Wigfrid knew her role well, of course. She used to read and reread her scripts into the dead of night, until her eyes glazed over and sleep came to claim her. She knew every word and phrase and movement by heart. She knew this scene well. Ruminated upon it in empty hours of the early morning, on days that felt a lifetime ago, when her mind was far too awake.

Compliance. As is her right. Compliance. As is her sacred duty. Compliance. As is her role.

And Wigfrid thrashed, yes, as inscribed on the pages of her gospel. But there'd been no real weight to any of it. Stage kicks, really. Not intending to help. Certainly not intending to hurt. There would be no merit in it. No point. Better to save her strength for other matters.

Was this... nice? Was this good? Was it meant to be? She could not say... The gentle roiling in the pit of her middle neither grew nor abated. Instead, it simply waited. Waited as she did. Which was fine, she supposed, when it had not mattered much anyways.

_______

Nemesis had fallen asleep in a chair next to the bed, her dreams haunted by memories of her childhood and teenage years. She dreamed of the old box she’d used to sleep in, of spending her time alone in the streets.

But the clearest of these memories was the day her parents had abandoned her.

She’d been sitting on the dingy kitchen floor, trying to amuse herself with drawing. Her father had come in, holding a backpack in on hand.

“Girl.” He said gruffly.

The nameless child looked up at her progenitor, her light green eyes meeting his bloodshot ones.

“Yes?” The child asked, standing up.

“Come this way.”

“Okay.” She said, and got up to follow him to the door of the shoddy apartment.

“You’re twelve now.”

The child blinked in surprise. Her parents had never acknowledged her birthday before.

“Today?”

“Yes.” The man said curtly, stopping at the door. The child’s mother stood next the man, her eyes unreadable.

“It’s time for you to go, girl.” The man said.

The child looked up at him in confusion. “Why do I have to go?” She asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You’re not wanted here.” The man said.

Tears welled up in the child’s eyes. She looked to the woman. “Mama?” She asked, reaching out with a small, shaking hand. She’d never reached for her mother’s hand before.

The woman looked away.

“Just go, girl.” She said coolly.

The man handed the child the backpack, and opened the door. When she hesitated, he pushed her out. It wasn’t a hard shove, but it was firm, it’s meaning clear and final.

As the door closed, the child began to cry, not understanding what she had done wrong.

Shivering from the cold, the child reached up with shaking hands, pulling up the hood of her coat, concealing her pure white hair.

Nemesis’ eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright, breathing shakily. Her cheek tickled, and when she lifted a hand to it, her fingers came away wet with tears. Ten years later and she still cried every time she had that dream.

She hated herself for that.

A low groan caught her attention, and Nemesis peered through the darkness at Slipknot.

“Slipknot?” Nemesis asked, standing up.

“No.” He moaned, tossing and turning restlessly. “No, no... please.”

“Hey.” Nemesis murmured, reaching out to cup his cheek in her palm. She froze, able to feel the vicious heat of his fever from an inch away. Immediately, she was alert. It was much worse that it had been that evening.

She turned on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a soft red glow, her hands were still shaking as she reached for a pair of scissors in the medical kit. She took a deep breath to steady herself as she cut through the bandages.

Nemesis winces at the smell as the bandage peeled away from the festering mess of sickness and blood on his chest. The stitches were torn, the infection already seeping from the wounds.

“When did this happen?” Nemesis murmured, as Slipknot’s icy blue eyes fluttered open, foggy with fever.

He moaned in pain, too delirious to answer her.

Nemesis stood up, knowing she needed Joey to deal with this, when a hot, clammy hand grabbed her wrist in a weak grip.

“W-wait.” Slipknot whined, shifting with a hoarse sob. “D-don’ leave me h-here...” He mumbled, his glazed eyes full of panic. “She- she’ll f-find me. I-I can’t.” He squirmed in the drenched sheets with a frightened sob, his skin coated in sweat.

“I-it was b-bad enough when sh-she d-did it, b-but th-then he thre-threatened too- I-I can’t do this, d-don’t make m-me do th-this, please...” He trailed off with an exhausted whimper.

“Slipknot.” Nemesis murmured, sitting next his head, and gently brushing his sweat-soaked locks back. He tilted his head into her hand, mumbling incoherently.

Unwilling to leave him in such a state of terror, Nemesis grabbed her phone, and called Joey’s number.

“Why are you calling me from down the hall at... 2:47 in the morning?” Joey asked with a yawn.

“It’s Slipknot, he’s worse. The infection in his chest. It’s worse, he’s delirious again. He’s scared, he thinks I’m leaving him for those sick bastards.”

“Fucking hell. Okay.” Joey replied, and hung up.

Mere seconds later, he opened the door.

__________

“Hey kid.” Joey said softly.

“Hey.” Nemesis replied, equally quiet, as Joey flicked on the overhead light. Slipknot flinched at the sudden brightness, hiding his face against Nemesis’ leg with a whimper.

“Sssshhh, ssssshhh, it’s alright.” Nemesis soothed, cupping his cheek in her hand.

Joey cursed softly, looking at the wounds.

“He tore the stitches. Fuck, he should have told me, or you.”

Nemesis just looked down at Slipknot, who was breathing raggedly.

“Damn the Rogues, especially Lena, for what she did to him.” Joey hissed, noticing how Slipknot flinched at the mention of his tormentor’s name.

He flinched hard when Joey probed at the hot, damp flesh around the festering wounds, a distressed whine slipping past his lips.

“Easy, easy, just lay still, I know you’re scared, try to relax.” Joey murmured, his heart breaking for Slipknot.

He continued speaking softly, exactly how he had to Nemesis when he’d first found her. He’d never forgotten how scared she’d looked that night, freezing, starving, and covered in blood that wasn’t hers.

Joey shook his head, watching as Slipknot shuddered, whimpering quietly.

Nemesis carded her fingers through his hair, speaking softly to the shivering Supervillain.

____________

It was four-thirty in the morning by the time Joey finished cleaning and re-stitching the wounds. Slipknot was barely conscious by now, his fever having spiked too high for him to stay fully awake.

Nemesis sat next to him, holding his hand as he mumbled incoherent pleas for mercy.

With a sigh, Nemesis lay down beside him, draping one of her arms around his broad shoulders, and cupping his flushed face in her other.

“Just rest. No one is going to hurt you.” She murmured, stroking her thumb over his overheated skin.

He fell still at her touch, his breath steadying slightly.

“Sssssshhhh, that’s it.” She cooed, letting him snuggle against her, smiling slightly as his shivering slowed.

Joey had given Slipknot some stronger antibiotics, as well set up an IV drip to keep him hydrated.

“I’m here, I’ll keep you safe.” Nemesis whispered, holding him as tightly as she could without aggravating any injuries. 

Regardless, it was his clearest memory; standing precariously on the roof of that weird house and waiting, either for a monster to dive down and get him or for the courage to fall. For the will to put a stop to everything the person inside that house, the one in the sterile white coat, had been doing to him. Just so he could experience something different for once, for as little as seven seconds before the world could go dark.

And yet, no monster came to sweep him off his feet.

The courage to just do it himself didn’t come either. If anything, any drops of it just left entirely.

Sephiroth trembled in his mix of fear and hesitation; he had climbed too high up to go back down, but going back inside the house meant terribly clean walls and floors, and the touch of the angered master of that place, who maybe would definitely break his legs this time around or cut them off as if they were made of bamboo, just so he wouldn’t run, neither climb so high again.

Maybe it would’ve been better to run into the woods instead?

If anything, the wolves would’ve gotten him before he could think any further about all of that. He was very small and easy to tear apart, as it was proven to him time and time again by the merciless drag of the scalpel; by the hands holding his body down as he was covered in unwelcome touches and filled in ways that had him feeling ill.

Oh, the wolves would’ve been so much kinder.

Their howls would fill the air as they chased him, so different from the voice that called for him from inside that place with anger.

Sephiroth had tried not to look down.

But the shadow of something flying above made him look, out of fear of facing the jaws of some diving beast; scary enough for him to lose his footing and fall.

He didn't scream, out of sheer fear. Because that was to be it and he would be gone before he had any time to wonder what would become of the body he was to leave behind.

Maybe Hojo would find it and enjoy that he could no longer give out any pained yells, but—

He didn't make it to the ground.

Something— No, someone had caught him and they were flying. Sephiroth had been afraid to open his eyes in the chance it was a monster, but once he did, he didn't want to close them again.

The figure holding him appeared to be strong, yet delicate; with eyes of a gentle but piercing blue and hair so golden that it had him feeling a little dizzy from looking at them. Regardless of that, when put together with the fluffy white feathers of those giant wings, that had to be the most beautiful thing he had ever seen at that age, maybe in his whole life, even.

They spoke little — mostly to ask him if he was hurt or to warn about standing on rooftops like that — but their voice had been as soft as a cloud looked like.

(Sephiroth wasn't sure if clouds were actually soft considering that they were made of water.)

So gentle that he couldn't help but start crying in earnest, even if the fear of punishment for his tears was still there, despite the fact that… that figure, that angel, they just let him let everything out without any judgement; a hand coming to run through short, silver hair without any malice.

When he was done, for some reason, Sephiroth started babbling about how awful life had been in the house they were flying far away from, as if he knew that angel for a real long time and as if he was something more than his few years of age.

He was being raised not to be a child or a person, after all. Not that he knew that or how a… regular child was supposed to act.

The angel tried to pretend he wasn't as angry and horrified at the whole prospect, maybe, in retrospect, not to alarm him. But it was a little too obvious that there was something off there. And Sephiroth had thought at the time that now that they knew about how broken he was, they would no longer help him.

"P-please don't drop me," he remembered himself begging.

The grip around him tightened a little, instead.

"I won't, never," the angel had said, "don't be afraid, ok? I'll take you somewhere good. No one's gonna hurt you like that anymore."

Oh.

They were angry on his behalf.

And though the angel didn't make any promises with that, to Sephiroth it had sounded like one.

He had only hoped it meant that the angel would stay.

Not that life hadn't turned out to be good afterwards, but for many years he had held onto that last memory of seeing the angel in their full glory as they left him in front of Gillian's house, with a cold gust of wind that made Sephiroth shiver in his green medical gown.

And sometimes, he would go outside with the intent of watching the stars and clouds alike, hoping that one would dive down all the way from the moon to get him, with six fluffy wings and dressed in robes of pure white.

It was a silly hope, but at least his friends didn’t judge him for it; even if Genesis made a sassy remark on it from time to time, he still joined Sephiroth and Angeal in the usual skywatching session, his fox ears always held high in attention to the sounds of the night.

“What would you do if they came back for you?” Angeal asked one time, the tip of his tiger tail twitching in curiosity; black and white flicking quickly.

To which, Sephiroth had only replied, in all honesty, “I don’t know,” as he stared at the crescent moon in the sky with his shining eyes, colored not quite bamboo but also not quite the sky.

But even since then, holding onto the memory that was most precious to him, he hadn’t quite stopped thinking about it.

He heard the jingle of keys and locks, and the rattle of a chain before the door began to open just a crack.

“Rebecca, it’s me,” he said to forestall the necessity of too much opening and closing of the door, which might bring too much attention to what was going on. Attention, apparently, was not something from which Rebecca intended to shy away.

The door slammed shut, and then opened again with the velocity of a forced entry, until the doorway was blocked by a back-lit figure that involuntarily made his heart lurch, even though he knew it was not Priscilla, but her sister. She had her hands on her hips, and it didn’t take an investigative genius to know that she was unhappy with him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she spat.

In better circumstances he might have made a joke, nice to see you too, Rebecca. How the hell are you? It’s been a while, but these were not better circumstances and he didn’t have time to put up with her being a dick.

“I need my car,” he said, trying - and failing - not to match her tone at least a little and took a step toward her. “I went to storage and it’s not there. Where is it?”

“Whoa, back up buster,” her tone, if possible, was even more frosty than it had been when she opened the door, “We agreed that you wouldn’t come around here without at least a call—”

“You decided.” He talked over her.

“—twenty-four hours in advance.”

“There wasn’t time,” he protested, hackles rising despite not having the energy for the fight that it seemed she was intent on having anyway, “and if you’d left the car where it was supposed to be we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“Conversation?!” she snapped. “This is what you call a conversation? You show up here, yelling at me on my own doorstep and—”

“Fuck you, Rebecca, you’ve never even heard me yelling,” he growled, and paced away from the door barely a step, running his hand through his hair before he turned back and repeated, “I don’t have time for this - Where’s my fucking car?”

“You’re not hearing me, Jefferson,” she said. “You don’t get to come around here demanding, aggressive, unreasonable and not to mention delinquent, and expect me to—”

“Excuse me?!” the shudder of incredulity burst out of him in the form of words. “Delinquent?” He moved to take a step forward, but she barred his way by closing the door on him just a little, but he pushed it open. “In what universe have I ever been delinquent?”

“The storage company—”

“Comes right out of my account. What’s going on, Rebecca?” Flared temper mingled with the worry of a million possibilities, and it made him even more demanding of answers. “Is there something I should know about!”

“Hey, hey, guys,” another calmer voice - Andy, his sister-in-law’s husband - interrupted their mutually rising tirade. “How would it be if you continue this inside, hmm, before the neighbors start calling the cops?”

The words made Jefferson look around, and he saw that several porch lights had been turned on, and there were the outlines of people in doorways and in windows.

“Fine,” Rebecca said, proving to him by her tone that it was anything other than fine, as she opened the door wider, and let him step inside.

It was Andy that closed the door behind him to Jefferson’s quiet, “Thanks, man.”

Andy shrugged, and then nodded toward Rebecca, before he said, “I’ll make tea.”

Jefferson tried to stay as calm as Andy’s intervention had afforded him the chance to achieve, and took a breath before he asked softly, “Now, what about the storage company?”

“They called a few months ago, and every month since. They said it was a personal matter and then would only speak with you,” she said, his affected calm quieting her. “Which is accounts-speak for you owing them money.”

“What did you tell them?” he asked, switching instantly back from being an ‘on the offensive brother-in-law,’ to being an undercover FBI agent. Either paranoid, or overcautious, or God-forbid, right, there was something suspect about all of this.

“Exactly what you told me to say,” she answered.

“And you called Rab?” he asked, frowning as she nodded.

“He said he’d take care of it,” she said in confirmation, “but the calls keep happening.”

“Someone’s fishing,” he said half to himself and half to Rebecca. “If they call again, write down the number and hang up, then give the number to Rab, tell him I think someone is trying to find out if I’ve been in contact with you.”

She nodded, and swallowed, then said, “Besides that,” she paused for a second before continuing, “Paige had to—”

“Grace,” he corrected, his temper rising again. “Her name is Grace.”

“She had to have dental work, Jefferson, and we—”

“I’ll see to it you get the money, Rebecca. When have I ever let you down with anything like that?”

She shook her head, “You haven’t just…” she sighed, and didn’t finish the sentence.

He reached out slowly, reaching past the fading red mist, to put a hand onto her shoulder. “I get it, it’s unsettling, but I promise you, everything will be fine.” He hated himself for the possibility he was lying.  He took his own breath and asked softly, “Can I… can I see her?”

She made a face and he knew she was about to refuse. He tried to think rationally, not to let the fact that she was about to deny him a moment with his daughter, derail him again. It wasn’t right. He was here and he had this moment, and maybe it would be his only moment. He shivered… thinking like that…

“It’s late, Jeff,” Rebecca said at last, “and it’s a school night, so—”

“Papa!”

The cry came from the top of the stairs, and throwing Rebecca a helpless expression, Jefferson took the stairs two at a time, barely making it to the landing to catch Grace as she launched herself against him, and with her in his arms, sank down to the floor, holding her tightly.

The press of every missed moment warred with the very real feeling of having her in his arms. He breathed in her scent. Squeezed her tighter, and felt that she had lost weight and felt waif-like against him, and he squeezed his eyes closed to keep his tears at bay. He eased his hold on her after a moment ready to draw back and take in the sight of her, but she tightened her arms around his neck.

“I miss you,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“Oh, Grace,” he forced the words past the knot in his throat, “I miss you too, sweetie.” He turned his head to plant a gentle kiss on the side of her head, finally managing to ease her away; to look at her, then reached out to wipe at the wetness on her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “You look good. You had a hair cut.”

“Just the ends,” she said, and then she released him enough that he could take her in properly, and he felt her little hand tugging his hair, before she told him, “You need one”

He let his head hang down playfully for a moment as he confessed, “I do. I really do.” Then he looked up at her and offered her a smile. “How about you show me your room. A little bird told me you’ve decorated in there.”

Grace giggled a little bit. “You won’t like it,” she said.

“Oh, I won’t?”

She shook her head, but took his hand and tugged until he climbed to his feet. His legs, inexplicably, felt like jello underneath him and his head felt light, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the lack of sleep, the physical beating he’d taken, or the overwhelming emotion he felt at holding his baby girl in his arms, even for such a short time.

She led him to her room. He’d been in there before, but it had been a while ago, and then it was decorated with faux wood panels in the lower half of the room, with almost a chintz paper above. He had hated it, but it gave him a kind of comfort, because it matched the rest of the house and that made it seem somehow impermanent - like the arrangement of Grace living with Rebecca and Andy was just a temporary thing.

When he walked in behind her this time, every sense screamed at him to get her out, to bring her with him; that he shouldn’t leave her there. Something was coming, and she was right - he wouldn’t like it, but it wasn’t the room. The room, he quite liked; reflected everything Grace loved.

The bed was new, and the wood panels had been replaced with a mural showing the inside of a country cottage, complete with a painted fireplace, with cooking utensils that ‘hung’ to the side of it on a mock hearth, built from what looked like corrugated cardboard painted to look like red bricks. On the ceiling the suggestion of wooden beams had been created in paint and cardboard, with yellow construction straws in the corners representing thatch.

He cleared his throat before he spoke. It felt like far too much work had gone into the room for it to be anything other than a lasting arrangement.

“You always did want to live in the country,” he said.

“Forest, Papa,” Grace corrected him. “Look.”

She drew back the heavy curtains that were pulled across the windows, and even in the darkness he could see that the glass had been painted across with trees, and bluebells, and even a little well.

“Nice,” he said softly, and kissed her hand as he took it from the drapes and covered up the windows and the light that came through the ‘forest’ from the city beyond. “I remember now, you always said you wanted to live in the forest.”

She looked up at him and then threw her arms around his waist, and he held her close, without moving from where they were. “I always want to live with you, Papa. I don’t care where.”

He leaned down to pick her up, resting her head against his shoulder, as he carried her across to her bed, so that she wouldn’t see the expression of pain that flashed across his eyes. “I know, sweetie, I know.” He wanted that too - desperately.

He sat them both down on the edge of the bed, and she squeezed him tightly, her arm catching the graze on the top of his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but wince. She pulled away at once, staring at him as though he had slapped her.

“Papa, you’re hurt,” she gasped. She started to wriggle in his lap to get down, “I have a band aid.”

He caught her wrist gently as she started toward the dresser. “It’s just a scratch,” he told her. “I’m good, I promise.”

She turned and looked at him then, as if taking him in properly for the first time, and he had to force himself to be still; not to hide himself from her. He’d promised himself he would never do that.

“But Papa, your scarf!” she said at last, “It’s torn.”

She pulled on his grasp until he let go so that she could cross the distance to the dresser, and reach inside. He watched as she took out a paisley patterned, silk scarf, and brought it back with her when she came to kneel on the bed beside him.

He swallowed as she reached out to unfasten the hurried knot he’d tied in his ruined scarf to fix it - it seemed a lifetime ago now - when it had torn in his struggle with Belle as she tried to run away.

“You can have this one of mine,” she told him as she finally freed the knot, and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard as she slipped it free, and then tenderly arranged the long, silk scarf around his neck, careful to cover his scars, before tying it at the back of his neck. “There.”

He ran his fingertips over its softness before he wrapped his arms around Grace, and held her again. “Thank you, baby,” he whispered, wiping away a tear that escaped onto his cheek in spite of his effort to keep them inside.

“I love you.”

“And I love you, Grace - so much.” He held her tightly, and then reached past her to pull back the covers of her bed. “Scooch down now. It’s late, and your aunt is worried about you being up on a school night.”

Reluctant, but obedient, Grace settled into bed, and Jefferson pulled the covers up to her chin, kneeling beside the bed as he did. He smoothed his fingers over her hair, committing her features to memory, and the feel of her hair beneath his fingertips, everything.

She sighed softly, calmed by his touch, he could feel her relax with each pass of his fingers through her hair.

“Promise me something,” he said quietly, and he smiled sadly as she turned her sleepy eyes his way. “Promise me that no matter what happens, no matter what you hear, or what people tell you, you’ll always remember that.

“I promise, Papa,” she whispered, her eyes closing as sleep reached up to claim her.

For a long time, Jefferson didn’t move; couldn’t, as he forced back the emotion that was threatening to spill over like a boiling kettle. He couldn’t - wouldn’t - let Rebecca see him breaking and vulnerable.

When he was sure Grace wouldn’t wake he pulled himself to his feet, leaned down and softly kissed her brow, whispering an almost inaudible, “Goodbye, my sweet Grace,” before turning and leaving the room.

To Jefferson the quiet click of the door catching closed sounded as loud as gunfire in the dim lit hallway, and the white hot pain, just as surely felt like the kiss of a bullet.

He took his time descending the stairs, using the repetitive motion to wrap the steel bands around himself, shoring himself up; confining himself to the present moment only. Andy met him at the foot of the stairs.

“N-ice,” Jefferson forced the words past the catch as he reached the last stair, “decorations you’ve done there.”

“Rebecca,” Andy said, confirming what Jefferson already suspected.

“She always did have a flair for art,” he answered.

Andy nodded, and then said, “Come with me.”

Jefferson followed Andy through to the garage, noticing as Andy picked up a travel mug on their way through the kitchen. His brother-in-law flicked on the light as they descended the few steps to the concrete floor, and then turned and handed the cup to Jefferson.

“I made your tea to go,” Andy said. “I’ll be honest with you, Jefferson, Becca really doesn’t want to talk to you any more.”

“…the fuck, Andy!”

Andy held up his hand in a gesture obviously meant to placate him. “I know, I know,” he said, “Just… give her time.”

“Time?” Jefferson ran his fingers through his hair, “How much more time! It’s been nine fucking years, almost ten.”

Again, Andy held up his hand. “She was her sister, Jeff.”

“And she was me wife!” he growled, “Grace’s mother. Do you think I don’t feel her loss every goddamn day? Feel like I failed her, and I’m still failing.”

He felt himself trembling beneath the hand that Andy placed on his shoulder; squeezed supportively. “It wasn’t you, and it’s not your fault,” Andy said, then added, “But Becca’s my wife, and I have to do what’s best for her, and for our family. So… I’m going to tell you something, and then you’re going to get in your car,” he nodded to the vehicle beside them as he reached out and pulled the tarp from covering it, “drive away, and finish this thing - whatever it is you’re involved in.” He held out the keys for Jefferson to take.

“Rebecca’s not going to put up with this arrangement much longer, and I’m not sure she’s thinking things through rationally.” Jefferson took the keys into his hand, but Andy didn’t let go and stepped in closer to catch the crook of Jefferson's other arm. “She means well, and I hope you can remember that, because when the shit hits the fan, it’s not going to be pretty.”

Jefferson was about to ask what the fuck he meant, when Rebecca appeared at the top of the steps to the kitchen, and he didn’t miss the warning Andy held in his eyes. He gave the barest of nods, and murmured his thanks as Andy let go of the car keys, and his arm.

“Don’t come around here any more, Jefferson,” Rebecca said, almost calmly, from the top of the stairs. “I really don’t want to see you again.”

Jefferson didn’t answer, just unlocked the car and opened the door. Andy caught him by the arm again before he could climb in, then he pulled an envelope from his pocket. He held it out to Jefferson.

“So you can stay off the radar for a little while longer,” he said.

Jefferson first clasped his hand, and allowed Andy to pull him in for a brief hug, truly appreciating the supportive slap on the back his brother-in-law offered. Then he took the envelope with a grateful nod, and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.

Andy opened up the garage door as Jefferson started up the engine, feeling even more indebted to the man for taking such good care of his car that it started right away, then he backed out onto the driveway, and then onto the street.

He drove away as calmly as he could; one block… two, before turning on to the back country road that would take him out of town and toward the highway. Farmland soon rolled in on his left and right, and then a short stretch of wooded road, like the tiny forest he had seen on Grace’s window.

Melon enjoys pain; he enjoys inflicting it, and he relishes receiving it. As a fellow hybrid, he truly believes his darling must feel the same. As hybrids, they cannot taste anything, so pain is something to enjoy, right?

He’s not so deluded that he’ll force pain onto his darling, but he’ll make them hurt him instead. Especially if their claws are well developed. He enjoys having his darling “punish” him for being born as a hybrid, and likewise will happily take out his frustration on his darling. 

Melon is rough, violent. Sex is more of a flash of teeth and blood rather than the soft connection he believes it is. Aggressive and possessive, Melon isn’t the most romantic despite any effort he might put forth. Which is to say, not much effort at all.

He tends to flip a switch rather often; one day wanting to tie his darling down and rip into them, the next practically forcing his darling to hurt him in any way possible. 

Most of his kinks purely involve claiming one another (whether his darling wants to claim him or not). He’ll be rather upset if they refuse to claim him, taking it as rejection. It’s a little scary, having Melon ask her to tear into him, since his idea of claiming is causing permanent scarring. 

He does enjoy the idea of breeding his darling, very much so actually. The idea of marking her as his in any and all ways is intoxicating, and has him feeling higher than he ever has from pain. Though he’s terrified at the idea of her actually getting pregnant, sure, the idea of having physical proof of their love, of them being soulmates, is amazing; but on the other hand? He’s not sure he could handle becoming like his mother. The whole situation leaves him feeling out of control, so he’d rather it just not happen in the first place.

He’s really not even sure he could get his darling pregnant, and if the chances are low enough, he’ll just ignore the possibility of it happening. It’ll make him freak the fuck out sometimes, but not enough to keep him from holding his darling down and fucking them until they forget their own name. 

Melon is the type of yandere who’d happily carve his darling’s name into his flesh, or even tattoo it. He might force his darling to have his name on them too, but they could also get away with copying his melon leaves instead of name. 

~

Douglas leaned back in his chair and took another drink. His cards were fine, but nothing to write home about. David across from his raised an eyebrow a minute amount, but Douglass had played poker with him long enough to know it was a fake tell.

Mark sat at the table with them but didn’t play. He chatted with the other guys or scrolled on his phone, paying attention absently. Just there.

In the end, Phil won and they called it a night. When everyone was still milling around and finishing up their drinks, Douglass pulled his old friend aside.

“Hey David, you remember that idea I had early last year?”  David gave an amused yet exasperated sigh.

“Oh, come on Doug, you can’t expect me to remember all your hair-brained plots. Just fill me in.”

The other man didn’t answer, arching his brows and grinning like a cheshire cat.

David ran his tongue across his teeth and tried to remember which one of the plots would impress itself so hard into his friend’s memory when the others hadn’t. He groaned.

“The WRU one? Doug, there’s no way-“

Douglas put a finger up to stop him and turned his head.

“Mark? Show some respect.”

Mark had been standing off to the side, chatting with Phil. At the command, a thud rang through the room and Mark was on his knees, forehead pressed against the floor. Phil took a step back, surprised and muttering curses under his breath.

David’s jaw hung open, and Douglass relished in the responses.

“Holy shit! I didn’t notice anything! Damn, WRU can really do anything can’t they?” David mussed as he walked over. He snapped his fingers a few times to get Mark’s attention. “Position two.”

Mark sat up on his knees, chin level with the floor and eyes straight ahead. David took his chin and tilted the boy’s head to take a better look.

The boy he had been chatting and laughing with not ten minutes before.

Mark didn’t react, didn’t pull away or flinch. His eyes were different now, distant and softer. His body language was tense and stiff. Breathing shallow.

“This is crazy impressive. I think if I had mine try and act like a real person, you’d be able to see whatever’s left of her brain dripping out her ears. She’d last less than a minute before breaking out in tears.”

The man studied Mark’s blank expression for another moment before a slight look of confused amusement came over his face.

“Position 6.”

Mark brought his arms out, wrists up, and the man pulled up the sleeve on his right arm. Then his left.

“No barcode? How’d you get away with that? I thought that was some kind of requirement or something.” Douglass grinned and pulled a small black flashlight out of his pocket.

David nearly laughed at how well planned out this was. The meeting, the big reveal, everything.

He clicks it on and shines it on the skin of the boy’s right wrist, lighting up a previously hidden tattoo. Under the light, his barcode and the numbers are easily read.

“Ooh, very nice. But what if he gets lost?” Douglas turned off the light and put it back in his pocket with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, this kid’s going to be a superstar. Won’t be able to get five feet from me or a bodyguard, hell even the paparazzi. He’s not going anywhere.”

He reaches down and tugs at the boy’s hair playfully. His hands are still out in front of him, waiting for further instruction.

“Besides, he’s still chipped so you’re really not going anywhere are you, Mark?”

“No, Sir.” His voice is different now, soft and docile. David shakes his head in amazement.

“This is just crazy, man. Mark, what’s your designation?”

“Platonic, Sir.” His manager arched an eyebrow and grabbed the boy’s bun, pulling his head backwards.

“And?”

Mark swallowed as he leaned back to try and get enough slack to breath properly. He nearly jerked his arms back for balance, but he knew Sir would want him to be perfect for his friend. Perfect for the crowds and the pictures and the crew and for him. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Never a detail overlooked or glance in the wrong direction for too long.

He had just wanted to sing. He had just wanted to be an artist.

You signed up for this.

“Platonic w-with secondary ro-mantic training, Sir,” he squeaked out. His hair was released, and he fell forward slightly as he took a deep breath. He fought a shiver as David laughed. Whenever possible, Mark skirted around his saying romantic training. It was okay, he could be good, but wasn’t made for it. He was made for Sir, and Sir didn’t want him for that.

He’s supposed to, though. He’s supposed to want me but he doesn’t. The handlers told me that my owner would want me but he doesn’t. He doesn’t and he never will. People say I’m supposed to love him but they never taught me to do that and he doesn’t want me like that. 

“How does that work? Isn’t that some sort of oxymoron or something?” asked Phil, stepping forward and eyeing Mark with a different kind of look.

That was the other reason he didn’t want to mention his secondary training. Mark like to imagine that he shied away, but in reality, he stayed perfectly still. He could only pretend, only imagine leaning away from the hands that would come and touch and touch and touch.

“Oh he’s a platonic for me and a romantic for anyone who wants to sleep with a superstar.”

Mark swallowed again, hoping that it wasn’t noticeable. He didn’t love Sir, but he didn’t hate him. He was trained for him and he cared about him, but he knew it wasn’t mutual. It wasn’t even; Sir was still his owner and Mark was his pet. His pet that he could make do whatever he wanted.

The handlers told me collars are safe and my owner wants me, but I don’t get to wear mine most of time and he doesn’t want me. Mine doesn’t he want me. I must have done something wrong or misunderstood or something because something is missing and he doesn’t want me. But he gives me away to other people and I don’t understand. 

Why did he let them train me for him and then not want me? 

No, no no no bad. 

It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.  

Phil used his foot to push down Mark’s shaking arms. He crouched down and lifted the boy’s chin with a smile.

“God, why didn’t we think of this years ago? Could have saved Hollywood quite a bit of trouble and maybe even a few scandals.”