentionally spite him? Maybe she is in dire need of a reminder as to who exactly she is dealing with.

Snow lands on top, after all…

Coriolanus has enough of butting antlers with his father to allow for any bothersome transgressions against his standing to hunt him here. The lab is his safe haven, where he governs and inevitably brings all to heel. He will decidedly not permit it to become an operating table for authority negotiations.

Mildew permeates the air, making the lingering chemical smell heavier, constricting, as though he is a specimen in a formaldehyde jar. His jaw is so taut, it aches now; a nasty habit of grinding his teeth has followed him ever since the start of his Academy days.

Socializing doesn’t dawn well on him. Of course, he is efficient enough at it—taking care to note all of the small quirks each classmate exhibits so he can win their favor. Though it comes at a great cost to his peace of mind. While, in theory, he grasps the importance of upholding powerful ties; in practice, most of his peers bore him to no end. Those simpletons weren't his subjects, sadly, and most of them never put any care whatsoever to strive for perfection… What a pathetic, brainless existence. A pity he couldn't get them on his table. What novel symphonies he could reach then…! Alas, it's not so easy to get his gloves on human experimentation. Point is, using the data he gathers while conversing with his so-called ‘friends’ was a matter of simple convenience, not a grand plan. Each such interaction inevitably left him repressed, hollow and always searching for more to apply his findings to.

A solitary wolf by choice and necessity… Crassus’ shadow has always been loud enough for the two of them to get swallowed by.

“Mister Snow…” Gaul's echo bouncing off the walls wakes him up. Next and as per her usual routine, she feigns surprise, waiting on her subject's reaction. “Ah, aren’t you a busy little bee—getting in your head again? Your eye should be focused outward… objectivity is king in empirical study after all. I'd hate it if it hasn’t been drilled into your skull sufficiently by now.”

She'd come from the control room, of course, from the door behind Coriolanus. For that brief time, before she approaches his desk and unveils herself, there had been no discernible source to accredit that deep voice to. A mockery of a guardian angel—calling from high above.

“Why have I been summoned on such an auspicious day?” Coriolanus queries in a hiss as his posture straightens automatically like a string—the very picture of a perfect heir. “Or has it escaped the good doctor's mind that we are needed to ensure Reaping preparations?”

The chipped wood under his fingernails—the result of his restless clawing at the desk’s bottom apron—is forgotten in haste. Such displays are not only unbecoming, but all around damnable for a Snow.

“Oh, my, so demanding today, Coriolanus…” she coos. “I assure you, it's marvelous news I bring, simply marvelous.” She clasps her gloved hands.

He'd noticed it rather early on—how Gaul addresses him depending on the occasion. Switching between the designations throughout the course of a single interaction, in ensuing sentences even. His first name is reserved for one purpose only: to deliver poison, make judgments on his character. ‘Mister Snow’ is for such occasions when she deems it indispensable for a lesson to be delivered. Theatrical as always, she would even dare to use that one in the presence of Crassus. Especially in the old man's presence. It feels personal, purposeful in fact, and a part of the prodigal son wonders if she's living out some fantasy where it's the Presidential candidate whom she guides instead of Coriolanus. And finally, ‘Doctor Snow’— a title he technically hasn't earned yet it's still his… in all but writing. That one, she's used just once before… when he managed to deliver those mutt rabbits.

“I hope it's indeed so. I'd hate for my precious time to be wasted.” He swallows the thick air around them.

“Come and you shall see, Doctor Snow…” Gaul encourages. “Don't be shy.”

Coriolanus’ eyes slowly widen, as though he's seeing for the first time. A pulsing sensation tickles at the corner of his lips—the beginnings of a smile that he swiftly suppresses. The genuine giddiness in her voice, almost child-like, can only mean one thing—new funding, a new experiment, and… a new subject. His for the claiming if that theory on her word choice patterns holds any merit.

And what scientist would he be, if he doesn't test his theories?

Black, white, black, white… the harlequin floor tiles mark every piece moved, every strategy carefully weighed out and applied that's led him to this moment. He finds deep consolation in routine; a compulsion gnaws at him to stick to it—an exact path through the patterned wet ceramics. The mysterious leaks aren't much of a concern now that he's moving through his territory and has a bounty to claim. The drops become a metronome that keeps him steadily moving.

Coriolanus can hear it before he sees its wellspring… the singing—resounding through the tight walls of the hall that lead to the holding cells. The melody rolls in deep waves and there’s subtle fury in the notes—like it's fighting its entrapment beneath water.

That dampness nets what will otherwise be a pretty voice and turns it haunting, seeking…

As I was a walking down in Pearl Bay I met a drowned sailor on the beach as he lay And as I drew nigh him, it put me to a stand, When I knew it was my own true Love By the scar on his hand Clear as the sea that saw us two together For the last time

So, it isn't an Avox. Marrow-deep relief washes over Coriolanus as he sighs, relaxing his coiled lungs. While far more readily accessible for their purposes, a thing void of their tongue cannot report on complex sensations, on what compels them after behavioral reprogramming. A sorry affair, truly. At that point it's as good as having a monkey to experiment on—still trainable on intricate routines without the nuisance of blank data points. Missing vital information because of this possible… physical inconvenience would've been a cruel waste of potential.

A sure way to spoil the fun.

It’s eerie, how lucid the words of the song ring over the lulling voice—like it's a lived account. The pauses between lines hang in the air, no doubt brought upon by the exertion of fighting the sedative. Whatever meaning this song holds, it must be far more soothing than sweet surrender to the drug. Otherwise, the shanty would’ve drowned long ago…

As he was a sailing from his own dear shore Where the waves and the billows so loudly do roar, I said to my true Love, I shall see you no more For ‘tis the last time.

That timbre, it is mournful… kissing freedom goodbye most likely with the way the bridge is repeated in that grated fashion. ‘For the last time, for the last time’… No—Coriolanus’ mind barks, almost offended—there shall be plenty of new times now. Better times.

A subject under his care need not preoccupy itself with notions of finality… it will be made immortal through the generational breakthroughs they'll deliver together.

So farewell, my dearest, you're the lad I adore. Anda stone for remembrance was laid on my grave, My joys are all ended, my pleasures are fled, This grave that I lie in is my new married bed.

‘Grave’? Hardly… his lab is a place of innovation—where the mediocre turn into something more. Burying one’s old self is hard, letting go of what holds you back as well, Doctor Snow ponders. He shall be the balm to that mourning.

Objectivity, yes, he reminds himself, objectivity reigns. Though for some reason he cannot shake the song’s call that only grows deafeningly louder with each step toward his destiny.

District Four, no doubt—that shanty carries the sound of saltwater, grainy sand and long voyages. He despised that place. For all the beauty capitolites ascribed it, that land was just a sorry, insignificant fishmonger's abode, reeking of guts and despair. His father had taken the family there once, in celebration of his second marriage. Save for the stench, it's all a blur and pressure-inducing darkness to Coriolanus… Good riddance!

What matters is the present—a final corner to be rounded, just a moment more and he shall greet his destiny. The summer storm has grown grotesque outside, lightning shining through the myriad of round windows high in the corridor. It truly is like a submarine in here.

Gaul's heels click in determination; Coriolanus’ jaw finally relaxes as he's set on a course…

And then… he sees you.

Folded in on yourself in an embryonic embrace… on the floor instead of the cot—more afraid to take what's offered by your doctors than by the filth that soaks the cell. Pitiful creature, so in need of guidance… what a bad subject, to not heed a professional's advice. And yet, he isn't too surprised—most of your kind suffer that affliction, thankless things that you are. It's what will make it all the more fulfilling, painful yet precious to take you under his care.

Aye, I know that I've loved, I've fought For the last time

You mumble and Coriolanus is so lost in envisioning all the possibilities ahead that the startle intended for you has the effect of making him flinch in stride. Doctor and subject already in sync…? Not bad.

Gaul snaps her fingers, willing a nearby Peacekeeper and the soldier readily surrenders his baton. She takes her time, feeling the weight of the black rod in her hand. Turning it, twisting it until it becomes almost an extension of her arm as her black gloves swallow its handle. Small rhythmic taps against the bars ensue, matching the drops that come from the rain penetrating the lab.

False comfort and suddenly—a loud bang in sync with the thunder outside.

You give a violent start and with a gasp, the melody drowns in your throat. While mildly unpleasant, the baton’s crescendo is a far less rude snapping to full consciousness than Gaul's usual treatment. He'd seen her practically waterboard her subjects. Though, a level of distance is owed now—you are his, not hers. She wouldn't want to sully the preconditions of whatever experiments awaited you.

When you realize you aren't floating ashore back in Four, anchored instead against your will, your eyes snap to the two figures you can distinguish. The ‘transportation aid’, as it's called, is a powerful sedative—yet whirlpools of fury dance within your irises. You are a fierce one…

Gaul doesn't utter a word, too busy conducting an observational study of her own. The lack of claim she displays should send a sufficient enough signal to Coriolanus that you are indeed his for the taking.

“Very well…” he mutters, attempting to mask his enthusiasm.

Oh, how long he's imagined this day. Ever since he was asked to submit his very first proposal, maybe even before then… when the ants on the playground were his initial and only research in group dynamics. Poor insects, so lost when their queen—their head of state was forcefully removed by his hand. It did teach him a great deal about how Panem ought to be governed and how limited natural creations were. Control is an intricate thing, one that requires nourishment. But its epitome, he believes, comes in the form of shaping individuals.

He will gladly leave Crassus to play court. In the end, all it takes is one piece to mate the king. One person to be that spark.

Now, a man grown into his calling, small creatures were a thing of the past. He's earned this, earned you… after observing his mentor in action more than he could pretend to care about. No, his method is different… He takes a step toward you, not within the cell just yet—the lock is still securely in place, marking the boundary of his territory.

Crouching, the words grate from his throat. “Hi, doll,” he outstretches his hand as though you need to get acquainted to his smell like a wild animal. “I'm Doctor Snow. Welcome to my lab.”

He expects you to recoil, to shout or beg for your freedom—however futile—but his mouth hangs, face drowning in surprised when you… you slither… towards him.

The lab gown hangs like a martyr’s rags on your famished frame. Your long hair is matted, begrimed from the unsanitary transportation correctional Peacekeepers typically utilize. You’d tried to subdue it—he’ll give you that—rake it back into a braid… the waves he expects from the visibly delicate curls are crudely slicked back. A puppet without strings isn’t allowed tools. Not when it can use them in less than favorable ways—pins, ties, combs—anything can aid in escape or bodily harm.

A thorough cleanse, inside and out, is in order… before he can even think about touching you without his gloves.

Blue shadows from the puddled water dance in ghostly ripples where the material dips between your breasts. Pretty thing… for a district girl, tempting his superiorly rational mind with your wicked ways—like a nymph of myth.

He shakes his head back into focus to meet your expression… it pleads silently—wide, warm eyes above your sunken cheekbones. You… recognize him? The thought is so absurd, a hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up to the surface.

“I'm—” your voice tries to find a confidant through cracked lips.

“—You are my subject,” he supplies before it can get out of hand. “Fish out of water, but I will have little trouble shaping you into the proper doll ought to be.”

The denial of your unspoken words burns you, forcing you to grow quiet. A wise retreat, he recognizes. Here, you have no name, no past… just the future he determines, as what he will shape you to become. It’s a responsibility, a burden even, but a calling he is destined to fulfill.

“Ah, the puppy recognizes its new owner?” Gaul notes, each word pressing with a blade’s sharpness. “What a delight!” She taps her fingertips together, restless—the same way she’d get when she knows more than anyone else in the room.

The disproportion in information, and thus power, needles him ceaselessly. Frustration festers beneath his skin until he can feel the vein pulsing on his forehead. Ordinarily, he is the fish that can’t resist the lure. Now, he simply stands up, not to bite at Gaul’s provocation but to gaze down at you from up high—the place where he belongs. And you—kneeling as his rightful subject, awaiting the greatness he’ll administer in due time. When your eyes follow him, fearful and desperate, that’s when his mind quietens as he realizes…

He’s already won.

“Strip,” Doctor Snow orders.

His display of restraint is truly commendable, he believes. Any self-respecting doctor, eager to start on the scientific method, would’ve resorted to strapping you to their table and pulling out the scissors already. Not Coriolanus though.

He prides himself in the patience he's trained into his temperament. Naturally, any growing Snow boy endeavored to seize the whole world. He wasn't born necessarily self-possessed. A man of turbulent emotions, he learned early on to quell them, suppress that high baseline of physiological arousal that’s plagued him so. Unlike Crassus who seemed entirely void of that human side, detached and raising above its mundane ruckus.

‘Pick your battles’—truly the single most effective way to lead one's life and emerge unscathed.

You, however—you've picked the wrong one today. As your legs dangle from the surgical table—the cold metal no doubt boring into your backside by now—he gives you a chance to be good. The way your fingers crumple the gown in white-knuckled fists—you are itching to tear it off. Whether it's to throw a tantrum, to try and show that the garment doesn't define you… he doesn't care. The result will be all the same—you, beautifully vulnerable under his guidance, and his assessments finally beginning in earnest.

Instead, you surprise him yet again… by shooting up with the vigor of a new day’s beginning. Big and angry barefoot steps patter Coriolanus’ way—not to obey, but to annoy with your insistence. Crawling definitely fits you better, he determines. Swimming though, will suit you best—far more elegant than your little display.

When you arrive in front of him, trembling like a rabbit beneath a hawk’s shadow, his hands twitch around the final button of his lab coat. Putting on his armor while you ought to be shedding yours—what a fitting, exquisite imbalance. That reminder steadies his fingers—he cannot allow you to scent his vexation, lest you weaponize it.

“Please, ain't you hearing?!” your voice quivers in a wheeze, throat tight with frustration and disuse. You flail your hands in fury as boundless as sea whipped into foam. “We've met before! I'm—”

“Ah, ah, ah—those delusions really aren't helping your case, doll. How unfortunate—your mental state seems worse than I'd hypothesized…” Coriolanus waves a finger as he interjects swiftly, a faux sickly sweet coo masking his practiced words. “I've already told you the exact parameters of what you are.” His gaze is set on the desk beside him and when it’s not, he’s looking past you, trying to not snap. “You are my subject, my doll to take apart and put together for the greater good of Panem… And good little dolls do not argue with their doctors.”

He seizes your wrists with one hand as if that would quell you. The body sends signals to the brain after all—some correct, some erroneous. A prey though… knows when it's trapped. His free hand finds its course to a readied syringe. In your desperation, however, you remain none-the-wiser.

You writhe against his cold grip like a fish caught in a net, trying to wriggle out. “Stop, stop! Don't you call me that! I—” The moment you let your guard slip, arms bound like this, a sting bites at your neck.

“There we go…” he coos as your muscles give out under the relaxant, and he catches you in his waiting arms. “Good girl, doll. See? Not so hard to just follow orders.”

“—I have… a name…” your words are still here, though nausea bubbles up and your body grows heavy—no longer yours to control.

“Hmm, do you now?” he feigns contemplation as you float, guided to his table. “Because I look at this file and…” He waves some papers you cannot hope to make out in this state, “… I don't think you do.” The mock pout that cracks on his thin lips is clear enough though as he taunts: “Not anymore. Not after your… what was it?” He pretends to consult the report on your imprisonment as though he didn't mull over every letter a hundred times before he went to sleep last night. Imagining you at those dark docks—running and afraid, your sweet voice begging for mercy. “Ah, there it is—your silly escape attempt. Thinking you can abandon your post? Your duty to the nation…? What an ingrate creature.”

His words reek of discontent. Sighing, he takes to strapping each of your wrists and then your ankles. The leather licks at your skin, a gentler sensation after the many bites of Peacekeeper whips. Even that, you know well, is a false sense of comfort. At least the lashes had been delivered on your body… now, these false kisses blossom on a mere cadaver. Your autonomy—swept away with the tides.

Still, you try to fight the current, to appeal to his humanity. “On Pearl Bay in Four, I—I saved you. I’m—” each word is slow and painful under the slow influence of the drug. It comes in waves as clarity fights to linger, but it’s muted—cascading in small bursts.

His hand shoots up to cover your mouth as your words bring about an unwelcome flash in his vision. No coo is detectable in his voice now, just poison. “It's fascinating, really—what fantasies your simple mind can concoct just so you don't feel powerless… ‘Savior complex’ as I have so eloquently noted in your file already.” He tuts in disappointment, squeezing your face harshly until your jaw aches, until your teeth catch your lips and you can taste the latex of his glove. “If you hate my darling pet names so… perhaps you'd prefer a number? Every specimen in here has one, but… that'd be so impersonal.”

Your only appellation here — 1042, he says. And you wonder—how is it possible for so many people to have been put through this? Then, you figure, like a stab through the heart… they probably count the animals in the same pile.

“It'd be a pity to have to use it when there's nothing more devoted and soul-baring than the relationship between a doctor… and his patient.” he hisses, fingers digging into your cheeks like talons, with even more ferocity—like he might seal the corrupt words there.

He doesn't believe it—the yarn you spin of a mermaid rescuing her prince. For he is no fairytale, and you… are no siren. Not yet anyhow. Even when, in his dreams with teeth, his subconscious remembers the shadowy depths of Four…

Was it his father who'd thrown him to swim or perish?

Coriolanus’ breath catches at the vision that's entered his mind uninvited. Blasphemy! It's all a child's scare, not reality. It didn't happen. You are playing tricks on him with your perfidious district ways… how you are able to peer into his fears and know what to exploit, he hasn't the faintest idea. One thing rings clear though—he needs to up the ante.

You get there first, however—your teeth sinking into his fingers hard the moment they slip. Relentless endurance courses in your district veins it seems, and sheer audacity.

“Little shit!” Doctor Snow yelps as he rips his hand away, though he has to fight with your fangs. “I have to put a muzzle on you now? Is that it?!”

You managed to put a tear in the glove and fresh droplets of blood bead at the wound. As you managed to hurt him back… pride swells in your heart.

“Go ahead—since you already treatin’ me like an animal!” you challenge, though you feel your heartbeat decelerate against your will.

Your eyes widen at the dreadful certainty that the sedative is taking the final drag under—like a hundred desperate hands pulling you with the ocean's fury. The quiet horror that paints your face seems to delight him greatly; he can overlook your outburst—if all is restored to its expected place. Just like yesterday when you crawled for him… just like it will be today, and tomorrow, and the day after… and forever.

“Well, aren’t you a handful…”

Letting out a self-satisfied huff, Coriolanus’ hands start rummaging at the helping table out of sight, no doubt preparing another dose of some altering concoction, or some barbaric tool with which to break bone and rend flesh. The clatter of instruments feels deafening for you know each one is some means to seal your fate as his doll.

All throughout his careful ritual, he doesn’t stop humming this bright melody. It sounds like a nursery rhyme, one that is just as unknown to you as everything around—clearly not meant to soothe your nerves. It’s his recital, his show to run. An occasional, almost whimsical whistle sharply emphasizes each clink of the glass flasks as he puts them down with a flare fitting for a conductor.

A second passes, then two, then three—but each feels like a lifetime in this lost world. The air in the examination room grows heavy with the dampness of the leaks that have seeped through the very structure of the establishment. You can see the black mold that’s made home in these walls—blooming in veins like blood in water. Will you remain like that too? Forever etched into whatever construction he designs?

“Almost there, doll, I can feel you getting antsy…” Coriolanus sighs as he dabs his forehead with the pristine white towel that hangs over his shoulder, wincing when he feels the throb of his wound. “I’m just preparing something extra special for my good girl… to ensure you have your strength before the real treatment begins—”

“I’m not ill!” you protest feebly. “I shouldn’t be here…”

“Hush now, don’t distract your doctor…” Coriolanus snaps, growing agitated, but his hands and eyes never leave his station.

Your begging falls on deaf ears while he’s too preoccupied with his sick idea of ‘healing’ you. Vapors curl in the air from a boiling vial, emanating this putrid stench of rot… gurgling until only viscid dark bubbles remain in the glass tube, whirling in a clear liquid.

You raise your head, struggling to look over to the small table. It’s obscured by his broad shoulders where he's settled into the spinning leather stool like a king on his throne. Still, you hope to chance a glance at what horrors he will unveil that will debilitate your agency further. Maybe then you'll at least be prepared… Wasn't it enough for his ego? To have you strapped like this on display, at his mercy? Why does he have to deny you the grace of knowing your fate?

He doesn't need to turn around to sense your rebellion, aware of your every sign, as any good scientist should. A spark of anger flares so fast even he cannot anticipate what he’s compelled to do to regain control over the situation.

In the same blink, without getting up, without even sparing you a glance—his hand flies to your neck, pinning your head down. The recoil rattles your skull onto the metal table in sync with his other fist coming down onto the tools and they are sent clanking like downpour from the abrupt force.

“Oh, no you don't!” Only when your throat is secured in his clutch does he turn slowly, forcing his instincts to take a backseat while his words attempt to regain their momentum— a dangerous note catches fire, “Forcing my hand to use the relaxant. Now, you try to compromise the study's blinding! Sullying my experiment before it's even began…" His eyes dart madly, "It's all wrong, all filthy, all wrong… all spoiled and wrong!” he chants through gritted teeth.

Doctor Snow presents himself as this put-together professional, yet you see the smoldering wrath that bubbles beneath the mask. A small, scared child—wanting to lash out at anything that dares defy his imposed order. That is why he hides behind the orchestration of his lab… if you can't fight the force that is Coriolanus Snow, you may yet bring it about… So it can scorch him back, so that the armor cracks and he's left to the untamed fire. Even if you are reduced to ashes in the process… you'll know—you have fought.

“Barin’, you said?” you echo his earlier tirade in a tired, thin voice. Somehow you find the strength to scoff under the spell of the drug and his possessive hands, your lungs and throat burning from the exertion. “I'm the only one in the open ‘ere… you can't even touch me without them gloves—”

“Ignorant, rotten little girl…” His hand is still on your neck, squeezing harder with each word. “Has Gaul put you up to this, hm? Or my father perhaps? He could never bear that my brilliance outshines his… maybe you are no gift, but a curse? Sent here to taunt me!”

The pressure is all too much now, you can't hope to breathe through it. If you could just move and scuffle him off… but you can’t. With grace, you are prepared to let the current take you. If this is how it ends, at least you'd still be yourself as you leave this world—not whatever mutt he wants to make of you. For a moment, his grip is a welcomed respite, a glimpse into the light.

‘Coryo… What have you done?!’

His mother's shriek echoes from somewhere low in his hind brain. It’s like she’s in this very room, afraid of her own son even from beyond the grave.

Then, just as your body thrashes to take the breath you're owed, his hands snap back as though burned and you are washed ashore— a fresh gasp torn from your lungs. Your surrender had tugged some string in his heart. Not pity, maybe not even a guilty conscience wrought from the memory of his mother finding his earlier experiments—back when his childish mind couldn't yet judge right from wrong. Surely, it's just as simple as him clinging to his ambition—redirecting his efforts to fasten a strap over your forehead.

Limited to your peripheral vision, for once you wish you were born a prey animal instead of being forced into the role of one. A small, fluffy rabbit mayhaps—with side-facing eyes and whiskers. A superior frame for detecting danger when it cannot be met head-on.

“No matter… you hurt me—I hurt you back,” he reassures himself more than you, chest expanding and constricting rapidly as his breath attempts to outrun his thoughts. “But we'll show them… we'll show them all.”

That he is good, because he's answered a calling bigger than himself, because he doesn’t shy away from what needs to be done—the grotesque and the vile. Even when his mother— sweet late Lady Snow, too soft-hearted and light of spirit, drifting through a world that never demanded she carry its weight—couldn’t see what he was destined to achieve. He'll show her, it's nothing to be afraid of, but a glory to be embraced.

He won't break you, not yet… and not with his own two hands. Curse or not—you still have your purpose and he'll be damned if he doesn't squeeze it out of you one way or another.

“They oughtta've hanged me…” you choke out. “Not leave me ‘tween the devil and the deep blue sea.”

Why didn't they? You were captured at the abandoned docks, searching for some blind hope: tales of rebels trying to escape the bounds of Panem through sea—a faraway voyage but nothing felt too vast when you yearn to taste freedom.

It would have been so easy to just deal with you like any other vermin… instead of subjecting you to a slow death at an unmarked grave.

“No, no... Shh, don't cry,” The squeak of his new glove on your heavy tears is assaulting to the senses, yet he seems unbothered by it, almost as if in a trance. A chill crawls up your spine at how quickly he oscillates from one extreme state to the other. “Do you miss my hands on you so dearly that you yearn for the burn of a rope around your pretty neck? I won't gag you, I promise. I will hear your song, even when it tries to deceive.” his voice is so gentle now or maybe it's the sedative that makes you melt. “I was a bad doctor, doll… refusing my subject's call for help,” his voice grows solemn as he cradles your scratched-up cheek. “Forgive me.”

He doesn’t wait for absolution, he doesn’t truly need it from a subject. It’s just another lesson learned… if you insist you ‘saved’ him, if you want to cling to that ludicrous story—that's just another thread he can cure or exploit. It truly is ridiculous—he never needed saving, but you… you do.

“Why should I?” you ask drowsily. “You ain’t savin’ me from drowning.”

“No, doll… But I'll make sure you are never afraid of the depths,” is all he offers as he lets the scissors lead.

He starts off slowly, holding his breath as each snip bares more of your skin to him… inch by inch he starts to peel the gown off—that last barrier. Be it because he forgets to exhale or because you look so tempting pinned to his table, his chest begins to ache, warm blood rushing to his core. The fingertips of his free hand trace each of your bruised ribs as though he can produce a melody drumming through the hollows…

He's always been fascinated with the curves of the human body—so purposefully sculpted. Even if you are frail now, you still have that fullness in places—your breasts, those nipples prickling in the cold air—his fingers still there, applying just enough pressure to feel the plushness beneath. A sponge bath is in order; you aren’t clean by any means—not in your state now and chief of all, not by virtue of your breeding, but… he wants to be engulfed in your softness nonetheless. He forces himself to sit down lest he reveal the… prominent result of your alluring form—the tent pressing in his pants that his apron so conveniently conceals.

Still, he cannot deny himself more exploration. It's a necessary part of the assessment, he tells himself as his gloved hand dances in featherlight strokes across each freckle where the sea sun had kissed you first.

It tingles in ways you don't want to be feeling… No one has ever touched you that way before, and maybe no one ever will. It's normal to be confused, you think to yourself—that’s just what this is. The first gentle touch you are graced with in this forsaken world.

“Good muscle tone, all things considered,” he notes clinically, yet the gruff baritone that rings underneath is anything but, “Though a woman should have more body fat in her composition. I will amend that.”

“It's not like we’re out there feastin’ in the districts,” you bite back, though your labored breath isn't something you're proud of. “And your Peacekeepers sure don't give a damn if we starve in them cells.” You attempt clear your throat in discontent.

“I said, I will see to it—”

The subtext is clear: ‘I'm more of a man than these soldiers my father hails could ever be.’

When you dare tremble as the sharp cutting edge reaches your abdomen, your underbelly—that vulnerable spot any animal protects—his composure cracks. The scissors are sent flying to the other side of the room with a clatter so vicious, for a moment you’d been afraid he was preloading a strike to stab you with them. Instead, he snatches the flaps of your gown-turned-rag, bracing a knee atop the table. His forearm veins bulge though the physical exertion shouldn’t be so grand… and he tears through the remaining fabric with a groan.

You shriek at the sudden exposure, and he just… stares at you.

“All good now…” he releases a slow exhale.

His breath is labored as he takes in the supple flesh of your thighs and the fawn-like fear in your glossy eyes—all ripe for the taking. All his to mold and enjoy. Yet he's careful, forcing composure back in place… he's no beast, even if he could do as he pleased within these four walls. His one purpose here is to serve more than just his primal needs. To show show Panem that his order reigned supreme, that Crassus’ political theaters and court pageantry had nothing on science and real progress.

‘We are the real puppet masters here, Mister Snow… Ties and strings that stay can only be born from the shadows.’, as Gaul likes to assert. ‘Bread and circuses—the only means to control a nation is not with empty promises, but by showing the plebeians who they truly are. Animals, savages… when there’s no Leviathan to reign.’

It pulls Coriolanus back at his center and away from the gravity of your trembling body. You are a means to an end, nothing more… First, comes the trust between a subject and their doctor—and he won't have it nipped in the bud. Then, well, the world's his oyster, and you—his pearl. It's embarrassing enough that he'd allowed his temper to get the best of him in front of you earlier—his hands clawing at your throat like a madman… Why do his palms still tingle?

A distraction—yes, he needs one and desperately. Thankfully, the enriching serum he'd prepared provides just that. Synthesized from his defining work, his pièce de résistance thus far—the rabbits. It will increase your appetite just right, he hopes, making your body retain more of the nutrition you’ll be pumped with.

A shortcut, yes, but one that he deserves. And should any side effects occur… he will be here to greet and treat them in whatever way is required.

This should keep his mind set on the target while he bathes his doll—can’t have you be messy while he works, now can he?

“My, my… Just look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” the observation rings as Coriolanus leans in to clean up the wounds that are still gaping, the bruises that still bloom in magenta—some new, from Peacekeeper lashes and batons and some old, from the night you tried to flee to the ship that promised to take you away. “So broken, so abandoned. Those soldier mutts don’t know how to treat a creature like you.” His breath hitches all but involuntarily when he squeezes at your inner thigh to keep you steady for the bandaging. “Fret not, doll, here you are wanted—so long as you let me take you apart.” His hand lingers at your ankle— it remained throbbingly swollen through your days in captivity. Doctor Snow’s touch will kiss it better… As he tightens the compression sleeve his curls brush against your core, making you twitch. All scientific, all with purpose surely. “Over and over, just so I could fit all the pieces back together perfectly. Imagine what spectacular designs we will create together.”

“Let you? Like I gotta choice—no one will choose to be sufferin’…” you offer, though your words are small, drained and confused. There’s some itch that bubbles up in you, that you cannot scratch — that you, more than anything, don’t want to acknowledge.

“Did you see what’s written at the grand arch of the department as they were hauling you in, doll?” he muses as though you are two peers catching up over afternoon tea, instead of you being tethered to him and this table like an unruly pet while he rinses out a sponge.

“No,” you whimper in fear, forcing your eyes shut with such grit that they wrinkle at the edges. You don’t want to feel clean—not by his hands.

“I don’t blame you… your poor heart was probably ready to jump out of your chest, getting mishandled like that. I should have them whipped for daring to deliver my subject in such suboptimal condition.” Coriolanus’ voice laps gently like the sponge he drags up your arm, though his words spell violence. “Have I already praised your beautiful pulse? Even weak like this, your vitals fight—that blood pressure is simply perfect… not too low, not too high. Just what I expected of my good doll.”

“Wh-what does it tell?” you ask, stifling a gasp. Your lids remain sealed—wanting to occupy your senses with anything but how close his hands were getting… to that need that rises treacherously. “The writing?”

“If you open your eyes, I might let you know…” his whisper tingles at the shell of your ear, while his cleaning doesn’t seize—padding the sponge below your breasts, almost at your belly button, one more swipe and—“Everything sounds much more enticing in Latin. And I can tell, you are an inquisitive one, hmm? I am too…”

With that, he reaches between your thighs and your eyes shoot open—the cold cleansing water licking at your warmth. As quickly as that drag floods you with some relief—it’s gone. With shame, you realize that if it weren’t for the straps, you would’ve let your hips chase that friction in a desperate buckle.

His chuckle reverberates through your body, through that emptiness he left behind.

“Good, see how well you listen when you are properly motivated? I’ll have to make a note of that…” he announces, “‘Ex duris gloria’ — from suffering comes glory. Choice or not, we all suffer… it's what comes afterwards that counts.”

“You think that’s it—that you’s what comes after?” you inquire, throat bobbing with contained abhorrence. That’s what you should feel, right? Disdain? At this foreign, unwanted touch… yet its apparent care lulls you. Practiced or not, it comes gently.

“Oh, you flatter me, doll.” The faintest curl at Coriolanus’ lips seems genuine but you aren't sure whether that's a good thing. “No, I'm a mere messenger. You will be my glory.”

He moves to unfasten your leg from the strap, only to secure the ankle compress to one of the wires that hang from the surgical lamps above. You'd thought you felt exposed before, but spread like this… electricity crawls up your skin. Yet another thing you cannot place as good or bad now—is it instincts or craving? No, it can’t be the latter—the drug must really be messing with your mind, clouding it like the mist that settles over the marina before first light. This is the man who almost choked you out… who treats you like an object… but whose touch is the only gentle one you’ve known. The boy you saved… is he somewhere in there, under the dredges of hatred and fear at the world?

“It needs to stay up—helps with the swelling,” he interjects clinically.

Some explanation finally graces you, yet what comes after is anything but gentle…

“Can I at least have a-a wool or somethin’?” you hold your ground, though sheepishly.

“Now, why would you need that?” he challenges, tone imbued with the mild agitation you sensed before— the same one that grew so wild in a flash. “I’m your doctor, doll—you have nothing to hide here under my care. Not your body, not your… little reactions.” His eyes are reduced to slits at how he concentrates on dissecting you. “It’s all natural, all part of the study. Even that ear-splitting sailor talk you have going on—I tolerate it, because it’s an independent variable.”

Everything he does, he does for his work.

The ‘blinding’ as he put it, seems ready to be unveiled now—when its application becomes inevitable and he is the one controlling the narrative… telling you a version of what the serum will do.

“Now, I hope you don't mind needles, because it all starts with this—” Coriolanus’ gloved hands handle the syringe like it’s an integral part of him—swiftly and confidently, positioning it with precision. “A little something to get you on the right track… to bring a healthy flush to those cheeks and prime you for what’s to come. And don't you worry, it’s passed all sorts of testing—”

Animal testing. With macabre but favorable results.

The disinfectant feels impossibly cold against your shoulder, even as your naked body quivers. When you sense the needle’s prod, you hold your breath. Although your head is strapped in place, your eyes dart to his, to the only other person in the room. In search of some warmth or anchor… you don’t know why you hope to find it in the architect of your distress, the one who supports and benefits from your captivity. His eyes widen, stunned by your display as much as you are.

Then, the only thing you feel is liquid fire scorching in your muscles. Whatever this medicine is, it leaves behind a throb that he pretends to soothe with more antiseptic. Panic cuts you up—prickling like icicles that threaten to burst from your chest. Even when you were captured, you had some inkling as to what may happen to you. Now, it's all unknown—an indeterminate, potent synthetic coursing unseen through your body and leaving its mark. Changing you from within…

“Such a good subject. You took your shot so well, doll,” Coriolanus praises as he finally removes his gloves. “I’m so proud.”

Now, you are clean, washed in his care… deserving of his touch. Yet you've never felt more sullied.

“Don't leave me here…” you rasp out as you grasp at his sleeve like a drowning sailor, words falling once the dam breaks and all you can feel is the all-consuming fear that you may not wake up the same. “Please, I—I don't know nothin’ about what that stuff was. What if it acts up and I'm all alone, and—”

“Doll.” He unstraps you with haste, though the relaxant doesn't allow you to skitter off. “Hey, hey, I'll be here… in a way,” he assures you, “We have so many cameras, so just know… I'm always watching. I told you already—you won't be afraid of sinking so long as I work my magic, alright?”

You nod slowly, bringing the injected thigh close to you—nursing it while you attempt to reconcile the hatred with the odd sense of security that his words bring. Reduced to begging for aid from the one who inflicted this dread upon you in the first place—you decide you'll take the rose with its thorns. For today.

“Thank you… Doctor Snow.”

You can’t recognize the voice—it’s your lips that form the words, yet, you cannot fathom it—showing appreciation for your captor… A delighted smile finally cleaves open on Coriolanus’ face—like cracks breaking through thin ice.

“Young Master?” the butler follows up in a practiced tone, “The President-in-waiting summons you to his office at your earliest convenience.” It’s almost formulaic—how that old fox scans Coriolanus with expert tact so as to report anything amiss to the man of the house. Inevitably, he settles on the boy’s bandaged fingers and slithers in a veiled remark: “Once you’ve managed to leave the day behind, naturally.”

It’s laughable, really, the way Crassus insists on being referred to now. Yet also tragic—that the prodigal son has allowed himself to become a specimen in his home.

“Of course he does,” Coriolanus huffs, knowing exactly what battle awaited him. “Tell my dear father, I shall tend to his needs when I see fit, since he requires so much coddling now.” he muses: “Old age… really scrambles the brain to mush.”

He doesn’t wait to hear a rebuttal, though the devoted servant definitely had one prepared. The young heir simply continues his journey up the winding stairs and into his room—shutting the door behind him with excessive force. He too wants to seal the day—not to let it go, but to sear it in his mind.

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he aches—his erection was throbbing, coming and going from the moment he strapped you onto his table and his hands found purpose on your body. He isn’t sure how he’ll be able to rein himself in if this is what the first day yields.

Maybe… he can just take a look at the live feed of the cameras? Just a peek… nothing inherently sinister.

He did promise to keep an eye on you, all things considered, and after the hearty dinner he ordered for you, you are probably feeling terribly lonely.

Maybe he can arrange for the two of you to have lunch together? Under regular circumstances, dining with a district girl would be an abhorrent thought… but these aren't ordinary circumstances, and you are no ordinary girl—you are his subject, his responsibility. And, well, he'd use it to gather data—that's all.

The screen of the portable tablet hums to life as the initially grainy footage crystallizes somewhat. There you are… and something is indeed bothering you. Nestled in that blanked you'd asked for, on the cot, but… writhing against it.

Could it be?

His mutated rabbits did display a potent heat cycle… maybe once you had your belly full with nutritious diet for a change, the synthesized serum allowed you to blossom into this?

Aw, you do look desperate, he thinks to himself, and the read-out of your vitals only supports his theory: high body temperature and elevated pulse. Poor thing, you must be so scared, unaware of what's happening as your hips draw these small needy circles, seeking relief. The image causes Coriolanus to shift in his chair, the tightness in his pants becoming all too uncomfortable and impossible to ignore as he sets to watch intently. The dedication definitely didn't have anything to do with those visions of you, naked on his table that still swim in his mind.

You are trying to sing even now, but it comes out all warbled—courtesy of the pre-War speakers as well as your state no doubt. Something in his primal brain whispers that the muffle will sound so much better if inflicted by his hand… the way he'd held you down today, even if you bit him in the end. Suits you right—to be a slave to this serum now—a bunny through and through, given how you use your teeth without regard.

A moan wrings free from your lips when you seem to finally find the appropriate angle that sends sparks flying through your neediness.

It does him in.

Steadying his hands, Coriolanus unbuckles his belt to join you in your movements— the serpent answering its nature. Though from afar, it feels so real as he wraps his bitten, sore fingers tightly around his painfully hard cock in an attempt to imagine you here with him. By some convoluted, sick logic, it's as though your mouth is on him. After all, your teeth were right there, sinking into his hand… and now the memory of that will guide him into ecstasy.

How strangled would your song be then, when you are too busy choking on his cock?

His eyes fall shut with a strained groan, letting his memories of the day paint the beautiful picture. The sponge through which he licked everywhere, between your thighs, through your wetness; he could tell you craved it even back then. Maybe not fully comprehending it, but that was his job—to know what you need, even when you may deny it. And to administer it accordingly. Each drag of that soaked sponge he'd inflicted on you is a stroke at his cock now—wet and filthy. It's so vivid in his mind—how he was marking your body as his.

Then he hears you—right there on the screen for him to enjoy. The familiar melody is there, but you aren't singing that melancholic shanty, no… you are begging. He can hear it below the crackle: the small pleas and sighs that rain down in the cadence he'd heard yesterday, with no lucid words of your own… because he'd fine-tuned you to play his song now. And all it took was one day. He was truly destined for greatness.

Are you putting on a show just for him? You know he's a man of his word… that his eyes will be on you. He might have to think of a way to reward you for how good you listen to your new body's call. And for pleasing him so well.

His strokes grow sloppy, trying to keep in sync with your chase. Each small tremble of yours translates to a squeeze around his shaft that beckons beads of pre-come. He's trying desperately to hold back… wanting this moment to last.

‘Thank you, Doctor Snow—’

That's right, you should be grateful that he graces you with his time, that he will make you perfect… his sweet doll.

That recollection of your words mixes in with the ‘please, please’ and whimpers from the live feed—so frantic, so hopeless. You must feel so empty without something to fill your cunt through the heat cycle.

“Poor bunny…” Coriolanus mumbles, swallowing a gasp, “Doctor Snow will make it all better—” he vows with a grunt.

His breathing grows heavier, doubling over at his chair. As he rests his forehead on the desk, he surrenders to chasing his release with reckless abandon while that coil winds tighter. Like a man starved, like a wild animal himself, his hips cant up to meet his fist in a desperate need to rut into something. The chair clatters, the desk rattling against the wall with each stutter.

‘Don't leave me here, please—’

“Never—!” Coriolanus bites at his free hand to stifle the growl that splits from his chest.

His release hits him like a whip, in all-consuming waves that he rides out as thick ropes of cum paint the screen where your image still writhes in your makeshift nest. Once his breath returns to him and the haze lifts, he sinks back into his chair, noting the obscene mess left in his wake. Reverently, he smears the evidence over the screen—not cleaning or absolving—just accepting the facts like the observant scientist he is. Oh, how he wishes it all ended up stuffed in you—making you whole, settling you through your cramps.

He looks down at his hands… one bearing your teeth marks, and the other—his. What poetic symmetry.

‘Fueled with the terror of becoming prey, see how quickly we become predator?’ Gaul’s words prowl at the edge of his mind even now… the only way to explain this primal, vulgar display.

Yet, it was not fear that drove him to forego his trained poise, no—it had been Coriolanus accepting his role, blossoming into his nature. Driven by witnessing his prey in such a dire condition, his instincts kicked in.

The epiphany cracks his skull open as an incessant pounding pulses in his head—Gaul is stagnated in her theories, limited, because of her innate objectivity. She stalks the corridors of the Department of War, postulating proudly how behavior is all about negative reinforcement, all the while she neglects the one chief truth…

A predator seeks to consume.

His ‘spiritual mother’ may wear the skin of a wolf, but beneath—it’s all cogs and bolts, whirring and tuning—laboring to imitate human nature and force baseless interpretations upon it. A machine, void of deeper wants and needs, just like Crassus.

Coriolanus, however, knows much of impulse and appetite, feels them throbbing in his heart. They aren’t a cancer that needs biopsy, but the very essence of his work. Maybe, it’s high time Doctor Snow’s paradigm reign over the ‘Romulus’ program… and for you to become the pearl in his insignia.

The grand doors of his father’s study weren’t always uninviting to Coriolanus… not when this used to be his mother’s studio. Creative chaos, filled with half-finished pieces, oil paint streaks coloring her face as well as her next escape on a canvas and the resinous smell of turpentine that permeated the air. There, a small Coriolanus would sit on her lap, proudly finger painting—safe and sound, loved and embraced.

Crassus permitted it even while she was pregnant. After all, a Commander called to duty didn’t need a place to parley—the War rooms had provided a sufficient enough stage for his ego... for a time. As soon as she left this world alongside Coriolanus’ baby sister who took all but a fleeting breath in it, the President-in-waiting claimed the peace Lady Snow left behind in that room. Before the mourning period had its chance to pass, he'd already turned it into a barren, desolate shell—a true reflection of Crassus’ inner world where he now spends his days entertaining political alliances.

Coriolanus holds his breath as he knocks and the instant response— ‘Enter.’ —is like a guillotine that slices clean through the full girth of his neck.

“So, my heir apparent finally decides to show some gratitude for the funding of his little pet projects? How fortunate must I be that the busy Doctor Snow graces me with his presence?” Crassus begins his sentencing sarcastically and without as much as a cordial greeting—tapping his cigar against the mahogany like a metronome. “Oh, wait, you aren’t a real doctor—it must’ve slipped my mind with how you parade yourself under my roof.” No turpentine in the air… just stale whiskey breath as he utters: “Tell me, boy—have you broken your doll yet? Or are you too busy savoring the only thing you can posses so long as I live?”

This study felt too small, even the whole of Panem sits meager and unable to contain two stags, two Snow men battling for ground. That full-height window, framed with wrought iron roses where his mother used to sit for better lighting as she painted… now casts the cold glow of the setting sun on Crassus. It makes Coriolanus wince before he buries the emotion.

“Father… what a warm welcome, as always. I still wonder—when will you stop whining like a child? Are the numerous bootlickers you surround yourself with not enough for your soldier toy set?” Coriolanus snaps dryly. He doesn't take a seat, electing to instead circle his sire. His rival. “I know the allure of honest work evades you. So—” The deliberate cracks of his leather soles emphasize each calculated pause as he reaches the cellarette, pouring himself a glass of the amber syrup. A sip, then two, and only then does he continue: “—Let me enlighten you. Presidents fall, dynasties can be usurped. But I'm building something of significance, a greater understanding of humanity. And my design will bask in life eternal…. while your head rolls in the dirt.”

And it all starts… With you.

The wise women had told Don Alvarez that no wandering spirit would dare cross a ring of juniper. As if whatever overcame Del in her black dreams came from an unseen curse somewhere far away and not within. It'd offer protection, certainly, but beneath it all, its ribboned branches dispersed a hint of crushed citrus—sharp enough to clear the mind and carry prayers farther than any church bell could. In the end, if one put their faith in such old things as her father did, the presence of that tree brought some ease… but Del preferred her respite be placed in Billy, as his was in her.

What awaited was anything but calm, however, as Edward’s heavy pacing on the veranda rose above the gallop. Like a man possessed, his ego needed to announce itself in every waking moment—boards creaking underneath his polished shoes, his chest huffed and lips puffed.

“She was gone all night, Don Ignacio—”, the disgruntled fiancé demanded.

The Alvarez patriarch stood proud, hand resting against the wooden railing as if his portrait was being painted. He wasn't known to jump at every provocation—it was bad for business to bleed where others are counting their coin; and while he didn't set out to treat his daughter's future as a bargain, the fiancé dictated it as such. It was tradition—to settle a marriage was a father's duty and a show of great care. If he hadn't been blinded by fear of some ill fate befalling Del, he might’ve doubted whether the protection Edward pledged so readily wasn't a mere parade; dust in Ignacio's eyes, while the son-in-law feasted on whatever remained in his greedy wake. A coyote invited into their stables…

Elena, meanwhile, was the picture of serenity, a welcomed respite—like the ripening juniper berries buried below sharp needles. She quelled the spirits, sipping her tea. “My sister oft prays at dawn… your preoccupation is unseemly, señor.”

Edward sighed in mild exasperation, checking his pocket watch with a clink—purposefully turning his back to Mateo and Del's approach so as to not risk it bearing even the slightest scratch from the kicked up sand. He could seldom be consoled with so little—an ironic predicament for a man who'd readily claim a woman was hysterical if she'd ever wanted after the smallest of freedoms. Almost like he'd anticipated Del’s escapade… as if he had some great deal to gain from it.

“Unseemly?” There was a pretend edge to his echo. “She is my promised, sister… as her husband-to-be, I have every right to know of her whereabouts!”

His framing and claim wasn't lost on anyone, save for the Don who found nothing amiss with it… A woman had only one purpose in a man's world: to be promised—while a man was complete as he stood, so long as he nurtured his reputation. Though Edward did appear especially engrossed with taking in the Alvarez name and having heirs… perhaps he wasn't as self-sufficient as he painted himself out to be. The world Billy showed Del was a free one—not his or hers, instead shared below the stars.

Once Del dismounted Lucha, she muttered under a forced breath. “‘Sister’?” A scornful echo, followed by mockery that may as well have been birdsong to him. Had she really been ‘his’, maybe he would've made the effort to learn her language. “¡Ya se está haciendo castillos en el aire!”

Edward raised an brow, brushing off invisible specks of dust from his immaculate dress shirt in sharp padding motions. “Well, good morrow to you too then, Mary Delphine.” He tried to reprimand, pretending he was in on the jest, that he was somehow relevant because his money and status deemed him so.

Elena's hidden smile at the show brightened the atmosphere even for a little while, while Mateo shook his head, stepping closer to her. “Found hermanita out praying again…” He covered in a convincingly calm tone, resting his hand on his wife's shoulder.

Del could swear she saw Edward's gaze dart about—bothered while his posture stiffened. This time around, he wasn't ill at ease because of his inability to control his ‘promised’; rather, he was set on checking if Billy would ride in for work. Knowing he wouldn't… that soon enough, the cowboy would stand cornered by Garrett, his men, and something otherworldly—all courtesy of a concerned citizen’s tip.

In a cruel twist, the youngest Alvarez daughter fit the pieces into the wrong picture. Once she'd come to know Edward's control, she expected its bite and so mistook his troublesome fidgeting for barely restrained fury at her lack of submission. It was how it usually went… which left Del to expect Billy’s comforting presence by her side in a spell—his playful blue eyes painting the lie they'd shared and maybe a new future once she had the chance to convince her father.

Instead, those very same eyes she adored and sought the warmth of would soon be overcome with quiet horror, face-to-face with el caminante.

Don Ignacio finally moved from where he stood, framed in the sunlight that had finally bled above the horizon to rid the sky of its muted early blues. Hands clasped behind his back, he took in his youngest—the one who reminded him of his late wife so painfully.

His careful gaze shifted from her mussed braid to the straw still clinging to her skirts. “Rezo, mija? Or did you ride con el diablo last night?”

Del squared her shoulders, seeing her father step in instead of letting Edward's tirade draw out.

Appreciative, yet determined, she spoke with precision. “I turned to prayer… for clarity, Papá.” A pause as she turned her head to meet Edward head-on. “God answered.” She raised her chin, believing it a first step toward victory.

Unfortunately, it was no divine spirit that answered… and her plans to put an end to the engagement farce would be gravely interrupted.

Don Ignacio's mouth twitched at Del’s display of sharp wit. “Entonces, let us break our fast, sí?” He permitted, turning around to enter his hacienda. “Edward—you will join us.”

A clear message rang in his tired voice—this wasn't over. He might yet meet his daughter halfway, but chief of all, he would keep her safe—from herself and the wretched world as he saw it.

Waking up landed like a blow, as though Billy’s lungs were being torn apart. If a stag were ever alive to feel its carcass being flayed, that was what the poor animal would come to suffer, he decided. The pain was so gut wrenching, no living person could ever fathom its full cruelty that preyed upon his very soul. Not even in his most grisly dreams did Billy believe something as simple as breathing could burn so thoroughly and hellishly. Whatever that thing had done to the cowboy, it’d left him hung out to dry.

He knew it was a creature, for there existed no man who could command shadows at will, nor suck the light from a room in broad daylight as if it had never been there, and never would be again. Like the sun itself had abandoned the place whence the nightwalker feasted.

Billy was used to facing an opponent—trouble took familiar shapes once he’d walked enough long and lonely roads, known enough killers, corrupt drunks and all around desperados with death already in their eyes… The visitor, however, hadn’t been any of those. Death walked with it, instead of staying buried in peace.

In due time, the spur-clad hooves of a more acquainted beast came rattling closer down the hall leading to the cowboy’s cell. At least, that was where Billy thought he was being kept—the haze still consumed him far too heavy to discern his whereabouts in earnest. He'd tumbled off the small cot at some point and made the far wall’s edge his new home; only his sweated off weight remained clinging to the yellowed sheets. Had he been able to taste something other than his own copper hurt, he might have welcomed the old jail air that reeked of filth and desperation like an old friend. By all accounts, the searing pain that was mauling meat clean off his bones excused this transgression against outlaw ghosts.

The man who was staring daggers at Billy had to be Olinger—his tiny rat-like eyes carried sick delight as he leaned all too casually against the bars, feeling it his God-given right to gloat after contributing nothing by his hand. Even cornered, the cowboy would've ridden off with the wind on roads few knew of… but proud Garrett just had to make league with darkness, employing its wicked ways to mask his own incapability.

It's that smooth drawl of the sheriff's heir apparent that Billy could make out—a cadence capable of spewing lies so readily was hard to forget. Even if muffled due to the ringing in the cowboy’s ears, it grew higher pitched in agitation, and thus clearer.

The addressee remained unseen as Garrett continued his tirade. “He is all but dead! We needed a trail on Tunstall, not a husk of a man, sullying my jail floor with viscera. Any judge worth his salt'd take one look at him and go sayin’ he ain't fit to stand trial!”

“Good thing Catron employs ‘em just fit ‘nough to stamp whatever paper lands on their fat bellies…” Olinger chuckled ugly.

Billy could see the smaller man's mouth moving in an almost disjointed fashion—like a grotesque version of the puppets from one of those traveling shows he'd pass by at markets when he was a kid. He was still so detached, courtesy of the throbbing loss of consciousness that refused to come back to him fully that he remained untethered even while he tried blinking away the confusion. His senses couldn't meet solid ground while his head was simply lulling along, feeling drunk without the whiskey… until a chilling voice revealed the party opposite Garrett's fury. That corpse, wearing the skin of a man could sober anyone up.

“I warned you, sheriff—”, the title wasn’t spoken out of respect, but mockingly so, for the creature found little interest in mortal customs, especially when it came to positions that were gifted rather than seized, “—you denied me sustenance. For fear of havoc, I was reduced to drinking livestock… like some mutt.” The screaming souls that aided his speech returned tenfold—channeling all untold ire. “I may have gotten a little carried away with your prisoner, true. But he is here, is he not? As Riley willed… and he will live until you bid his breath cease.”

So that was what had left Charlie's farm drained… Flesh left to rot bloodless. Some animals were even mauled—evidently a result of the ‘walker’ getting far too famished to rein in his impulses. A wild animal on an endless hunt to fill the hollow where its soul should reside.

It was clear the whole ordeal didn’t sit right with Snow. Even though he’d swallowed his pride inasmuch as a beast's ego could allow, the lack of human blood had made him weaker—physically, but also in spirit. As if he were a mere teethling who hadn’t earned fangs yet… It was this palpable distaste that made Billy wonder: what exactly could the vampire need from The House that wasn’t already his to take?

Coriolanus could plunge the jail in darkness, split the throats of the demanding men open, or leave them cleanly emptied of their life source and vanish without a trace. Yet, there he stood—reduced to a mere errand boy.

Despite the sharp pang in his chest, Billy finally managed to slide up the wall albeit briefly, just enough to focus in on his old riding partners. Something viscous and sour bubbled up his throat and the cowboy had to stop himself from retching as he gagged, bracing the back of his hand against his lips to stop it.

“Even with half a mind, I’mma still outshoot you, Patt,” Billy coughed out. “And I ain’t gotta go sellin’ my soul fo it…”

Garrett twitched as if he'd been bitten, surprised by Billy’s sudden strength and lucidity. Yet, delighted that he had the notorious Kid cornered like this—and his name might finally ring famous next to the cowboy’s.

“Ah, old friend, I can assure you—nothin’ so poetic is afoot. Whatever deal the devil's struck, it ain't with me. I'm just the lucky executioner.” His eyes glinted in cold opportunism, mustache barely hiding his smirk. “The hand of the law, if you will.” He rested his hands proudly on his holster, chest inflated to flash the shiny badge.

Now, that made Billy laugh with his full lungs—despite the sharp pain, he couldn't let this moment pass him without a proper show of outrage. Patt parading himself as a true beacon of justice—it was one thing to take a position on offer, keep your gullet shut and fatten up with bribes… and another thing entirely to delude yourself into thinking you were somehow worthy of it.

Lowly gamblers like Garrett made for good prey, but never for good spawn. Void of any lasting indebtedness, greedy and reckless—the new sheriff would be uncontrollable had Coriolanus ever thought about turning him.

But the reluctant outlaw… the drifter with principles, who upheld morality more than anyone walking these lawless roads carrying a badge—now, he would make for a fine get of darkness. He’d be so reluctant to accept this nature, the poor soul, and so would only use it sparingly. Unlike fools drunk on power—his heart could be controlled.

As soon as Garrett deemed Billy fit to meet his doom, the new crook of a sheriff took his leave to inform his patrons of the joyous news. Come morrow, the Kid would stand trial, come nightfall—he'd hang. Jesse hadn't graced Billy with his presence… likely unable to face the consequences of his betrayal and already in too deep to offer any viable aid. The old partner was most definitely set on finding the good life at the bottom of a bottle at the saloon down by the road. A directionless journey they'd once shared… blown to whatever corner desperado winds willed.

Billy had always had his sights set on a cause greater than himself though.

Taking down the Seven Rings… the embodiment of the deadly sins in any honest person's eyes. Clearly now in consort with the devil himself to remain in control at any cost.

Whatever bounty the vampire had to claim, its hour wasn't yet nigh for the creature never left Billy’s side. The pain hadn't subsided, and for some time, the cowboy thought it might be purposefully prolonged by the walker’s influence. Maybe he was stationed here so that the outlaw could never recover and attempt to escape—ensuring a chain no hammer could sever.

The only respite had been Del’s rosary… and Billy clung to it like a drowning sailor, lest he be forever lost to Coriolanus’ shadowy tides. The light that begot some clarity in this endless hellfire was her—his reina whose wild spirit burned brighter than the abyss. Did she believe him gone? That he'd abandoned her?

To swallow down the bitter possibilities, Billy spoke through gritted teeth. “Even in all your power… you still kneel to someone. Ain't that somethin’?” The dismissive grunt he let out was shrill, coupled with the sputter of blood.

“Hunger is my only master, cowboy,” the ‘walker’ assured in a slow cadence, his commanding choir of voices coming from whichever corner of the suffocating jail cell.

That provocation seemed to stir the creature—Billy could feel the whirling shadows at its command becoming almost prickly in shape and coldness. The closest to a full-body shiver that the vampire could muster. A well-placed challenge such as this may provide the cowboy with a slippery way of escape. At least that was what he banked on. It was clear the walker was prideful—anyone walking the land that long without ever needing to consider death as an adversary had every right to be.

Unfortunately, Billy had much to learn yet—one couldn't strike a guaranteed deal when they remained clueless as to what the other party couldn't do without. Unless you held their innermost fear in the palm of your hand, it'd be like playing poker plunged in a dark room. No hand known, no tell to be discerned… even no table upon which the ruling cards would be laid out.

“Sounds like a miserable road to walk… bein’ a slave to your urges.” Billy countered, clutching at his aching ribs, right below his still-pounding heart.

He was taking shots in the dark, hoping their ruckus would cause some consequential imbalance beyond simply infuriating the walker. If that proved fruitless, the rosary he'd brought behind his back to file away at the windowsill of the cell might yet earn him his freedom.

Del had said so herself—that it wasn't gifted in an empty hope for his hands to be folded over it in prayer; just a means of keeping her close to heart instead. Now, the little brass crucifix—wrought from her favorite ring—served a humbler, more earthly purpose as it worried away at the rotting wood one patient stroke at a time. Each pass drove the cross back into Billy's palm with a reprimanding sting—either divine fury at the blasphemous action, or simply reminding him that salvation was seldom won without blood. Little did the unwitting outlaw know, it was precisely that desperation which Coriolanus hoped to exploit; it tasted so potently sweet, despite the blows to his vampiric pride.

Snow's hissed chuckle permeated the air, cooling it over.

“Not when you have all the means you could dream of to satiate it… Hedonism is a virtue when you can indulge deliciously. And I can assure you—everyone hungers for something,” he explained carefully, patiently priming his prey with venom. “Creatures of the night just have a sure way of snatching it for ourselves—” His hand outstretched in a harsh grabbing motion, clasping around nothing. Yet, it felt as though he were seizing at Billy’s throat, denying his next words of challenge. “—you, righteous outlaw that you are, you hunger for justice. To protect your loved ones from the land’s unforgiving turns… turns dictated by small men who believe themselves giants.”

Billy's fingers twitched to life, previously clasped over Del’s cross in a dead man's hold, now itching to seize his revolver. Naturally, it couldn't have been resting at his belt while he was jailed. Yet that habitual movement meant he'd already bled in front of the walker, shown him he was right in his assessment without needing to utter a confirmation.

Now, it was the creature that held the winning hand.

“Ah, bull’s eye! As you may say…” Coriolanus noted smugly and it was as though the grasp he had over Billy’s soul loosened ever so slightly. Snow had the cowboy where he wanted him—no need to suffocate a perfectly viable spawn. “You want to go back to your love, hm? To… Mary? Or do you want her to watch you swing—”, his fingers glided through the air, as the words droned out, mimicking the hanging sweep of feet at the end of a rope. “—away?”

A deal Billy started… walked into dangerously unprepared and ended now as an open book to the adversary. Rattled and protective, despite his circumstances, the outlaw raised his voice. “What d’you know of her?!”

Coriolanus appeared almost enthused at how quickly this was untangling. He knew a bleeding heart like the little criminal in front of him couldn't resist its call to provocation long. That he'd sooner put his head in the jaws of a beast than see those he cared deeply for suffer.

“Oh, I know a thing or two about your ‘reina’...” the vampire started, stepping closer to the bars until his pale fingers danced across them in a discordant melody. “I know how she tends to her father's land, his animals, teaching those children at the mission. I also know she is promised to another… and it makes you burn.”

What he spared Billy was the knowledge the Snow family had of her blood too… how it has hungered for sight dating back generations. Naturally, Don Alvarez knew of that ‘affliction’—his own mother used take in the half-lost and the never-found for guidance. She could foretell what no doctor would ever dream of seeing, painting futures so vivid, they couldn't be chalked up to simple trickery for they always came to pass. Some wiser people recognized the power, other foolish and superstitious folk imagined it as the devil's will given flesh. As though the mere utterance of the blessed visions brought upon someone's demise.

The gifted Alvarez women were the messengers, not executioners; yet, out fear of being ostracized for witchery, for the uncanniness of her sight, pious Ignacio sought to to erode Del’s instincts — keeping lemon balm in a silver string-tied cloth beneath her pillow on a new moon, planting that ghoulish, lifeless juniper tree next to her window. Tried as he might, he couldn't uproot his progeny of the foresight that swam ever-seeking in her soul.

The cowboy didn’t need to know—if he was a good boy, he’d turn her himself. To protect her, to grant her life eternal, void of any pain… and then the full extent of her sight may finally be unleashed. As was written… if not, Coriolanus would be more than happy to make her his own bride.

“You tellin’ me all this just to play with your food, diablo? Or've you forgotten, you put me in this damn cell!” Billy stood up abruptly, fighting through the pain in an attempt to assert whatever strength he could muster.

“And I can just as easily get you out, partner…” Coriolanus enticed in a hypnotic tone, vanishing into the candle-lit corridor only to appear abruptly in Billy’s cell, walking out of his shadows given form. “You are already ripe with my venom, it'd take but a drop more and you shall become invisible. Like me…”

Not really… Snow would need to give a drop of his blood back if Billy was to roam free of his influence. The cowboy wouldn't be a supreme, just a spawn. Even still, that would make him a creature powerful enough to break through these bars and run back to his love, to rid the land of its suffering and prove honor still lived.

Within Coriolanus’ bounds, naturally—you gained something, you had to give up something. It was the way of the world.

“A beast you mean, lose my soul—”

Billy clung to that last thread of hope he had. That his own two hands would be enough to see this through. After all, the windowsill had begun to surrender, its rot no longer hiding beneath chipped paint—one hard brace and it could break clean away. Freedom and his reina waited no farther than the saddle of the nearest horse below… if only the pain could lift long enough so he'd feel his legs again.

“You say that like it's a bad thing… To become something more. Someone who will be able to finally make it right.” Coriolanus sat on the creaky cot, not invading or trapping like he'd done back at Billy’s cabin. This was the beginning of a true alliance and the vampire would treat it as such, even if he withheld the full extent of his gain. “No more pesky ties with people who betray, no more wallowing and waiting for fancy lawyers to settle their paperwork. Just you and your precious justice… and your lovely Mary.”

At the repeated mention of her name, the cowboy stilled as though he'd heard gunfire closing in on him. Images of the life he yearned for once he was done avenging and fighting swam in his already heavy head. Mary Delphine coming back from a day of teaching with their children, hand-in-hand and carefree… cared for but never confined. Her riding with him come nightfall with promises of free hearts and sweet kisses.

What monster could ever have that?

Billy looked down, pretending he'd been contemplating the offer. Before the silence could settle too comfortably, he sent his weight up sharply, attempting to lunge at the waist-level window. Overeager and overconfident, the uneasy movement hit him back tenfold—like the recoil of a heavy shotgun. Every movement made in what felt like molasses instead of the thin air that oft offered guidance—the vampire venom scorching at his flesh.

One board managed to fall, sure enough, landing in some withered bushes with dangerous thorns to them. Had it been Billy tumbling down, he found no certainty he'd even be able to get up, much less ride in this condition. As the cowboy grunted in pain and hopeless despair, the path split before him, forked and ugly—no longer offering an easy direction... embrace the monstrosity that was already eating away at him, or suffer the burn of a rope around his neck.

Persevere or give up.

How did that song Del used to sing on their lovely nights go again?

Ah, yes… ‘Angels, meet me at the crossroads, meet me… Don't charge a sinner any toll.’

For a moment, he allowed himself to be lost in that memory. When he wobbled on his feet though, he was found by a demon at his crossroads instead—

“Easy there, partner… Think of it like that deformed filly you and your sweetheart saw into this world. You are just taking your first crooked steps, but with liquid power coursing through your veins. It’s not an easy thing to adjust to… and it will only become worse if you are to resist the transformation. Well, evolution, is the term I prefer.” Coriolanus framed it without offering as much as a twitch of concern that Billy may yet fall through the window and disappear into the night. He knew the limitations of a new blood… especially one that fought with the venom so viciously.

“It ain’t really a choice now, is it?” Billy noted bitterly as his body swung in an attempt to meet the cell floor writhing. “The moment you marked me, it was either takin’ this or a short dance with the noose,” he scoffed. “I'm a dead man walkin’, only question is how long I'll get to walk…”

“And that’s still a choice, cowboy—more than I’d offer anyone else in your position.” Coriolanus appeared almost bored by how difficult the outlaw was being. “Truly, I could've been doing something far more beneficial by now… like planning that Reaping good ol’ Catron promised our kind once he comes to rule,” he let slip.

Billy heard it though, even when he couldn't move his limbs, he'd remained lucid enough to gather whatever he could on the creature. “Now… hold on. Reapin’?”

That didn't sound good at all… if he was any judge of it. The whole ordeal spelled the start of hell on earth. Previously lurking in the shadows, the strigoi reign would befall the land, keeping it veiled in darkness—all the while those above the law kept their bellies full.

The vampire stilled, his shadows stopped their hum too, as though caught red-handed, feigning reluctance to divulge the whole story. What started as a genuine slip-up shaped up to conveniently place Billy back into his sphere of influence. Thus, the blonde-haired creature allowed it to simmer, twisting on the cot as if he was uneasy, as though the other man knowing may spell some awful end.

It only made the cowboy naively bite harder: “Don't leave it half-buried, diablo! I'll either die and never see another day… or I'll be your ‘kind’ too, now, won't I? I oughtta know.” Billy thought he had the upper hand even when it'd always been the walker who held all the cards.

Toying with the buttons of his immaculate sharp suit—velvet as blood, a vestigial breath leaked from Coriolanus’ lungs. “Tributes… offerings to us vampires. Instead of hunting about sporadically, we get to rid the land of its enemies.” His glinting eyes met Billy’s, sick satisfaction bleeding through the icy blue irises. “Convenient if you think about it really… it's how it was meant to be.”

“Reckon that suits the folks on top mighty fine.” Billy spat, breath turning sharp through his nose as the storm continued to brew in him.

Somehow, it always ended up like this—with honest people suffering. While the cowboy ran a thumb over his worn knuckles, like that would still him in any way, the vampire's shoulders were loose, like nothing weighted on them anymore.

Bracing an arm back to lay on it, Coriolanus challenged: “So… do something about it.”

Billy could now… hadn't the walker said so himself— he could become ‘someone who'd finally be able to make it right…’? Suddenly, the one path at the fork felt less like a damnation and more like sacrifice that called out to the cowboy.

But then again, if he were a vampire—what would it mean for them? Del was so accepting, so caring and kind that he had no doubt she’d welcome him no matter his predicament or shape. Because she loved and shared his vigorous search for the fairness of things.

If Billy returned inhuman, she’d still know his true nature… as he knew hers.

She’d help him find his way back home, back to her.

Siempre. Always.

More jarringly, he thought of what it would mean for her. She might not see him hang tomorrow but he would have to watch her wither away while he stayed frozen in time. That was a grave plight Billy couldn't stomach.

No “‘til death do us part”, because he'd never be returned to dirt. He’d never meet his parents, brother or all his fallen friends up in the stars. The same shining, mystical lights his father would turn to, assuring little Billy that everyone went there eventually—to keep watch over their loved ones below. The long low spell had consumed his pa… yet, even he, with a shadow over his mind, had met the sweet release of death. And Joe, and then Kathleen had joined him—finally together once again.

A vampire got no such universal kiss to bless him… For all that, maybe persevering is was what Billy owed them. For a moment, it felt like he could take a full and fresh breath, as though he'd be washed clean of his sins if only he could journey on. If there was a reason behind all the lives lost and all the sins he’d committed.

After all, what good would it do if he hung? It would've all been in vain, that was for certain—all the suffering and long roads, leading to nothing but another sunrise on a land terrorized by the Seven Rings.

“But… Del will die,” Billy murmured in quiet horror, “And I'll have to ride alone forever,” a conclusion, almost to himself as he looked away.

Then, his fingers fiddled with the rosary, its shine catching in what little candlelight remained; as though his reina might offer consolation through it. Coriolanus heard—of course he did—it was what the latter half of this tedious day had been building up to. Another nail removed from Billy’s coffin. Another step closer to sealing the preordained fate of the Alvarez seer.

“Aterna amantes… lovers, forever. Should she wish to join you on this journey—you can make her your vampire bride,” the ‘walker’ offered with ease. As though his fangs had already condemned many to a soulless existence.

Whence the room plunged into complete darkness, not with the sun setting, rather by the walker's will… Billy's final utterance laid beyond knowing. A smile or a grotesque contortion—his eyes were wide, his mouth hung open—

The crucifix burned against his chest. And his heart—once strong and fierce—seized its gallop.

Noon came and went with no word or trace of Billy. It was as though even the wind had forgotten his name while it whistled through the crooked, barely-mended fence he’d left yesterday. Del hated feeling powerless even if she was often forced into such circumstances—decisions being taken for her, rarely with. Giving her love to the cowboy was the first such ruling she could allow herself. Even then, it'd been one veiled in secrecy.

Tried as she might to brush Edward off, he didn’t leave her side for a second, which made her father very pleased. Bea had been talking her ear off about the wedding preparations when that was the last thing on Del’s mind—ever, and especially now.

Something was amiss with her vaquero…

He’d have sent word… unless he no longer could. Unless he’d been captured, taken flight as he might.

Every sound in the sitting room felt louder, magnified by her nerves stretching taut. No one was bothered that a person who readily put his life on the line for this rancho and for every farmer in the vicinity had gone missing. Not a single worry crossed their coddled minds; they were happy to bask in life’s mundane bounty so long as it may serve them to never get their reputations dirty.

What was one more life lost to ruthless men? It was better that it wasn’t them. No need to stick your head out, lest you lost it.

The sample fabrics for her future dress looked anything but innocently white. All she could see were the shadows that bled through the delicate lace, carrying a certain gloom instead of the blossoming excitement expected of a bride-to-be.

“‘S just the weight of the holy vows, hermanita,” Elena assured, warmth flowing through her words, though their content was a mere masquerade. She knew, in her heart of hearts, what was really eating away at her younger sister. “I remember mine own wedding like it was yesterday… Ay, Mateo was more shaken than I was! Thought the cabron might run for the hills!”

At least she’d been marrying someone who respected her, the younger Alvarez thought. Some lucked out with their arrangements, others—not so much. The other, spoke now, having been convinced of her place—

“It is a duty regardless,” Bea countered the high emotions with cold pragmatism, like she usually did. “Our battlefield is with the labours, not the land.”

Del’s eyes remained blank while she moved with habit instead of her usual spark. She reached for the offered tea cup only to whisk it awkwardly, spilling the deep red clover tea over the pristine materials. Even then, the girl didn’t move to correct her mess, just watched as though compelled, at the way the pale cloths soaked up the scarlet liquid with hunger.

Beatriz acted though—jumping in a fuss as Edward snatched Del’s wrist, offended at her carelessness for his investment in her.

“That is why you should’ve been sound asleep at your fiance’s side,” he reprimanded dangerously, leaning in to whisper the next sure threat: “—instead of pretending you pray for something that shall never come.”

“You’d do well to listen to your sister and your intended, Mary Delphine,” Don Rafael interjected firmly whence he returned from his rounds. Thick cigar smoke clouded his face, almost as dense as the dust the wind started to pick up outside. “A veces, you forget yourself, estrellita—saliste a tu mama… An Alvarez woman doesn’t wallow in dirt like a—”

“—Like a man?” Del challenged, finding her voice when the time called. Her initial catatonic stupor, forgotten as soon as she sensed the attempt to shove beliefs forcefully down her throat. “Tell me again, Papá… did abuelo scold you for tending your first foal? Or did he clap you on the back and call you ‘un vaquero verdadero’?”

Her gaze didn’t flinch even as the smoke from the cigar curled overwhelmingly strong into her face. Edward did rest his hand on her shoulder, but it was nothing short of claiming instead of calming or praising. The condescension in his voice like a live wire, a leash he attempted to tug her along with.

“Too much freedom spells ruin, sweetheart. Your father knows it well,” the lawyer said in a sickly sweet tone, “— ‘tis why I'm here—to care for you—”

“Care? You care for the idea of me. The Alvarez name, the land… the obedient ghost of a girl you think I’ll become,” Del retorted, “You want a wife who’ll fade into your shadow, Edward.” She stood up, discarding the previously intricate fabrics turned blood-like offerings in favor of holding her ground. She wasn't about to become small in the face of a play-pretend hunter. “Who'll birth your heirs and host your parties and never dare to have hands rougher than yours. But the truth is… You do not frighten me—not your influence, least of all your fragile, self-serving bearing.” Her conclusion came sharp as were her dark eyes, letting the remark hang between them.

Edward stepped forward appearing assured, though his eyes betrayed how utterly cornered he felt at the unexpected impertinence. Men who presumed bows and recognition would follow wherever their presence graced oft resorted to cruelty when their standing was threatened.

And this was no exception…

“Ah, you know it all, like always... little girl speaking on matters she cannot begin to conceive of.” His breath came out in shorter spurts, almost heaving as he seethed at her challenge. “So what is it that you want, Mary Delphine?” the low hissed continued, “To kneel at some hovel, scrubbing floors with that outlaw's bastard in your belly—”

A slap was about to ring through the hacienda, even the Don had seized his puffing—showcasing a quiet dislike at how his daughter was handled. Had her security with the lawyer always been a cage?

Had it not been for the loud bang at the door that made everything stop in its tracks, this could’ve turned ugly real fast.

“Don Alvarez—” Jose started, already out of breath as he swallowed the next words, forcing them to come out through his dry throat. “There's a man at the gates... he ain't from around. Pero, he's offerin’ a mad heap of cash for the Turner stallion.” A commonly joyous announcement, yet the man’s stiff lip revealed how unsettled he felt. “Says he won't be spillin’ more in front of ranch hands.”

“Un forasterito—all the better!” Don Ignacio sighed, welcoming the distraction and celebrating good news hastily. “Make sure he's well-greeted. A man like him wouldn’t know what he’s buyin’—just sees glory and speed.”

“If I may, jefe—shouldn’t we ask what he’s about? He didn’t even speak his name. Such a chance wager… somethin’ doesn’t smell right—” the foreman said in a hushed voice, worried to offer an opinion when it wasn’t asked.

“He wants a parley, we give him one. What would it say about mi negocio here if we cast him to the wolves, hm?” the old man spoke harshly, leaving no way around his storm, only through it. “Either he's desperate or he thinks we are. And I’d hate to think you mistook me for the desperate one, muchacho?”

Unbeknownst to the prideful Don, the the wolf was already at his door, draped in the skin of a lamb. An apparently rich lamb.

Jose shook his head in valiant denial of the accusations and with the muttered apologies that rained down—all was at its place once again. All the while, Del wondered if the arrangement with Edward had unfolded much the same fashion. Like a horse to be traded to the highest bidder, the most ravenous of wolves.

The stranger was peculiar, Del could immediately tell. For one, he continued to stand outside the gates, even as the Don and his envoys approached, as though some unseen force was keeping him repelled from crossing the estate's boundaries. Weirder still, no carriage awaited his eventual departure. Had he made his way on foot? Impossible, his skin was so pale it bordered on transparent—as though the sun ought to burn him where he stood.

His face looked young—no older than herself or Billy—but there was a certain callousness that lay heavy in his eyes, masked by a pleasant smile. It wasn’t forced the way Edward’s bestial grin with bared teeth usually was. Instead, the outsider’s lips sealed his pearly whites into a smirk sharp enough to cut, but charismatic enough to hide any carnality.

“Good day, Don Alvarez,” a smooth voice rang as the newcomer lowered his hat to reveal a crown of sun-gold hair, a mock halo, “I must admit I’ve heard many tales of your stallions—each more grand than the last. One would think you’re breeding beasts instead of noble mounts.”

“Ah, creatures can be whatever you make of ‘em, señor—” the Don stopped, clearing his throat, “Perdon, I didn’t catch your name quite so soon?”

“No apologies needed, I don’t supply it to just anyone. After all,” the stranger set his cold eyes on Del for whatever reason and an unpleasant chill ran through her. “—names hold power.”

Sheepish laughs ensued at the dramatics displayed, though the way his voice had dropped, so convinced, left the youngest Alvarez at a loss for words.

“Coriolanus Snow, it really is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The pale one shook hands with the Don, but a part of his attention was always set on Del.

“How Shakespearean,” she muttered, trying to shake off the unease. “Let's hope you have more respect for the common folk than your namesake.”

Frighteningly, the man heard even if her huff should have been carried by the wind. His smile settled wider and void of any warmth—an uncanny attempt at playing human. Del could swear she’d seen him somewhere before… though she doubted she’d misremember a man with a face sculpted by angels and eyes bestowed by demons. Maybe in her dreamlike moments? That was the only place such a visage belonged—both enamoring and plaguing.

Ranch hands were already making preparations, though they more so attempted to look busy with it, respectfully unwilling to tempt fate when it came to halting Relámpago without Billy around. It'd been a shared trust between the outlaw and the ‘Lightning’—watching him with the black stallion made it easy to forget the animal had once sent a grown man over the fence. Billy didn't gentle him as much as the horse chose not to fight him—a recognition of tried spirits.

“Entonces, bienvenido, Señor Snow—my foreman will gladly show you ‘round. Can even take the beast for a spin!” Don Ignacio assured, speaking far too soon.

Only when his welcome and name were spoken did the stranger cross the gates with a heavy step. Taking in his surroundings as though he'd been blind to them before this passage was granted, his whole body flinched quickly from the juniper tree, much the same way one way one would recoil from a burning flame. On instinct.

“Jefé… Bonney minds Relámpago better than the rest of us is all. I ain’t sayin’ he can't be handled—” Jose attempted to make the old man see reason.

But just like back at the hacienda, when it was his reputation on the line, an Alvarez never backed down. He ushered Doña Manuela to keep the guest busy while he dealt with the ramifications of the inept staff.

“You mean to tell me I should've heeded a desperado instead of my best man?” The Don's face turned red like he'd eaten something far too hot for his palate. Though there rarely was such a thing save for his own temperament—even he couldn't stomach his own fury sometimes. “Don't you ever bleed such weakness in front of a buyer!”

“Papá—” Del offered, “Billy’s shown me the ropes with Relámpago. He trusts me in stride.”

The Alvarez patriarch turned slowly as though waking up from his anger.

“Great! What would the esteemed señor say, huh? That my own men cannot handle the stallion, but my hija can…” her father scoffed, but his head shook in that softened way—happy to admit defeat when it was delivered by his own. The same way he'd hide a smile when Del would best him in a game of backgammon.

“I'll see to it that he remains confident in our business, Papá,” she assured in a tired voice, that worry for Billy ever gnawing at her, “—fast and sure as lighting.” A strained smile cracked on her face.

A tug at her dress pulled her from the depths of her thought. She'd already been restless, sure, but the moment this Mr. Snow entered, she'd felt as though a heavy shadow was draped on her already preoccupied shoulders.

Antonio continued his attempts to get her attention. He was far too excitable after his afternoon nap so he resorted to listen in on the commotion, knowing his mother would just send him reading instead.

“Tía Del, where’s tío gone to? He promised he’d make me a resortera! Said I’m real young and too spoiled to be shootin’ yet,” Antonio spoke so fast, like his dreams hadn't been eventful enough, mimicking Billy’s lower timbre dramatically. A pout dawning his face, he expected to wake up to surroundings that catered to him—like any small boy who hadn’t yet seen hardship.

“I couldn't say, Tony… I tried telling your abuelo he should send riders to see about,” Del glared feeling surrounded by traitors save for her nephew. “It ain’t like Billy to abandon work.” She let her care show this time around. Let her father see what real love ought to look like.

Beatriz looked red as a tomato when she'd heard her son call the outlaw ‘uncle’ again. Promptly, she pulled Antony by the ear, scolding. “Señor Cardew's your tío, you little rascal! You hear!”

Two birds with one stone—reprimanding her son while condemning her sister for the perceived frivolity of allowing Edward be pushed to the sidelines. For trying to set things right by her heart when everyone involved, save for the sole beneficiary of the dowry and the Alvarez patriarch turned broker of false safety, wanted out of this arrangement.

“Unless there’s trouble—and for low-lives like him, bad omen sticks like a tick on a stray hound!” Edward offered in a loud bark, “Who’s to say they didn’t catch him. Don Alvarez was wise to hide him out far from here… what would have happened if the sheriff came knocking?!”

“Well, you for one would’ve shown the white feathers, that much is certain.” Del’s tone bit back. “Billy would die with more honor than you've ever lived with.”

Though it was a sentiment she didn't want to conceive of… it didn't make it any less true for judging the lawyer’s moral character. She could only hope that day wouldn't come soon.

Through it all, the men simply took to speak over her. Only the pale outsider met her eyes—blue, like Billy’s but calculating, so unlike. As though he was observing the beat of her very heart, he set his whiskey glass on the porch table. That was when Del knew she had to quell her fire or suffer its burn herself. To rein herself in, lest her well-placed worry be reduced to a hysterical outburst in the eyes of the beholders.

Her next words released the tension slowly and carefully. “I’ve been plagued by this nagging question ever since I saw you comfortably waiting on me, Edward. You seem far too certain something befell him. Sure, it may not be a stretch, given his reputation, but for someone so mistrustful, you rest so easily with it…” she muttered in suspicion, a chill running through her as she took her fiance in.

How gloating he appeared, smirking like a coyote in a henhouse. As though he had a hand in the ordeal—that would be the only explanation as to his passiveness.

“Ay, mija—aléjate de esas malas andanzas!” her father ordered. ‘Bad ways’, as though it wasn’t a human life on the line, but someone dispensable. “We offered him shelter and that's that. His business is with Tunstall and his fate rests with the Lord. I ain’t gonna overstep and risk mi familia, ni mi negocio.”

The words rang final… better survive than stick your neck out in the end. No, Don Alvarez was never lenient, he just knew how to pick his battles.

“Ahora, ve con Dios, ‘fore I change my mind and let José showcase Relámpago after all.”

A final warning, one that Del would heed, swallowing down the bitter lump in her throat. She nodded, muttering an agreeable deflection. Pick her battles she shall in stride.

Mr. Snow didn't look like a man who wanted to buy the stallion for a race. Those types were usually far more impulsive, even the ones who viewed themselves as kings among gamblers… they were still slaves to the habit.

Not this man though. Coriolanus looked all but bored, far more engaged in a conversation with Del than actually trying to appraise Relámpago's speed.

“If you'd follow me to the fence line, señor?” She kept up the pleasantries even as the meadow called for her to run to Billy. “Gauge the speed of our lightning. He doesn't shy away from a challenge.”

“Please, call me Coriolanus. I may be a potential patron, but a little star like yourself… you are the one holding the reins after all, no?” A low voice rang, much more gravelly than what he'd shown before. “And I'd much rather see how you handle pressure.”

It was like the words didn't come out of his lips but from the very shadows that danced around the corral. Del was growing heavier with unease at how observant the stranger was, at how piercing his presence stood. Not only could he hear much clearer than a normal person ought to be able to, it was as if he could peer into her very essence, gouging out what lay in her heart's desires.

That nickname her father had for her—the audacity the strange man displayed of using it so freely... if she didn't feel like a snared rabbit, she might have spoken her mind about it. Yet, there she remained— paralyzed by the snake's venom.

Relámpago matched her weariness, pawing at the ground until she soothed him with a gentle hand on his mane. The whites of his eyes were still showing, the poor animal—seeing more than a simple beast should.

“Ah, protective that one. Much like your cowboy—I see why they are kindred.” Coriolanus came closer, breath almost tickling at Del’s neck.

A stutter caught in her throat as she moved away, feeling her skin crawl. “H-how do you—?” Her words failed her.

“It’s my curse—knowing what others yearn for, while the bane you carry… is to know what shall befall them in the end,” The pale man raised his hand gently, setting his thumb between her eyebrows, tracing with sudden reverence. She tried to take a step back only to be greeted by the fence that stood in disrepair, courtesy of Billy’s neglect. “You've seen me in your dreams, have you not? Same way you saw your Billy…”

The strange man spoke matter-of-factly; as though he wasn't uncovering tales that Del had been told were better left buried under her pillow or carried away by the juniper tree.

“Who are you?” she whispered, trying to still her trembling hands.

“That isn’t for you to know, little star.” Coriolanus’ hand dropped abruptly, fingers pulsing in a fist. “The cowboy's walked that road to your heart,” he concluded with a sharp icy hiss, sounding almost disappointed. “Go now, while your father's men are none the wiser and let lightning carry you to his cabin…” A wide smirk spread, fangs glistening on display at last. “He must’ve grown ravenous by now.”

Her blood wouldn’t sing to Coriolanus. Turning her was in the hands of the outlaw now—a powerlessness the vampire hated.

Whence Del tried to blink away this waking nightmare, searching for answers… He was gone. As though he flew away on the dark wings of shadows, or maybe got swallowed by them.

She wasted no time, a spell more and her father might’ve come to check in on the deal with the devil. Relámpago carried her toward the cabin without need for much direction, knowing where trouble awaited.

A storm always came with lighting.

Del’s haze finally lifted when she saw the cabin up ahead—no sign of Billy’s horse, door flung wide open. The moment she stepped closer, she saw it wasn't just hanging—the wood was splintered almost in half across the width, like someone burst in… or couldn't be contained. She traced the shard of what was left as though it would speak out what had transpired.

Then, a loud bang—

Out of the corner of the dimmed room—something tumbled, eager to make itself known.

Del flinched, cutting herself on the rough canines of the door. Wincing as it pierced her skin, a fresh drop of blood was drawn, trickling down. Her eyes followed its crimson path… to find her rosary. The one Billy wore proudly now lay abandoned on the cabin floor. Its beads had spilled like someone had yanked it while it'd been secured around his neck still.

Compelled to enshrine the precious gift, she knelt, heart beating so loud she could hear its thump reverberate in her ears. The moment the metal graced her skin, it burned blinding hot, searing its shape across her fingers. Del jerked her hand back, shaking it vigorously as the cross dropped with a clank.

What could have caused such a thing?

It was like the crucifix had been held over the potent flames of a blacksmith fire. Whatever the reason was… it had to be within a whisper of the cabin still, with how the heat managed to linger. Del could feel panic bubbling up in her chest, stinging at her throat as small tears began to well up in her eyes. Not enough to spill, but plenty to blur her vision. She shook her head, drawing a sharp breath—she had to endure whatever uncertainty lay ahead.

Something bolted, slithering down the wall like a shadow incarnate.

A growl, like that of a feral dog.

It made Del's lungs draw little hiccups of dread, she reached for her penknife; the one she used to sharpen the graphite when she’d teach—always on her in case. Trying as she might to inhale the thick air, it was to no avail. Whatever presence was in the room with her had her pinned in place.

Surely, her mind was playing tricks on her with the setting sun. It couldn't be—

Billy… eyes red as the droplets of blood that still perched on her fingertip. He didn't speak, couldn't utter a word, only grumbling gnarls pushed through gritted teeth.

“Billy!” Del made for him even in this state, her small knife clattering to the ground. She needed to feel him with her own two hands. “Mi alma… what's happened?!”

He didn’t flinch from her approach, even if every instinct in his body screamed in fire to push her away—sensing what his new essence was capable of, what it was beckoning him to do. Especially when he could smell her blood, dripping from her finger like the most tempting Ambrosia.

Drink, take, satiate.

‘My soul’, she'd uttered in that loving timbre… Was there even such a ghost inhabiting Billy still? Or was it all carved out, with just sin cursed to forever dwell in the pit of his being?

His gentle spirit that didn't need to assert, but simply guided those around, now felt like a distant mirage. Just emptiness remained, and an ever-growing need to make it whole again.

As she cradled his cheeks, she could sense an odd, stark coldness radiating from his skin. A far cry from the warmth he'd radiate after basking in the sun, so full of life, now his very movements sat strangely on him—so fitful like he might pounce on anything daring to move in his field of vision.

His eyes darted wildly, a hollow gleam pulsing in them, so unsure of what it was he was searching for.

Something, anything to quench the thirst.

“Run, reina,” Billy’s voice was inhuman, rumbling from his chest. “Please, I had to—!”

An invisible, inward battle was occurring as he shook, trying to hold himself back. He doubled over in pain, cramps squeezing from his teeth through his stomach.

She'd understand—

He just needed a taste, her sweet essence pumped so loudly from her heart, blossoming through her veins. What delight it'd be to have it running down his parched throat, soothing the ache.

No, Heaven, no!

Had he taken leave of his senses so deeply? The devil had whispered in his ear and took with him Billy's humanity… but the cowboy would have liked to envision it'd be a far less rude awakening. That his reason and heart may yet prevail—

But its beat had left him the moment he fled the cell with the searing of the cross against his chest.

“What do you mean?!” Del whispered urgently, hands moving with purpose to gather the full extent of his state. “I can't leave you like this—I won't!” she declared, steadfast.

He wasn't sweating, no cough split his chest in torture— all maladies urged her toward a conclusion that it couldn't be the bite of a mad dog unsettling him so. The rage didn't show its ill effects with such haste.

When her words reached Billy, he attempted to thrash away, albeit weakly. His accursed strength could only find him only once he's feasted. While he was gravely terrified of causing her harm… an awakened spawn knew nothing of temperance or preservation—only consumption.

“Del… I beg of you—” Billy hissed, unable to recognize his own voice even as it pleaded for her safety. “It's not safe.”

He wasn’t safe. The only place she’d found home in now threatened to devour her whole.

She just shushed him, not grasping what faith she was condemning herself to—a moth drawn to a funeral pyre. Del continued her assessment, tears brimming in her eyes as she grew more and more weary. How could she hope to cure him if she couldn't see the source of his ailment?

Then, once her careful fingers reached the valley of his chest, she saw it and her breath trapped itself in her throat. The crucifix shape stood branded in his flesh—the only warm presence still sizzling there.

Before Del could think to ask, her world tilted with her thoughts. It all happened so fast; one moment Billy was still holding the battle front, and the next—the beast had won. A deep growl ripped from between his teeth the moment her fingers had reminded him of what he'd lost. Then, it was all anger and need.

He grabbed her over his shoulder as his fingers dug into the flesh of her calf, pinning his prey onto the bed with such force that the decrepit headboard threatened to give out. Her eyes turned frantic now as did her short breaths that couldn't reach her lungs, trying to find her Billy under all the animality that had consumed him.

“Snap out of it, Billy!” she attempted, more a plead than a command for she sensed nothing could rein him in now.

Human words failed him— the only language he now knew was that of bloodlust. She saw them… gleaming through what little light made it in with the setting sun. Fangs, sharp and ready.

He was heaving now, pain searing through him like a branding iron—the moment that'd seal him as a monster was nigh, inevitable. Del understood… She knew it now—that he'd relinquished everything to return to her, to be free in the only way this land would allow. Become the beast or suffer its claws.

She accepted it with grace, welcomed him back when his fisted hands scrambled to her bodice and ripped it wide open. Buttons scattered like raindrops as she braced herself. And then, his fangs sunk just below her collarbone. The sound was crisp, like biting into a fresh apple, mixing with her shrill scream that was suddenly edged with an involuntary moan.

Too much, too painful, yet it was Billy who delivered it so… her Billy.

He lapped at the gushing drops, not close enough to the bone to hurt, afraid to touch her neck lest he leave her drained or even mauled. Here, close to her breasts and beating heart was a place he once knew well, now getting reacquainted to its softness in this new form.

The moment he heard her whimpers, something else stirred within Billy. With new blood coursing through his undead veins, the contrast between his cold body and her inviting warmth left him dizzy. Not as lightheaded as his reina though, as he found the calling to bite anew, feeling it'd never be enough. It was at her right arm now, just above the shoulder… closer still to her neck but sucking in what he could reach from here.

The sounds were wet and filthy in of themselves and treacherous wetness started pooling between her legs. She couldn't believe herself… that she'd leaned into the touch of a vampire. Yet she knew it wasn't a beast wrapped in Billy’s skin, but her love himself. Keeping her safe even when he couldn't trust himself. He'd hate what he'd become once his lucidity came back to him, she was sure of it. She'd welcome him nonetheless.

“I'm sorry—I'm sorry—” he chanted in a throaty whisper when he came up. Not for air, but for repentance.

Lips stained, blood dripping past his chin and onto the scar that he bore on his chest. She traced it then and assured…

“It's okay, Billy… Come back to me.” Del begged. “Take what you need, mi vida.”

His eyes were still wild, still not his blue calming pools. She wasn't sure whether he'd heard her permission, far too consumed with satiating all needs that befell him in that moment. His cock, hard and aching, pressed against her, just as insistent as his fangs had been. She allowed him to sink everywhere, with everything he'd got. Even the harsh rhythm of his humping was an evidence of the deep need to devour her. Billy drove into her like he might find salvation somewhere along the road, desperate for it with every groan. With each thrust, it only felt like he was reaching deeper into her; be it because he'd fed from her or just because he was chasing carnality of a different kind, she felt as though her place was right here.

In blasphemous Heaven.

Del met his movements, bracing herself against the bed even as it creaked in protest, even as she knew she had to feel ashamed for chasing a high in such a low moment. It was their shared sin.

“Billy, please—” she’d started begging for more, for him. “Te amo…” she whispered through a whimper.

He’d been a kind lover every time they lay together, only ever demanding when he’d been worked to the ground and so needed a save haven to bury himself in. On these long summer days, it’d been reckless abandon and surrender, now it was just greed—fangs drawing gulps upon gulps while his cock plunged into her seeping warmth, over and over.

She reveled too in this newfound ecstasy, the pain from her blood being drained slowly mixing with the sweet sensation of him filling her. His hands were just as demanding, that primal part of him that darkened his vision guiding his fingers to worship each bite mark that bloomed behind his feasting. That touch left a bloody trail in its wake, his religious icon being painted.

“So good f’me, Del—fuck,” he groaned, tongue darting to wet his lips and then soothe the two small marks his fangs had left on her wrist. “I needed this, darlin’, you know I did—I just had to—”

It wasn’t long before Del shattered around him, walls pulsing around his cock in sync with her racing heart. Her palpable pleasure, his name spilling from her lips, made Billy blink awake for a spell, clarity shining in his eyes. His fingers stilled where they’d kneaded at her breasts. Terror permeated his face at the sight of his love covered in her own blood, his crimson handprints around her ribs and hips where he was holding her. He was too far gone to stop himself though, her warmth gushing around his cock was all too much—

“A chroí—” a strained moan left him as he spilled deep inside her. Branding as the blood he'd spilled from her.

‘My heart’, because hers had to beat for him now too.

Then, Billy was heaving, though his lungs didn't require it. In a flash, he scrambled back off the bed, horrified once he'd seen what he'd brought upon. Del moved with the same flow, as though some invisible tether was pulling her in as she crouched onto the floor next to him, showing him she hadn't been afraid, and wasn't about to be now.

“Billy, Billy—mi vida, miramé,” she spoke in a careful hush, worried he might flee. “I’m fine, more than that even! I needed to—wanted to help you in any godforsaken way I could! You came back to me… that’s all that matters.”

She rested her head on his hard chest… but no living hum greeted her there and she wondered if she’d just uttered a lie. If she could really take him as he was now—unliving, frozen in time. Del felt Billy’s ribs constrict in short little bursts… he was crying. In that burning way that left one’s throat sore and chest aching with exertion. This wasn’t a tarnished form, it was him still—what had become of him was just another step they’d take together. Love was the strongest power in existence, she wholeheartedly believed; theirs was pure and shall remain so even if one of their paths was tainted.

“I ain’t scared of dyin’, Del,” Billy choked out. “I was terrified of what I’ll leave behind—of you seein’ me swing and it all not bein’ worth a damn!”

Even now, after being laid bare, he needed to assure that it hadn’t been cowardice that drove him to shake the Devil’s hand, but the call to justice the two of them shared. And her, always her.

“Sí, ya sé… lo sé,” Del chanted, keeping him close even as she felt all he had to sacrifice. “It’s still you, vaquero,” She looked up, taking him in—still covered in blood, mixed with the bitter tears of regret. Only a man with kindness in his soul would think twice about taking life eternal, and Billy was definitely such a man. “Despite everything, it’s still you.”

He hadn’t become anything monstrous, the stuff of nightmares. No, Del knew nightmares, knew men of ugly actions and uglier intentions—and her cowboy, the trembling yet fierce lover that stood in front of her, wasn’t either of these things.

Ever-searching, ever-fighting… eternity would suit him well.

He strides in, shoulders broad and raised, tattoos only peeking slightly beneath a striped sweater. The soft pastel green and blue against the cream stitching look so captivating on him, echoing a subtle glow back into his eyes. He doesn't seem ill at ease in the slightest—wearing the hat of a tempered criminal when it suited his needs.

A true social chameleon answering your challenge.

And so, you wait—having learned from him that stillness means preparation. A game of chicken after days of silence. Who will take flight first? He really tries to make it seem casual, you have to give him that—snatching his patient ticket and taking his place in line… all but looking bored. Yet, he is further away from the volunteer before him than is necessarily needed.

The plastic chair digs into your back as he looms over you, even taller in this arrangement… even more intoxicating.

You look up, blinking slowly like a cat indicating no ill intent. “What are you doing here, Dee?” You whisper through your teeth, catching a whiff of the cigarette ashes that have seeped through the polyester fabric of his sweater. Rot… but the lavender is still there—notes of it lingering and defining.

Dee tuts as he burrows his hands into his pockets. “Don't flatter yourself, angel. Smithie here is a valued customer in the garage, so I came as a... ‘professional courtesy’ you could say,” He shrugs, continuing to feign nonchalance.

“Ah the good Samaritan…”, you nod along, a sour feeling bubbling up on your tongue. “Though, I find it telling that you were somehow signed up for this slot. I thought you don't like ‘forced t’ings’?”

The way you ring his accent makes some warm feeling climb up his neck—hairs standing on end. His eyes look sunken and tired, almost bitter that he'd slapped that label on the two of you.

“Maybe I saw a thing or two back at the garage… and before then even. Things that intrigue me, you feel.” He stretches, cracking his shoulders but doesn't look down to where you remain seated. Like he's unsure what his eyes may reveal. “You seem like a ball of nerves when I pull shit or when stuff corners you, but then you untangle it all like a curious kitten. I gotta see what makes you tick, still.”

A free breath leaves you—challenge accepted. You barged into his world, it’s only fair that he returns the favor.

When he catches your convinced smile, he proceeds to effortlessly tuck in the numbered card up his long sleeve with just his fingers. When he takes a quick look around and deems that no one is interested in what he's cooking up in the slightest, he slithers it over to the papers you are clutching at. Dealer’s tricks work their magic even when he cleaned up. You look at the laminated number, gloss catching in the lamp light and see… ‘7’.

“Ha, lady luck has my back today?” You raise a brow, still looking up at him, tapping rhythmically on the cork back of your clipboard. “You know… I have to draw blood today. I doubt these long sleeves roll up above your elbow?”

Dee finally meets your eyes at that and you see the gentleness that dances in his irises in a reluctant pulse. “Oh, angel, personally… I prefer making my own luck.” A pause as he tests the durability of the sweater, rolling it up. And sure enough, his biceps get in the way. “Well, I can always take it off. And I won't be crying about no privacy screen.” He dares to shoot you a wink and you feel his gaze settle on the tattoo, hidden beneath your scrubs.

The ink is starting to feel searing hot.

When the time comes, you go to the plastic bowls for a fake draw and repeat the slight of hand trick he'd executed… but reversed in a sense. Burying your hand in the myriad of cards that poked at your fingers made it easier to execute, that's for sure. But you still feel proud of yourself, given that the good doctor remained none the wiser to your dash of curated luck.

It's weird and fascinating all at once, to be treating Dee as if you don't know him—explaining what tests need to be done, what questions you'll be asking. Calling him ‘sir’ all throughout.

Your stomach sinks when you skim the final question for the intake, feeling like a train has ran you over as your lips move on their own, forcing out a mumble. “Are you sexually active?”

The idiot has the audacity to look proud, lazily stretching his legs.

“Very,” he simply states, so much like him to boast about it.

This one ends up being an angrier note than the rest—pen scratching the paper, ink bleeding through the page as you mark the check. It's not like you are in any sort of defined relationship with him—it's foolish to believe you're exclusive… given that there was nothing to be exclusive about. The two of you haven't even kissed for crying out loud… the intimate touches were just… exploration. Two people wanting closeness.

He takes in your reaction while his legs continue to swing in attempted inattention. You don't need to know he's full of shit… not yet anyhow.

Sure, he rang Cindy—his go-to girl for ‘exchanging favors’ but it wasn't like before… She was a hot little thing, he always thought. Convenient too, because she knew whay buttons to push to please him. A perfect distraction when he had to prove to himself he could still do ‘casual’. Cindy wouldn't expect anything more, anything bothersome—unlike someone else he knew.

Yet, when she'd been in his ‘office’, on her knees, sucking his dick—Dee could pretend to get lost in the physical relief but… it felt empty. His eyes always wandered to his phone and your messages. Cindy could tell his head was somewhere else—not that she usually minded when it meant getting her fix quicker. This time though, it'd felt especially weird—not his usual bottled anger but an uncharacteristic steadiness that coiled in his tense muscles. What's wrong, big D?’, she'd asked and the nickname made him nauseous. It was funny… pathetic. That the sleazy things he used to get off on before, now failed to give him any gratification whatsoever. He would always reach the same conclusion—that you'd made him want dangerous things…

As you instruct him to lean forward so you can listen in on his breathing with the stethoscope, he whispers low enough for just your ears to catch: “Is it weird that I find this hot, little nurse?”

You knee at his dangling shin gently enough to deliver the reprimanding message. “Please, stay still, sir. I hear some wheezing when you exhale. Could you take another deep breath for me?”

“You ain't helpin’ my case, angel…” Dee mumbles in mock irritation but pent up desire frays at the edges of his voice while he follows your instructions anyway.

“And out—” you guide, paying his flirtatious attempts little mind. You keep telling yourself that, but your heartbeat rings in your ears alongside the small whistling you unfortunately hear again.

Worry washes over your face as you quickly glance at the history you managed to take in during the questions-and-answers. You focus on the ‘chest tightness’ and ‘shortness of breath’ he reported. Initially, you noted them as potentially psychosomatic but now… there's more context to add.

“I'll have to recommend you for follow-up assessments for possible asthma based on these… but first I need to make record of any habits that may be exacerbating the symptoms,” you explain with a dry throat as you hear Doctor Smith approach your chairs. You swallow hard, feeling a twitch in your thumb joints from the overexertion… and the earlier stimulants. But you force yourself to continue. Not just for the grade this time, but chiefly—for Dee's sake.

“Do you smoke? If yes—what and how often?”

Sure, you already know the answer but you have to put on a show for Smith. Especially when the old doctor looks quietly impressed by what you were able to so astutely catch on in your ‘patient’.

“I'm an asthmatic weed fanatic…” Dee raps proudly, the acapella arrangement accompanied by a shit-eating, ear-to-ear grin. No grand applause follows though. “… It's a Skepta lyric…” he explains with a sigh, pinching his nose like he's offended you aren't aware of the grime culture titan. But when you continue to look unimpressed and concerned, he switches gears: “Fine, fine. You can make a note that I smoke it… medicinal-like. For my back pain and shit—four times a week give or take.”

Dee takes a once-over as you write it diligently. When he notices all the decorations you've put on your clipboard—random stickers with cute cartoons— he can't help but add: “Is that straight enough for your charts and stickers, angel?”

“Yes, sir… That will be all.” You clear your throat, attempting to remain professional. A big sigh of relief follows when Smith jots something undeniably positive in his assessment sheet. Then, you turn back to Dee: “Please, watch your blood pressure as well. It was high, but… a lot of patients can be nervous.” You respond with a tease of your own, though you add in a whisper after the doctor leaves. “This wasn't a laughing matter, Dee… you could've had an asthma attack at any point. You don't even know what triggers to avoid and you smoke like a chimney!”

“‘Triggers’, angel? Seriously? We only live once—and I sure as hell know to avoid any triggers on actual guns and enjoy my time in this shithole. Not whatever tomfoolery this is…” His voice may be dismissive, but he reaches for your notes with some underlying determination.

“No,” you say in a huff, not letting go of the paper so he doesn't run away from this again. When he raises a brow in question, you continue with a smooth but serious voice: “We live everyday. We only die once. So it's best that day comes later rather than sooner…”

Dee stops for a second, halfway done with tucking in the papers into his pocket. He lets out a noncommittal noise… yet something in his body language screams that a slower, more deliberate and cognizant process is taking place.

Like he is contemplating the merits of finally letting himself be cared for… with a gentleness he once knew but has long believed dead.

After the practical, it's like a dam broke open. Dee feels more compelled to try and work on showing up for the good and the bad. Not always in the best shape for the deeper conversations, but it's the effort that counts. He has to repeat to himself that ‘effort’ doesn't mean ‘forcing’ things to work so much as it's adjusting and working through something together.

A previously unfamiliar concept to a lone survivor.

When he can't, you go with him to the gym, so he can redirect that frustration somewhere else. Doing push-ups with you on top of him was a surprisingly fun experience for you and a sure ego boost moment for him.

You, for your part, also try to be straight with him—voicing your worries when you can instead of letting them rule you. When you can't, he lets you sit pressed against his chest and you listen to his heart—until its language makes you speak up. He tries to not take your silence personally, though he still has a hard time understanding how you can dissociate so intensely. As someone who lets reactions show and consume him first, it's yet another very foreign notion.

But… you both can learn something from the other—his tendency to jump and bite could cost him greatly if he crosses the wrong person. And you, well—you can use less thinking sometimes and more impulsivity. Doctor Dee's orders…

You both have patterns that once served your survival but no longer make you whole—only let you spiral in case of a clash. Letting go of something that's defined you is hard, but it's better to live everyday, instead of being afraid this is your one chance. Better not to fly away like each of you had dreamt of in your own ways, but stay present to greet another morning.

You can think on it all day while the sun warms up your face through the delicate curtains, but then your phone buzzes at the vanity—

Still on for 2nite? I'll pick you up at 7. Pack a bag.

A bag? Yet another confusing direction … you'd slept over at the gang’s house a couple of times when movie nights got too late. ‘Note to self: ‘Scarface’ is marginally less stupid when Dee does a Tony Montana impersonation.’

Most of all though, cuddling up next to him, you had such sound rest that you never wanted to leave.

So… was this an invitation for something more serious? If he planned ahead…

I hope I won't be your first murder victim?

His response arrives quickly and you can already feel his cheeky smile through the pixels—

That depends. Will you behave?

You twirl your phone as you open his cigarette case he left with you for ‘safekeeping’. As you take one stick in your mouth, the cheap rolling paper sticks and crumbles lightly in your fingers—moldable but efficient.

You send the response before you ceremoniously light it, smoke curling up your nostrils:

That also depends…

“Smartmouth…” Dee chuckles to himself as he shoves his phone into the glove box of his car.

Ahead, the view of his men moving furniture and cleaning weeds greets him below the hot and high noon sun.

He has to admit, your grandfather's house is a thing of beauty—a wide acre of land that looked like a proper place for a throne. Secluded but not decrepit… he will take better care of it than your father ever could.

It's another step toward trying to make something out of old wounds instead of cutting the rot clean off. A weirdly poetic way of doing it—he almost wants to slap himself awake.

Then, he imagines your confused but appreciative surprise—how your eyes will light up in disbelief, how your whole body will thrum, because he did something right… and that fuels his strength.

“Where are we going, Dee? Come on!” You whine in protest as he drives off the campus.

“It's a surprise, angel… a good one.” He sounds so convinced it's contagious. As he grips the wheel harder, his other hand only reluctantly and occasionally leaves your thigh when he has to shift. “We are ‘practicin’ trust and confidence’, innit?”

You almost pout at the way he adopts your vocabulary with suspicious enthusiasm and mischievous accuracy whenever he can use it to his advantage. Shifting to face his eyes that are still focused dead ahead on the road, you become mesmerized by the way the shadows of the dense trees cover parts of his face, ever-changing like his moods. When he feels you shift, his left cheek twists into a crooked pull that makes you chuckle.

You finally find the words to speak again: “Yeah… honesty too though!”

“You always have something to say, ey?” Dee glances over and meets your gaze at last.

You see the playfulness that burns through his features and it urges you to squeeze your thighs together in response, effectively trapping his hand just above your knee. But he is in to play it seems—answering swiftly by digging his fingers against your softness. The cheeky ministration reaches the desired boiling point, eliciting a whimper from you, effectively forcing you to spread your legs apart in an attempt to stop the dull throbbing. Once you release his biting palm, Dee lets out a deep chuckle in satisfaction and takes it as permission to drum short and light slaps at your inner thigh with a loping, almost lazy beat—like you are his personal instrument to play his tune on.

“You quite finished, angel? Take care of the music f'me, enjoy the scenery and feed me that shit gas station coffee every now and again, yeah? You won't get a better deal…”

“You're still talking like you're selling something to me!” you accuse in a banter, but he just dangles the AUX cable in your face.

Relent you shall… as you play some of his preferred songs. It isn't your cup of tea but him serenading more than makes up for the bass that rattles your bones.

Once you follow his advice and look out the car window, you swear you recognize the swirly higher roads. Even the trees echo memories of quiet, safe summers. They don't seem taller—maybe because you are all grown up too… The question that seeks confirmation dies in your throat and you just try to let things happen, instead of stressing over and controlling every possible outcome. Dee seems pleased as you settle into the passenger seat… and a little less so when he gulps down the metallic aftertaste of that coffee.

Sure enough, you pull down the tight unpaved road that leads up to your grandfather's house—your eyes transfixing on its white walls that appear more yellow in the setting sun. It's like someone is showing you a picture… you can't believe you're actually here. Like a day hasn't passed yet you've lived a thousand lives ever since. The intermediate owners seem to have taken great care of the place—probably made it all theirs on the inside, but that could never erase the memories you built throughout or in the garden.

Your jaw still hangs wide when Dee casually opens the gates. As you blink awake from the blurry haze, you mumble: “Don't tell me you…”, you inhale the smell of freshly cut grass and try to continue with a stuttering breath, “—you bought it, Dee… Why?”

He stands next to you, respecting your space, even letting time stretch wide and accommodating as the reminiscing flows. “Figured the place was used to criminal activity… it's private but not suffocating. Not like the city apartments where you need a doorman twenty-four-seven.”

He lays it on thick—all these practical perks, but when your eyes land on the campfire spot—already fitted with trunks and quilts for seating, you realize he's still holding back on diving into the full story, on expanding his chest and letting honesty flow out.

It can't be just the convenience… He'd never reduce your past to such crude, simple terms.

“It's also seen plenty of love and hope.” You counter as you tangle your fingers through the vine-ridden fence.

Dee huffs from behind your back. It's almost like his breath catches at how right the words ring. Time is freezing over again… imaginary chilly air prickling at his skin. Like it had at the tattoo shop, when all he had to worry about was you—your breath and your natural movements that somehow keep him in a trance.

He twists back, whistling for Taylor who's still battling with the lawnmower. When he manages to get the other man's attention, Dee gestures across his neck in a cut-off motion—ensuring it's quiet, ensuring he can try and stay present with you…

Once the only sound either of you can hear is the ambient trills of cricket wings, he finally takes a step towards you. “I could tell it’s seen more than simple wastemen… just by the way you talked about it. Kinda like how I remember my mum's singing…” He reaches over and instead of threading a flower through your hair or caressing you like some lovesick main character from those sappy romantic movies you'd made him watch… It's a joint, pre-rolled with care, that he ends up tucking behind your ear. You look up with a soft smile as he admits with his full chest: “I wanted to be here. Want you to be here too.”

That’s all he can put into words, to hope to express the deep longing for a place frozen in time. Not devoid of life but marked by it—by the bad, the ugly and the better. Not just a place you can fly off to, but a place where both of you can breathe in.

“I'd like that too…” You admit in a whisper that gets carried by the wind, bringing your hands to settle against his chest.

When you see a smile mirrored on his face for good, even bright, you take it as permission enough to kiss the first place you can reach without getting on the tips of your toes. You extend your neck slowly so as to not miff him from the closeness you are initiating and when you feel him tense up… you answer by placing a soft peck against his Adam's apple.

It bobs as Dee swallows, taken aback but not rejecting as he settles his hands around the small of your back, bringing you impossibly closer. Naturally, the two of you had this kind of familiarity for a while now… but a certain boundary has never been crossed thus far.

Not for a lack of want but a fear of pushing the other away, of making what the two of you have feel… mundane, transactional even.

“Angel…”, you can tell his throat is dry but there's barely restrained desire that threatens to spill over, edged into his purr. “This here is no fairytale—where you'll get to kiss the frog and get a squeaky clean prince in the end.”

Fears laid bare… At last. He expects a slap—be it literal or figurative, expects it all to end once he's named it… because no happy ending awaits dirty crooks.

“I never said I wanted that…”, you exhale as you press your ear against his beating heart. Its beat grows faster, heavier… like the melody of your shared breaths. “My ex made everyone around us think we were this perfect couple…. But it was all a lie.” You nuzzle further, only to take a fistful of his shirt, holding on for dear life as you gather the strength to peel off your face to meet his eyes. Honesty and vulnerability ring in your next words: “I want something real, Dee. Not something that shines for the sake of shining.”

His gaze scatters across your face, moving rapidly as he tries to take in any sign of uncertainty, any chance you may flee. Once he finds none, he feels his heart grow lighter, his chest feeling freer than it’s been in ages. “Nothing in here shines, angel. But maybe you'll help me polish it still?”

With that, Dee hooks his index finger below your chin and pinches it with his thumb, bringing you up, up… until you feel your spine stretched to its limit. Only then does he grant you some reprieve, bending down ever so slightly to capture your lips in a kiss that's eternally hungry. One hand still holds your back so you never lose balance—be it from lightheadedness or the sheer surprise that electrifies you when he bites at your lower lip. It makes your eyes shoot open only to be greeted by his blue ones—desperate to absorb any reaction, to make the moment real and lasting. A small smile tugs at his lips when you whimper into the kiss once he soothes the mark his teeth leave behind.

And because Dee is… well, Dee, he proudly growls: “Careful, little nurse… you'll steal my breath away and we both know how concerned you get over my potentially asthmatic ass.”

You roll your eyes as your feet meet solid ground fully again, though your mind still remains a delicious mess. You can still form one thought… and that entails feeding him his own medicine.

As you tilt your head to the side, you proudly mimic: “You practiced that one in front of the mirror or something?”

He puffs, lips caught between his teeth. Before you can register anything else, you feel his palm land on your ass fast and sharp. Just once—just a tease and a reprimand tied together now that he feels the two of you'd broken the final wall that used to stand in his way. You squeal in surprise, as expected and he just looks down at you… daring you to bite again.

“I know you're jumpy… but something tells me you enjoyed that one a lil too much?” Dee dares to add as he takes your hand. “Good to know…”

The smell of the grill lingers long after the outdoor meals are wolfed down, coal remains heavy in the air even as the lit up joint fights for odor dominance. Naturally, Dee's men were famished from a day of hauling furniture and cleaning the house, so you’d tried to be as helpful as possible when dinner was prepared. He, by contrast, definitely didn't aid in that mission—coming up behind you as you chopped the tomatoes for the bottomless salad, biting your earlobe before he’d steal a slice. The bastard even managed to sneak a roll or two of his hips every now and again as his hands would come to rest around you.

It was an intoxicating feeling—being free to express how much you wanted him and an even more addicting realization that his desire for you runs so deep in return.

Gathered around the campfire, he is laying stretched across a hammock and you feel so at peace fitting in whatever free space you can find against him. Two peas in a pod, though you aren't so similar… you make it work. He holds the joint to your lips as you stretch your neck backwards to allow him easier access while you take two purposeful inhales… ‘Puff puff pass’—a great rule to adhere to in larger groups so no one ends up butthurt.

You float yet you're also centered and mindful, excited to catch anything you can of him in this new light. Since it's also the first time you feel so grounded while high… Maybe because you have him to lean on, now.

When his turn is up and he's passed the joint to T, he stretches, letting out a grunt. You're sure he is trying hard to appear nonchalant as you feel the evidence of his growing arousal pressed against your backside, conveniently hidden from the view of others. It makes you press your thighs together—wanting to roll back into him so badly… but you catch yourself, prickling embarrassment spreading through your chest.

So instead, you yawn in performance—a perfect diversion. “Dee, I'm so sleepy…” you say with a convincingly heavy voice, though it's desire that clouds it.

He clocks it fast, so ready in fact that you fear the hammock will recoil on you while he pulls you up with him. “Sure thing, angel. G’night y'all!”

“But, boss—what time do we gotta—”, some guy you forgot the name of throws out into the air. His eagerness is easily reduced by Taylor jabbing him in the leg… read the room (garden?), dude.

With how quickly Dee leaves it all behind, you'd think he just drank a whole jug of coffee instead of getting high. In a flash, you are already halfway across the garden and past the glass screen doors inside. It hasn't changed much even if it had other owners… you only saw the kitchen and the living room, and for now, the tour will be postponed it seems. Not that you are complaining.

It’s all quite blurry at the moment…

One thing you can tell apart is when you finally reach inside Dee’s claimed room, because he presses your back against the closed wooden door. It rattles at the shared weight of your movements as your lips tangle messily with his in what can be only described as consuming hunger.

The kisses are all teeth and heavy breaths as his hand snakes up your thigh. Once it settles on your ass, the other one joins easily to hook your legs around his waist. Getting high usually meant feeling sluggish but this time… he claims the weight and guides you to the next destination with ease.

The soft bed welcomes your curves. You keep your feet tangled, wanting to feel every inch of him even through these pesky layers that stand in the way of carnal pleasure. Whenever he breaks the lip-locks, it’s to drink you in. Still, you’ve learned from the best, that any opening should be seized, so you are quick to attack his neck with pecks and love bites. He is all sweaty but even that tastes sweet to you somehow.

The delicious attention make his hips stutter, meeting your ache while the last thread of patience he might have clung to, snaps and a throaty sound escapes him. “Need you, angel… need you bad.” Dee grunts as he all but gets tangled in his shirt trying to get rid of it… followed by yours. “I can tell you need me too, hm? We've been kept waiting too long…”

As if some outside force is the culprit behind the slow burn that you two dance in.

You giggle but the sound quickly gets trapped in your throat, turning into a choke when he bites at your collarbone, sucking in a mark. “I thought you said you were ‘very sexually active’ when the question came up?”

Dee drags up his tongue across the freshly blooming mark, dipping lower between your breasts, licking a filthy path before his lips settle over each forget-me-not he can scout. He almost wants to ignore your pestering, but then he feels your heart beating faster under his palm and he looks up, almost shy—hand caught in the biscuit jar.

“I thought you were smart, angel… I said it to spite you.” He admits as his fingertips whisper around one of your nipples, lapping leisurely at the other. “Sure, I called Cindy… but—”, he pinches the perky bud he's been circling teasingly, “—I ended up giving her extra smack just so she'd walk out faking a limp. I didn't need any of my guys getting on my case now…”

As he defends, you tremble with laughter despite yourself. You'd leaned into his touch a second ago, hips raised off the mattress to meet his aching length but now… all you can imagine is his red face as he puts on his tough guy, nonchalant act.

“Sorry, sorry!” You clutch your stomach while your other arm hangs on his shoulder for support. “It's just that, I never thought—”

“Ah you find it funny, then? How many times I had to walk you out of my room… Blue-balled as hell just ‘cause I was stopping myself from ruining you. Ruining us.” In one motion, he scoops you, fingers digging into your waist to settle you comfortably sprawled on top of him. “You never thought what? That you'd nestle yourself under my skin like this?”

Your eyes dash away for a second as you nod slowly, taking in his words and the small thrusts of his hips into you. Pressure only builds up, threatening to burst open from your chest in a myriad of needy sounds. The shorts you still have on feel like a straitjacket.

As if he can read your thoughts, he hooks a finger and peels the troublesome restraint off of you, guiding your hips up so he can have free access into your neediness. A hiss from his lips quickly turns into a moan that reverberates from his chest and throughout your ribs as his fingers ghost between your folds… when he feels you dripping with desperation.

He hums, adding: “Yeah, well… me neither. Turns out you are my ruin, huh? Making me degrade myself, waitin’ on you, tending to you… making it feel right.” His hand continues on its destined journey, fingertip just teasing your entrance, barely in and out, until you're forced to chase it back, shaking and needy. “Let's see if you’re truly that delicate… come sit on my face, angel. Take what you need, hm?”

Your suddenly feel exposed by the invitation, eyes widening and breath becoming shallow. The moment Dee catches your hesitation, a wave of irritation threatens to wash over him. As someone used to taking everything any time, any place, his instinct is to believe it's yet another rejection.

You catch it in his eyes, these barbed feelings threatening to pierce through you, and you default to assuring: “It's not that I don't want to, Dee… I'm just—I'm m not sure if I—”

If you'll look and feel like he expects you to.

He catches the beginnings of your spiraling but this time he tries not to cut you with his jagged edges. This is supposed to be an experience you cherish, not one you have to walk on eggshells around.

Did that really just cross his mind? He must be too high if he was thinking like a complete bellend.

“You'll be perfect, angel… I just wanna have a little taste, yeah? And if you wanna, I can keep that smart mouth of yours plenty occupied—you won't have the time to think to worry.”

He kneads at your hip bones while you still remain perched on top of him, only reaching to flick your nipple when he sees the confirmation on the tip of your tongue.

“Well… when you put it like that…” You smile this time and he wants to burn that image onto his retinas—you in bliss, with that ink coiling around your body.

“Slap my thigh if you need a break, yeah? I can take it…” Dee's smirk is sinful as he allows you to brace against his shoulders.

You hover above his waiting lips, not fully settled as you face the very prominent tent in his sweatpants. Mouth watering, you palm him through the fabric, feeling a seething throb call to you in response.

You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, only teasing through the fabric, wanting to see just how taut he can become. Sure enough, once you cup his balls, Dee's already grabbing your hips and practically slamming your heat against his face—tongue swirling around your clit with filthy wet sounds. You all but whimper in blinding pleasure at the hot breaths he fans against your folds.

“I suggest you get to work, angel… if you know what's good for you.” That edge in his muffled voice gets your hands to work.

When you slide below his waistband to free him, you feel how warm, full and heavy he is against your palm. His length slaps your chin as it springs free and you can see beads of precum gush out in sync with his tongue working your hole. Slipping and teasing, he never leaves any part alone; his thumb circles that sensitive bundle of nerves while his mouth continues its worship.

The noises that spill out of you are not small now, not sheepish at all. You take in the rhythm, eyes rolling back as you push into him and finally swirl your tongue across the head of his cock, gathering the bitter yet intoxicating drops. Just when you think the electricity coiling in your abdomen cannot possibly get any more burning, you feel him growl against your clit when you manage to take him deeper. It only rushes you to milk more of these delicious sounds—saliva dripping between his thighs at each bob of your head.

The moment he slips a finger into your waiting, pulsing cunt, it's your shuddering sounds that resonate down his length, making his hips cant up—salty delight hitting the back of your throat impossibly deeper.

Now that his mouth is no longer preoccupied, he urges you on, voice drunk on the pleasure you're giving him with each ready gulp. “Fu-uck—that's it, angel… Just lean on me, take what you've been missin’…”

Dee isn't as greedy as you'd expected him to be. Even when he's lost in his own building high, his fingers never stop curling and twisting in a concordant melody. He can tell how close you are to unraveling, low voice coaxing more tremors out of you before his tongue rejoins in tight fast licks around your clit.

“Just let go, baby… I've got you.”

It's like a wrecking ball breaks through your walls as you ride out the wave. Lips puffy but no longer around his cock, you cry out as you clench around his fingers, searching for more. It's not just mindless sounds though—the moment your lips form his name in a breathless chant while your thighs all but clamp trembling on his shoulders, he knows he needs more.

Coming down from such an orgasm feels like an endless free fall, but you manage to let out some coherent words while your nails skim along his happy trail. “That was… wow.” You sigh, but are still greeted by his hard cock right in front of your nose.

Once you grow placid under his soothing brushes up and down your calf, he pats the unoccupied side of the bed, voice fraying with a barely contained need to ravish. “‘Wow’ indeed… delectable even. But I think it's time for the main course.”

This was preparation… like he'd seasoned the stakes before nailing them down on the grill. Like he lays out his supplies before he rolls a joint—but this time it's you who will get squeezed and pressed just right.

You try to be as enchanting as possible, getting off of him and perking up across the mattress, but your thighs are still shaking. That doesn't deter Dee in the slightest— if anything it winds him up greatly… to see he had such a mind-numbing effect on you.

His left hand takes the length of your arm, stretching it forward, until he reaches your fingers—guiding them to grasp the headboard. Then, his right palm settles at the junction between your abdomen and hip, steering you to tilt and open up further.

A sight to behold… he believes with passion.

One knee pulls yours apart more as he glides his cock between your still weeping folds, slapping it there with a hiss every now and again. You feel how much he's trying to hold back when he lets out a shaky breath as he spits for good measure, working the makeshift lube on his length.

You whine at the sound, brain too far gone to realize you’re actually voicing your thoughts: “Spit in my mouth…. please—”

If you'd been facing him right now, you could’ve seen his eyes grow cartoonishly wide. Even his breath stills… but you do feel it when his fingers thread through your hair pulling at your scalp, so your lips can meet his. He isn't too close, wanting to see you fight for it.

“Ah… so not a delicate angel after all... Filthy,” he growls lowly and presses his thumb against your lower lip—prodding your mouth to hang open; tongue out—ready and waiting for him as he savors the moment. For a while you think he’ll just tease you more, even laugh. But instead, he never lets go and spits down your throat. You shudder as you swallow, his thumb catching any stray drool and pressing it into your tongue.

“I could watch your mouth get filled all day, angel… but I think I'd rather slot in here.”

The word is punctuated by the breath stolen from your lungs as he drives into you in one motion. The grip he has on your hips is vicious and you're sure you'll be able to make out marks in the shape of his hand prints come morning. But you can only push back, once you feel how right you two fit in this delirium—how unbelievably full he makes you and how desperately unearthed he feels.

As you become entranced in the chase, Dee lets go and instead leans on his hands—caging them on either side of your head, pressing you into the mattress as he raises and rams back with full force.

“That's it, angel… God—you feel so good!” You are all but laying prone on your stomach now, grabbing at his forearms, nails raking in an attempt to find air. His hips only roll deeper at the feeling as he leans in to coo in a tight breath: “Wanna mark me with your claws, pretty girl? 'S that it?”

When you nod in fervor, he pulls out, much to your dismay. But he quickly makes up for it by guiding you to face him, tilting your legs up and slipping back as if not a second has passed. His shoulders stand so broad above you but you try to close your arms around them—your nails leaving angry red marks in their wake.

You feel yourself getting close again, full and wanting, begging him to catch you once more. “I'm gonna— Dee, please! Don't stop—”

“Never, angel… Be good again, yes? Come f'me… I'm right there with you, gonna finish this ride together.” He groans, scrapping to pull out in time but he swiftly coaxes your waves of pleasure with his free fingers instead—never leaving you empty.

It sends his head on a spin—imagining you would be milking his cock with the same greed as you take his hand. Thick ropes of cum coat your stomach as he drills into his fist one final time, muscles coiled and spasming with each drive. Your moaned names become a tangled muddle of a mantra but his eyes never leave with your release, not when you lose and find yourself below him.

“Beautiful…” Dee sighs much in the same fried octave as he had back at the tattoo shop.

This time, however, you know what he means. And it steadies your ragged breathing while you take his hand to your chest.

Showering without hot water can be a bitch, even on hot summer days. Even as you lay cuddled up with Dee whose one and only function now is that of a human furnace, you feel the goosebumps linger for some time.

You're restless, not in thought as much as physically—like he's unlocked something you didn't know you had in you and now it's all but begging to be poured out. Dee feels it too, your minute movements now and again, but he's too far gone and exhausted to let them bother his deep slumber. He looks so at peace, his broad chest rising and falling… it all looks so inviting. You don't think you've ever seen his face muscles so relaxed, used to him grinding his teeth all the time. It makes your heart fill with warmth.

After another round of tossing and turning, you realize the itching in your eyes isn't just the result of some leftover pent up energy but your contacts actively drying up into a crust.

Great…

You roll over and groan dramatically, seeing his forearm dawn small crescent-shaped marks from your earlier clawing. It spasms once he no longer feels the weight of your head on it—reaching out for some tether, for you, even subconsciously.

“I forgot the lens solution in my bag downstairs!” you whisper, high enough to hopefully let him register at least part of it.

A huff edged with a grumble is all you get in response. And so you journey on—phone flashlight bravely illuminating your path down the winding stairs.

All doors to the bedrooms are closed and it seems the whole house sleeps. Like Dee said, seclusion makes it less prudent to keep watch and it's not like his name is making rounds on the streets regardless.

You find your bag on the living room couch, as expected… a successful and quick one-stop journey. But then, the moon-reflected glisten of a framed photo on top of the fireplace catches your eye. It's your grandfather and you—smiling and giggling respectively as he ruffles your flower crown. The one your grandmother taught you how to weave. It's like the sunlight from that day shines through the photo and back at you all these years later…

“Boss said the old fuck kept it off any blueprints ‘cause he was brewing moonshine up in here. Good thing the pigs didn't find them tunnels—ain't no way that snake knows about ‘em. I doubt his lil lady clocked it either…” Someone's making their way up from the basement… but you don't hear a word.

You're so lost in that trip down memory lane, fingers trailing up the glass panel of the frame, you fail to hear the small creaks in the shabby floorboards that only grow closer. So used to the house settling in…

That's when an unknown reflection scowls in the picture—contrasting your smiles.

The moment you think to scream when you fially register the unknown presence behind you, a big hand is already across your mouth and an arm tackles you onto the couch. It's not a loud fight but an unfair one; the only giveaway is the photo crashing against the stone fireplace step, sending glass shards flying off.

“Shit! Better hurry before some rat wakes up—” A man's voice commands.

You thrash, legs flailing to try and kick off whoever the assailant is. Then, your eyes paint quiet horror when you see a familiar face… Gaz.

So they'd seen you that day after all, when you were waiting on Alex to hook you up with pills. You shouldn't have gone—they probably kept tabs on you since Paul hated Dee's guts now. Lacking the manpower, they'd never be able to take him down in a clean fight… so they snatch you the moment his guard is down— the moment he dares defile and own Paul's legacy by purposefully buying off his old headquarters.

Your heart grows bitter at your misstep; even more so at the question that bubbles up to the surface…

Did your father remember who you are before he sent his men here?

You aren't even sure which option is worse: him knowingly kidnapping his own daughter or being content with taking out anyone stupid enough to get caught in the crossfire?

Despite the confusion, you manage to slip free between Gaz's cumbersome movements—landing squarely on the broken pieces, feeling them slice sharply at your palms and knees. You scream Dee's name, but no one responds, not when he'd finally allowed hismelf to sleep peacefully.

When you try and make a full run for it, you're faced with yet another challenge—Alex, waiting for you just down the hall. He kicks you across the shin albeit unconvincingly. It's clear he hasn't done this before, yet his crazed eyes tell you he's set on seeing it through so he can get to have another day high. He's full on cold turkey, sweaty and trembling but with how out of it you are, you end up stumbling in pain despite his awkward movements, hitting your head hard against the shoe rack. Your "friend's" clammy hands settle on your throat in an unsettlingly sober attempt to choke you out.

“What you losing time for, junkie?!” Gaz takes a heavy step closer and stuffs your mouth with some filthy rag. “What good will the bitch be if she's dead? She's already out like a light!”

It's true, your head throbs, growing woozy from the smash and somehow your futile attempt at escape has only made their jobs easier... to the point where you can only flap your hands weakly while the bigger man hauls you up.

The next time you can blink with heavy eyelids, you're already through the basement's tunnels. You knew of the room, sure… even helped your grandfather pick apples for the moonshine. But these tunnels—these had to be Paul's creation. If the police had ever uncovered them during the raid, Dee might’ve had them walled off. Then again, that would've meant your father walking free, ruining your family further.

It doesn’t matter now, what might have been. It's slipped through your fingers and when Dee wakes up he'll see he's never truly been free…

Not when one single moment could turn you from predator into hunted prey.