Loyalty Cuts Deepest Pt.1
A/N: This is the sequel to Ember in the Dark! I really enjoy writing for this fic :}
Loyalty Cuts Deepest pt.1
Silco x Fem!Reader
(Ember in the Dark- prequel) pt.1
Warnings: Violence/Gore, Death/Grief, Trauma, Substance Use, War/Revolution Themes.
Word Count: 6110
Summary: After a failed topside heist, the kids return to The Last Drop bruised and reeking of trouble. (Y/N) and Vander quickly realize something went wrong- an explosion, a chase, and Enforcer heat. They soon learn Piltover is demanding someone take the fall. Vander refuses to give up the kids. Just as Grayson arrives, Silco reemerges- changed, vengeful, and flanked by a monstrous ally. He slaughters the Enforcers, kills Benzo, and takes Vander. When Silco turns to (Y/N), she sees a man both familiar and monstrous. Despite everything, she still loves him- and when he asks her to come, she does. They disappear into the shadows, leaving the shattered remnants of their family behind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bar had been alive with its usual hum- clinking glasses, laughter a little too loud, the low rhythm of a deal being whispered between regulars at the corner booth. (Y/N) had fallen into the comfort of routine, her hands quick behind the bar, pouring drinks and trading coin, while Vander worked beside Huck a few steps away, smoothing out a supply deal with his usual half-gruff charm.
It had been a good night.
Until the door creaked open, and the kids walked in.
The smell hit first.
Then the bruises.
Then- Powder’s wide eyes, Vi’s split lip, Mylo’s torn sleeve, and Claggor’s slumped shoulders. They looked like they’d crawled through the Undercity’s rot and back again, covered in grime, bruised and battered- and definitely not just from a run through the Lanes.
(Y/N)’s entire body went still.
Vander looked up, went quiet. She caught his eye, and they both moved without a word- leaving one of the bartenders to manage the bar.
They followed the trail of reek and silence down into the back room.
Before they even reached the door, they could hear the muffled voices- Vi’s sharp whisper, Mylo’s whine, Powder’s soft murmur- and something tight curled in (Y/N)’s gut.
She pushed open the door.
There they were- slouched around the coffee table like the ghosts of their younger selves. Vi in the armchair, sitting tall despite the bruises, her arms crossed over her chest like armor. Powder curled up beside her on the couch, her knees to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. Mylo and Claggor sat opposite, not quite meeting anyone’s gaze.
(Y/N) didn’t speak.
She turned and grabbed a stack of clean cloths from the shelf and tossed them- one to Vi, one to Mylo, one to Claggor. Her way of saying Start cleaning yourselves up before I lose it.
Vander’s voice broke the silence, low and grim.
“Everyone all right?”
Mylo huffed, eyes anywhere but on them. “Never better.”
Vander hummed, slow and deliberate. “Good.”
He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, his voice cold enough to silence the whole room.
“I don’t suppose you can explain why we’re hearing about an explosion and a foot chase topside. Four children fleeing the scene.”
(Y/N) moved quietly around the room, ignoring the smell, the grime, the tension in the air. She crouched in front of Vi, gently grabbing her chin, tilting her face side to side to check for broken skin or swelling.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she asked, low and sharp, eyes flicking over the bruises on Vi’s cheek.
Vi rolled her eyes and tried to pull back. “That we can handle a real job?”
Vander’s face hardened instantly.
“A real job?”
Vi straightened, her voice quick now. “We got our own tip. Planned a route. Nobody even saw-”
“You blew up a building,” (Y/N) snapped, grabbing her chin again, giving her a warning look that stopped her cold.
Vi tried to deflect. “That wasn’t-”
“Did you even stop to think,” Vander cut in, “what could’ve happened to you? To them?”
He pointed to each of them, one by one, and they all flinched. Even Mylo stopped pretending to act tough. Vi’s bravado shrank a little, and she looked down, finally letting (Y/N) finish checking her over in silence.
When she was done, (Y/N) moved to Powder, brushing dirt from her temple with gentle fingers. The girl hadn’t said a word yet, just sat curled in on herself, her eyes wide and glassy.
Vander exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face.
“Where did you even get this tip?”
Silence.
(Y/N) shifted to check Claggor’s arm, noting a deep scrape along his bicep.
Still silence.
Then Powder’s voice came, soft and tired.
“…We just heard it at Benzo’s shop.”
Vander’s brow furrowed. “From?”
“…Little Man,” Powder admitted.
(Y/N) froze just slightly- then closed her eyes and let out a breath, pressing a cloth to Claggor’s arm.
Of course it had been Ekko.
Of course.
Vander muttered a curse under his breath, starting to pace again as the room sat heavy in shame.
(Y/N) didn’t yell. Didn’t need to. She just kept working, her voice calm but cold.
“You’re damn lucky you all made it back,” she said, not looking at any of them. “You’re not invincible. And you’re not ready.”
No one argued.
No one could.
And still, in the back of her mind, a sharp pain echoed through her chest-
We were them once.
And look how that turned out.
The silence in the room following Powder’s confession hung thick- too heavy for the small space, for their small shoulders.
Vander exhaled deeply, weariness settling into his spine like weight he hadn’t shaken in years. He turned to Vi, but she was already standing, her chin tilted up defiantly.
“I took us there,” she said, her voice firm and unflinching. “If you’re gonna be mad, be mad at me. But you’re the one who always says we have to earn our place in the world.”
Vander’s jaw clenched, and he huffed. “I also told you time and time again- the Northside’s off-limits.”
(Y/N), still kneeling by Claggor’s side, looked up, her voice cool. “We stay out of Piltover’s business.”
Vi threw up her hands, talking fast and hot now. “Why? They’ve got plenty, while we’re down here scraping together coins. We’re supposed to just be grateful for scraps?”
She turned her glare to Vander, eyes sharp. “When did you get so comfortable living in someone else’s shadow?”
The words cut through the room like broken glass.
Silence fell.
Even Powder looked up at that, her face unreadable. Mylo’s leg bounced, fast and nervous. Claggor stayed still, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
(Y/N) sighed, slow and heavy, and pushed herself to her feet now that she was sure no one was bleeding out or had a concussion.
She looked at all of them- Vi’s glare, Powder’s clenched hands, Mylo’s sullen posture.
“Right,” she said, with finality. “Everyone out. Come on.”
There was no argument.
They stood, shuffling past her in silence. She guided them out of the room, her hand resting briefly on each shoulder as they passed, quiet reassurance even in her exasperation.
She left Mylo and Claggor in the hallway, watching them both closely for any lingering tension.
Then she followed Powder out the bar's back entrance, lighting a cigarette as the younger girl knelt by one of the bins, digging around with practiced ease.
(Y/N) watched her, blowing out smoke slowly- until Powder paused.
Her hand stilled. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out something small, bright, and unnaturally blue.
A crystal.
It shimmered faintly even in the low light, and for a heartbeat, Powder just stared at it- eyes wide, breath shallow.
(Y/N) raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
But Powder flinched, snapping out of it, and shoved the thing deep into her coat like it might vanish if she just willed it hard enough. Then she bolted back inside without a word.
(Y/N) let it go.
For now.
She dropped her cigarette, crushed it under her boot, and followed after her, heart starting to beat a little faster.
Down the hall, just outside the kids’ room, she heard voices again.
Mylo.
“She's a problem.”
Vi’s voice, quiet. “Mylo, I'm really not-”
“Do you remember what was in that bag?” Mylo snapped. “The biggest payout we’ve ever seen. And she lost it.”
(Y/N) froze outside the door, hand hovering near the handle.
Inside, she heard the soft thunk of a ball bouncing against the wall. Mylo caught it. Threw it again.
“She made a mistake,” Vi said defensively.
“Name one time she hasn’t.”
“She’s young.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You were twice the person at half her age.”
A pause.
Then Vi’s voice, lower now. Bitter.
“You know what, Mylo? You’re right. There’s a bunch of things Powder just can’t do.”
Mylo didn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
The words hit harder than they realized.
Because Powder had heard them, too.
She ran past (Y/N) in the hallway, wiping at her face, shoulders shaking.
(Y/N) didn’t say anything- she just followed, quick and quiet, until she found her in the kids’ room, curled up in her little makeshift fort. The same one she used to sleep in after Felicia died. Nestled between blankets and pillows and broken bits of inventions, trying to lose herself in something that wasn’t this.
(Y/N) slipped inside the fort without hesitation, kneeling and gathering Powder into her arms like she’d done a hundred times before.
Like a mother.
Because she was, in all the ways that mattered.
She didn’t say anything- just held her, stroking her hair, pressing a soft kiss to her head like Felicia used to do, like (Y/N) had once wished someone had done for her.
Eventually, Powder’s trembling eased, though she still clutched at (Y/N)’s coat like she was afraid to let go.
Then footsteps.
Vi.
She stood awkwardly in the doorway, a small frown plain on her face.
(Y/N) pressed one more kiss to Powder’s head, then slowly stood. She passed Vi on the way out and didn’t say anything- just reached up, brushed a thumb across her cheek, and kissed her forehead gently, too.
Then she left them alone.
Sisters.
To mend it on their own.
She made her way out of the bar, walking through the Lanes. The air outside Benzo’s was thick with tension, the kind that curled around your ribs and didn’t let go.
(Y/N) spotted Ekko leaning against the wall just outside, trying to look casual but clearly on edge. His arms were crossed tight, eyes sharp as they scanned the alley like he was expecting someone to come flying around the corner.
She softened at the sight of him- such a little thing, trying so hard to act grown.
She ruffled his hair as she passed. “Hey, little man.”
He gave a small, tired smile, but didn’t say much- just gave her a subtle nod before returning to his watch.
Inside, Benzo’s place smelled like oil and metal and something acrid in the walls that never quite went away. Vander was already talking when she stepped in- low, angry tones, his back half-turned to the door.
Benzo caught her eye and gave a slight nod. “She’s here.”
Vander turned, and just the look on his face made her stomach drop.
“They’re blaming us,” he said without any preamble. “Grayson- she says Piltover needs someone to hang it on.”
(Y/N)’s jaw clenched. “Of course they do.”
“She said it came from higher up,” Vander went on. “One of the councilors. Said they can’t afford to ignore this. So they want blood. Names.”
Her arms crossed slowly. “Let me guess- they want our kids.”
Vander nodded grimly.
“They want someone to take the fall for the explosion. For the theft. For trespassing topside.”
(Y/N) didn’t speak right away. She just stared at him.
She knew about the deal- Vander had brokered it years ago, when they were still clawing their way out of the ruins of the bridge. Keep the Undercity quiet, and Piltover wouldn’t look too closely. Keep things calm, and they’d stay out of the Lanes.
It had always felt like a fragile truce. Like balancing a knife on glass.
And now… it was breaking.
“They think you’ll hand over the kids,” she said, flatly.
Vander’s eyes burned. “I won’t.”
Benzo didn’t interrupt. He just watched as Vander pulled a small device from his coat- a metal piece that could be sent topside.
Vander nodded toward it. “Grayson gave the signal. She’s waiting for an answer.”
(Y/N) stared at it, then nodded once.
“We tell her no,” she said. “And we watch everything.”
They made their way back to the bar.
The kids had already scattered down into the arcade on (Y/N)’s word- somewhere out of sight, somewhere quiet. Somewhere that used to be theirs when they were younger, running from the world before the weight of it caught up.
Inside The Last Drop, the mood had shifted.
The usual warmth was still there, but the edges were fraying. People were tense. Voices were low. There were more eyes on the door than there were on drinks.
(Y/N) took her spot behind the bar. Vander leaned against the far end, scanning the crowd, quiet.
They didn’t talk much. Just kept their ears open.
Hours passed like that.
And then-
The kids came back.
One by one, they filed in through the side hallway, muddy boots scuffing softly on the wood. They didn’t say anything, didn’t cause a scene. Just… lingered.
Near the back. Close enough to (Y/N) and Vander to be protected, but not so close they’d be noticed.
Smart kids.
They’d learned to move like shadows.
And for now, that was exactly what they needed to be.
The tension in The Last Drop had become thick enough to choke on. Whispers had turned to murmurs. Murmurs into open frustration. And when Sevika stood from her booth, drink in hand, there was no mistaking the shift in the room.
“We should hit them back,” she said, her voice cutting clean through the chatter. “We’ve got the numbers to best them.”
(Y/N), standing behind the bar with her hands gripping a towel a little too tightly, said nothing. But her chest stirred with reluctant agreement.
She knew Sevika was right.
But she also knew what happened the last time they 'had the numbers.'
So she stayed quiet.
Because following Vander’s lead- whether it sat right or not- was the only thing that had kept the Undercity from burning again.
Vander raised his voice calmly but firmly, pushing off from where he leaned.
“You sure that’s what you want?” he asked, stepping forward slowly. “We crossed that bridge before. And we all know how that ended.”
(Y/N) tensed. She didn’t move, didn’t speak- but the weight of his words hit her like a hammer to the ribs.
Felicia’s hands, cold and bloodied in hers.
Connol’s still body on the ground.
The last time she saw Silco.
She said nothing. Just lit a cigarette and looked away.
Someone else, half-drunk and bitter, chimed in from near the door. “You’re just protecting your kids.”
(Y/N)’s eyes snapped over her shoulder- straight to the back corner, where the kids stood, lingering. They’d kept quiet, kept out of sight, but they were still watching.
Still listening.
Vander didn’t rise to the bait. He stepped in calmly, the firm voice of a man who had earned this room.
“I’m protecting our people,” he said. “I’d do the same for any one of you. We look out for each other. That’s the way it’s always been.”
(Y/N) exhaled slowly, smoke curling from her lips.
“This’ll blow over,” she added, tone even. “We just need to stand together.”
Sevika scoffed, ignoring her entirely. Her eyes were locked on Vander.
“The Vander I knew- the one who built the Undercity- he wouldn’t be afraid to fight.”
The bar hushed again.
Vander stepped toward her slowly, unflinching, until they stood toe-to-toe. He stared her down.
“Do I look afraid?”
Without hesitation, Sevika fired back: “No. You look weak.”
Then she let out a sharp whistle.
Her crew stood up in unison- shoulders squared, weapons at their hips- and one by one, they filed out the bar behind her, Sevika last.
(Y/N) didn’t stop them.
Neither did Vander.
Silence returned.
The kids- still watching- retreated down the hallway toward their room. Not a word. Just quiet understanding.
(Y/N) let out a long sigh and lit another cigarette, taking a slow drag as she leaned against the bar.
Then the door opened again.
Three Enforcers entered.
Not the usual grunts. Higher rank. Clean boots. One of them, Marcus, stepped ahead of the others like he already owned the place.
(Y/N) straightened, flicking her ash but saying nothing.
“We’re looking for some kids,” Marcus said, eyes scanning the room.
Vander didn’t miss a beat. “Bar’s full of ‘em,” he replied casually. “Best be specific.”
As the Enforcers started walking, poking through corners and checking under tables, Vander moved behind the bar. He grabbed a bottle, uncorked it, and offered, “How ‘bout a drink, eh?”
As he poured, his fingers dipped under the counter- click. The emergency switch. A signal to the kids below.
Hide. Now.
Then, Marcus dropped a line that made (Y/N)’s head whip around in alarm.
“Ran into an old friend of yours,” he said to Vander. “Had some stories.”
The bar went still.
Marcus stepped forward and took Vander’s pipe right out of his hand, rolling it between his fingers.
(Y/N)’s body tensed. So did half the bar.
Vander gave a subtle shake of his head- don’t.
Marcus smirked. “You weren’t always the peacekeeper, were you?”
Then, without flinching, he dropped the pipe into the liquor glass. It caught fire instantly.
Flames crackled in the silence.
Vander’s jaw flexed, but his voice stayed even.
“Yeah, well… you can’t escape the past, right?”
He lifted his eyes slowly- toward the wall above the bar.
Toward the gauntlets mounted high.
The ones he hadn’t touched since that night.
“Be a shame if I had to put ’em on again,” he said, voice low. “Cast irons… well. They’re hard to clean.”
The fire between them flickered. The room held its breath.
And every single person in The Last Drop remembered exactly who Vander used to be.
The search didn’t last long. The Enforcers poked through the bar, lifting up old crates, checking behind curtains, pulling up floor panels that had already been repaired twice over. (Y/N) didn’t flinch. Neither did Vander.
Eventually, the other two returned to Marcus.
“All clear.”
Marcus rolled his eyes with a scoff, lips curling into something sharp and cruel. Vander raised an eyebrow, half a shrug in response.
But Marcus wasn’t done.
“You people down here are all the same,” he sneered, turning to face the bar. “Mistaking arrogance for bravery. You think you're standing up for something, but we all know there’s a crime behind every coin that passes through this place.”
He turned to face Vander, stepping in closer, voice dropping low enough to be lethal.
“You’re just a small man in a little hole the world forgot to bury.”
And then, just to twist the knife-
Marcus lifted his baton and slammed it down onto the burning glass of liquor, shattering it across the counter. Fire spilled over the wood, licking up the side of a bottle rack.
“And I’m gonna bury the lot of you.”
Then he turned, shoved through the crowd of tense patrons, and left with his officers in tow, boots echoing against the stone.
The door slammed.
Silence followed.
(Y/N) didn’t waste time. She grabbed a nearby cloth, slammed it over the fire, smothering the flames until the last of the smoke curled up and vanished into the ceiling vents.
Vander stood there, unmoving, jaw locked tight, eyes still on the door. That line had cut, but he wasn’t about to show it.
Once they were sure the Enforcers were gone, the two of them quietly made their way down to the kids’ room. The tension clung to their shoulders as they descended the stairs.
The kids were all there, huddled and tense. Powder had her hands fisted into her sleeves, trying not to shake. Claggor sat stiffly, while Mylo bounced his leg, eyes darting to every sound.
(Y/N) glanced around, making sure no one was more hurt than they already were. “Are you all okay..?”
Vi was the first to speak.
“No, we’re not okay. They almost saw Powder.” Her voice cracked, furious and terrified all at once. “What if they took her?”
Vander stepped forward quickly, firm but calm. “No one is taking any of you.”
(Y/N) nodded, kneeling beside them. “We would never let that happen. Not to any of you.”
But Vi wasn’t comforted. She threw her arm out, motioning toward the others, her voice rising.
“It’s already happening! You heard him- he’s not gonna stop. They’re gonna keep coming. So we need to fight back. And if you two won’t-” her eyes flicked between Vander and (Y/N), “-then I will.”
(Y/N)’s chest went tight.
It reminded her too much of another voice, another pair of burning eyes once full of conviction.
Silco.
Vander heard it too.
His voice was quiet, but laced with weight. “I’ve heard this kind of talk before...”
He gave (Y/N) a look- a heavy one- before gently placing a hand on Vi’s shoulder and guiding her toward the exit.
“Come with me.”
(Y/N) didn’t stop him. Just watched as they disappeared up the stairs, Vi’s shoulders squared with defiance, Vander silent and steady at her side.
She stayed behind with the others, crouching down beside Powder and gently wrapping her in her arms, murmuring softly to calm her trembling hands.
The kids needed someone to stay.
And she always would.
She stayed downstairs with the kids for a long while after Vi left with Vander- running a hand through Powder’s hair, checking Claggor’s bruises, pressing a damp cloth to the scrape across Mylo’s temple. No one said much. They didn’t need to. The air was heavy with all that almost happened.
Eventually, Vi returned. Quiet, but calmer. She nodded to (Y/N), the unspoken signal that she was okay now- enough, at least.
(Y/N) gave her a gentle touch on the shoulder, then stood, smoothing her palms against her thighs as she made her way back upstairs.
The bar was quieter now, most of the patrons long gone after the Enforcers had stormed out. Only a few lingered in corners, keeping their voices down, casting side-glances toward the bar where Vander stood alone.
He didn’t look at her as she approached. Just held up a half-crushed pack of cigarettes, and she took one wordlessly.
They lit up together, just like they used to.
Back before everything fell apart.
Before the bridge.
Before Silco disappeared.
Before Felicia and Connol never came home.
She sat beside him, leaning against the counter, breathing in the smoke.
They didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then Vander spoke, his voice quieter than she’d ever heard it.
“I’m going to turn myself in.”
The words struck like stone in her gut. She stared at him, cigarette paused halfway to her lips.
“If it gets them off the kids- if it keeps them safe- it’s worth it.”
Her chest tightened, and she felt the burn of tears she refused to let fall. Vander didn’t flinch. He just reached over and pulled her into a hug- tight, grounding, familiar.
“Promise me,” he murmured into her hair. “If I’m gone... you’ll look after them.”
“You know I will,” she whispered, voice shaking.
But before she could pull back, before the weight of goodbye could fully land-
Vander exhaled, slow and bitter.
“There’s something else.”
She stilled.
And then he told her.
What happened the night of the bridge.
How he and Silco had fought after the battle.
How Vander had overpowered him. Dragged him to the river. Held him under.
Cut his face.
Watched the man he’d once called brother claw his way from the edge, stealing Vander’s own blade before vanishing into the darkness.
“I thought he was dead,” Vander said, quietly. “For a while, I hoped he was.”
(Y/N) stepped back, her cigarette trembling in her hand.
“You tried to kill him?” Her voice was soft, but full of a furious disbelief. “You let me think he was gone. You watched me mourn him, and you knew.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Her jaw clenched, eyes burning. “You didn’t even try.”
He saw it then. The look of hate on her face. Like she didn’t recognize him anymore.
And maybe, for the first time in years- she didn’t.
Vander turned away, jaw tight, reaching beneath the bar for the signal Grayson had left. He figured now was as good a time as any.
But then the stairs creaked.
They both turned.
Powder stood there at the base of the stairwell, her eyes red-rimmed and sad, fingers curled into the hem of her oversized sweater.
Vander hesitated. Slowly straightened.
“…Want something to drink?” he asked, reaching for a bottle and grabbing a small glass- something sweet, the same kind of juice Felicia used to like.
She nodded, sliding onto the stool as Vander poured it and gently nudged it her way. “Cheer up, eh?”
But (Y/N) hadn’t taken her eyes off her.
Not until she saw it- nestled against Powder’s side, sticking out of her bag slightly.
The bunny.
Vi’s old stuffed bunny.
The one Felicia had given her. Years ago.
The one Vi hadn’t touched in ages.
Vander saw it too.
His body went rigid.
“…Powder,” he said, carefully. “Where did you get that?”
But she didn’t answer. Just looked down.
Vander reached under the bar for the signal.
His hand patted around.
And his face dropped.
“…It’s gone.”
They moved fast.
The second (Y/N) realized the signal was missing, her cigarette hit the floor, half-smoked and forgotten. She met Vander’s eyes- no words needed- and they were out the door before Powder could even ask what was wrong.
Benzo was just locking up his shop when they caught him.
“We need you,” Vander said sharply, grabbing the old man’s arm.
Benzo didn’t ask why. He saw their faces and followed without hesitation.
They ran through the alleys, cutting corners and weaving past the confused late-night crowd, boots echoing over cobblestone. (Y/N)’s heart pounded, every step fueled by a sick dread deep in her gut.
She’s going to turn herself in.
Vi already sent the signal.
We’re too late.
They reached the safehouse tucked just outside the Lanes, its rusted door creaking slightly under pressure. Vander pushed it open, and there she was.
Vi stood near the center of the room, her hands wringing nervously. She looked surprised when she saw them, her brow furrowing.
“Why are you-”
“We don’t have much time,” Vander cut in, stepping forward, already out of breath.
Vi blinked. “How did you find me?”
But Vander didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed her by the shoulders, steadying her, grounding them both.
“I’m proud of you,” he said. “We all are. Always have been.”
Vi leaned into his touch, confused, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I… I thought this was the only way to protect the others.”
While they spoke, (Y/N) and Benzo had moved toward the front window, keeping low. She whistled sharply when she spotted movement outside- dark figures, uniforms, the glint of polished boots catching the faint streetlight.
Benzo’s head snapped toward Vander. “Vander…”
But he was already moving.
He cupped Vi’s face in his hands, eyes locked with hers.
“You’ve got a good heart,” he murmured. “Don’t ever lose it. No matter how the world tries to break you. You and (Y/N)… protect the family.”
“What are you-?”
Then Vander shoved her.
Quick. Rough. Out of nowhere.
Vi yelped as she stumbled backward- falling into the room behind her. Before she could get up, before she could reach for the edge, Vander slammed the door shut and twisted the lock.
Vi pounded on the wood.
“No- Vander!”
But it was too late.
She was safe.
And they would face what came next without her.
The banging hadn’t stopped since Vander locked the door- Vi’s muffled voice yelling his name, fists slamming against the wood from behind. It was the sound of desperation. Of betrayal. Of family being torn apart.
(Y/N)’s heart clenched with every hit.
Then the door to the safehouse opened.
Grayson entered first, calm and composed as always. Her eyes swept the room- landed on the sound coming from beheinde them- and she sighed softly.
“I’m guessing that’s for me.”
Before Marcus could take a single step forward, (Y/N) moved- planting herself in front of the door, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Marcus scowled and stepped forward anyway, only to find Vander stepping in front of him, blocking his path.
“You gonna let us make the arrest or not?” Marcus snapped, already gripping his baton.
Vander raised a hand, voice steady. “You’ll oblige a doomed man one last smoke…”
Before the sheriff could reply, (Y/N) already had a cigarette in her fingers, flicked it to life with a spark of a lighter, and placed it gently between Vander’s lips. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t pull away.
Even now… even after what he’d confessed…
He was family.
He had always been family.
Vander took a long drag, the smoke curling slowly from his lips as he exhaled, voice low and rough.
“Won’t you?”
But before Marcus could lunge again, Grayson moved- swiftly stepping in, shoving Marcus aside without even blinking.
“I’m not putting you away, Vander,” she said, looking up at him, her voice tired but sincere.
Vander’s lips twitched in something close to a smile. “The council needs its pound of flesh.”
“Without you down here,” she countered, “it all falls apart.”
Vander shook his head, smoke trailing from his mouth as he gestured toward the others. “Benzo and (Y/N) will handle things. Might not have my devilish charm, but they run a tight ship.”
Grayson’s expression darkened, just slightly. “You won’t be coming back. Not for a long time.”
Vander took one last drag of the cigarette before pressing the cherry into the floor and crushing it under his boot.
Then he held out his wrists to Marcus.
“…I know.”
Grayson looked at him one last time. “Why?”
Vander’s eyes didn’t leave hers.
“It’s the only way.”
Marcus stepped forward, grabbing Vander roughly and binding his wrists. Vander didn’t fight it.
(Y/N) stood frozen as they turned to leave, the air thick with something that felt like grief- but not quite.
She looked back- just once- at the door behind her. She could still hear Vi banging, yelling. Her voice muffled by wood and fate.
And then, with a heavy heart, she followed them out.
The night air outside the safehouse was sharp, unnervingly still. (Y/N)'s boots hit the stone with practiced calm, her eyes scanning the shadows, instinct prickling at the back of her neck.
Something felt wrong.
Then- a blur.
Faster than any of them could react.
A sound like a blade slicing through the air.
And in one sickening swoop, Enforcers dropped like puppets with cut strings- blood spraying across the cobblestones. Limbs twisted. Armor crumpled. The sheriff was the last to fall, her body collapsing with a weighty thud, lifeless eyes staring at the stars.
(Y/N) froze. Vander cursed, stepping back instinctively, placing himself between her and the carnage.
Vander muttered, “What the devil…”
Marcus stumbled back, panic on his face, reaching for a weapon he barely knew how to use.
Benzo was quicker. He snatched up a pipe from the blood-slicked ground, holding it steady in both hands, old soldier instincts kicking in. “Stay close,” he muttered to (Y/N), voice taut.
But (Y/N) wasn’t hiding anymore.
The grief. The rage. The betrayal. It had been simmering under her skin for years- and now, with the taste of death in the air and the weight of fate hanging heavy, she let it burn.
Her hands lit with flame.
Her magic surged, raw and electric, glowing through the veins in her fingers like wildfire. Her eyes blazed with power, bright and defiant, reflecting the fire pooling at her fingertips.
No more hiding.
Vander stepped forward slowly- his eyes locked on something just beyond the smoke and ruin.
And then his face fell.
“…No,” he breathed.
(Y/N) turned, eyes narrowing, senses sharp.
And then she saw it too.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows. Cloaked in smoke, half-silhouetted by the flickering light of burning lamplight. His shoulders were broad. His coat was unfamiliar. But one eye- one eye- glowed an unnatural, searing orange, burning like a dying star.
She didn’t recognize him at first.
Not until Benzo let out a hoarse, broken whisper beside her.
“…Silco?”
The name struck her like lightning.
Her flames faltered for the briefest moment.
That thing- that man standing before them, drenched in shadow and ruin- was Silco.
Her Silco.
But something was wrong.
Something had changed.
And whatever had crawled out of the river that night wasn’t the man who had once held her like she was everything in the world.
But it was him.
And her heart cracked open at the sight.
Benzo was the first to move.
He let out a sharp cry, his pipe raised high as he charged forward- anger flashing in his eyes. “You animal!” he shouted. “Go crawl back into whatever hole you came out of!”
The moment cracked.
Out of instinct- old, ingrained instinct- (Y/N) almost stepped in front of Silco.
Her body remembered before. Before the fire, before the hatred, before the bridge.
Before the man she loved had disappeared beneath the surface.
“Benzo, stay back!” Vander yelled, already lunging forward, hand outstretched.
But it was too late.
Silco tilted his head slightly, his eye never leaving (Y/N). His voice came low, almost amused. “You never did know when to walk away… Benzo.”
And then it happened.
A whip of movement- barely visible, a blur of sinew and shadow- and the creature returned.
The same unnatural beast that had slaughtered the Enforcers moved again, and in the span of a breath, Benzo was gone.
His body hit the ground hard, unmoving.
(Y/N) froze.
Her magic flickered.
Her gaze locked on Benzo’s lifeless frame.
A strangled sound escaped Vander’s throat as he fell to his knees. “No!”
He scrambled toward his old friend, grief crashing through him like a wave.
Silco stood over it all, watching.
His voice was quieter now, maybe even tired. “Stubborn till the end…”
Marcus, pale and shaken, stepped forward slowly, breath ragged. “What the hell have you done? This- this wasn’t the deal!”
Silco turned his head toward him, one hand still clasped neatly behind his back. He walked slowly, deliberately, like the world around him hadn’t just shifted on its axis.
“Deal’s changed,” he said calmly, before tossing a pouch of gold at Marcus’s feet.
It hit the ground with a heavy clink, blood flecking the edge.
Marcus stared at it. But said nothing.
(Y/N) hadn’t moved.
She couldn’t.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Benzo.
Not until she felt him approaching.
Silco’s footsteps were soft, measured, until he stood in front of her. The creature behind him moved toward Vander- without a word- and slammed its fist into the side of Vander’s head. The crack of impact echoed in the alley as Vander slumped unconscious.
(Y/N) twitched, but didn’t react.
She couldn’t.
The monster picked Vander up like a ragdoll and disappeared into the shadows.
Silco… stayed.
He turned his full attention to her.
And for the first time in nearly a decade, she looked into both of his eyes.
One glowing bright, unnatural orange.
And one still the same soft, piercing blue she remembered falling in love with.
Even now, with everything burning around them, with blood still warm on the ground, with her magic humming violently at her fingertips-
Her heart ached.
Still.
Silco reached up, slowly, fingers brushing her chin.
His touch was gentle. Too gentle.
“Did you know?” he asked, voice low. Measured.
“…D… Did I know?”
“Of what happened between Vander and I.”
She swallowed hard.
“…Not… until today.”
Silco’s face barely moved, but something behind his eyes flickered—pain, maybe. Memory.
“I don’t wish to hurt you,” he said, quietly. “But you have to come with me.”
(Y/N) didn’t know what she was doing when she nodded.
Her thoughts were gone- ripped out like a tide.
All she could feel was the burn in her chest, the roaring silence in her mind.
She nodded again, slower this time.
And Silco, seeing her surrender, nodded in return.
Then, without a word, he reached down, took her hand into his-
And led her away.
Away from the blood.
Away from the flame.
Away from the person she had become in his absence.
Marcus watched them disappear into the shadows.
And said nothing.
More Posts from Deliciousspecimen and Others
For my request, can you write a oneshot featuring Mondo with bondage and gags please? He gets the idea to try escaping bondage to prove how tough he can be. So he instructs his gang members to take him to an abandoned warehouse to shackle his barefeet to a heavy weight, handcuff him and tape gag his mouth.
For a potential angst plot, as Mondo struggles to escape his bonds, he reflects on his worth as a gang leader and if he'll be as good as his late brother. What do you think?
A/N: Sure, @princeasimdiya12! I can do that :}
Stronger than Chains
Mondo Owada Oneshot
Warnings: Physical restraint/bondage, Self-imposed suffering, Blood/Injury, Emotional distress/Self-worth issues
Word Count: 1762
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The clattering of chains echoed through the cold, hollow warehouse. The moonlight slanted through broken windows in thick beams, catching on the dust that hung in the air like fog.
"Alright, you punks," Mondo barked, pacing barefoot across the cracked concrete. His jacket flared out behind him with each swaggering step. "You heard what I said. Lock me down. Tight. I ain't playin'."
The Crazy Diamonds, his loyal gang, exchanged uneasy looks. They'd done a lot for their boss over the years- illegal races, turf fights, even the occasional back-alley brawl- but this was... new.
"Boss... You serious?" Asked Mondo’s right-hand man, scratching the back of his neck. "You want us to actually chain you up like some kinda... prisoner?"
"You deaf or somethin’?" Mondo growled, shooting him a look that could start fires. "Told ya! I gotta prove I ain't weak. No matter what tries to hold me down, I’m stronger. This ain't for you. It's for me."
A few nervous chuckles floated up, but they obeyed. Always did.
Mondo planted himself in the center of the room, arms crossed, head held high. His feet, bare against the freezing floor, shifted slightly as they brought out the iron shackles. Heavy chains linked them to a giant scrap engine block they'd salvaged from a junkyard- easily over 600 pounds. It clanked threateningly as it was dragged closer.
"Do it," he grunted.
The gang worked fast. Cold iron cuffs snapped around his ankles, biting into the skin slightly. The chain dragged heavy across the ground as they locked it securely to the weight. His legs were effectively stuck- he could shuffle maybe an inch at most, if that.
Next, they produced a pair of handcuffs. Mondo smirked through gritted teeth, shoving his arms behind his back himself, daring them to slap them on. They did, clicking tightly around his wrists, the chill of the steel stinging his skin.
"You sure about the last part, boss?" One of his men asked, holding up a roll of thick, industrial duct tape.
"Yeah," Mondo growled low in his throat. "No talkin'. No excuses."
With a nod, the man ripped a length of tape free and slapped it firmly across Mondo’s mouth, smoothing it down so tight it almost molded to the shape of his lips. The adhesive pulled at the stubble on his jaw, and Mondo instinctively let out a rough, muffled grunt-
"Mmph!"
He glared at the gang but nodded approvingly. Good. No backing out now.
The gang stepped back, watching in tense silence as Mondo shifted, testing the bonds. The chains clattered and groaned under the strain as he tugged at them. His muscles flexed, sweat starting to bead at his temples despite the freezing warehouse air.
"Mmphh-!" Mondo grunted fiercely through the gag, struggling harder, jerking his legs in place, but the weight was immovable. His bare feet scraped against the rough concrete, the iron cuffs biting deeper with each pull. He tried wrenching his hands free behind his back- the cuffs clinked mockingly.
He let out another low, furious moan- "Mrghhh...!"
His gang watched in awe. Their boss was thrashing like a wild beast, fighting every inch of steel with the pure stubborn force of will that had made him the most feared biker in the country. His hair clung damply to his forehead, his taped mouth twisting with every muffled snarl and grunt:
"Mmmf- rrmph! Nghhh!"
But no matter how he strained, no matter how violently he jerked against them, the chains held. His knees eventually buckled and he sank slightly, panting heavily through his nose, letting out a shuddering groan,
"Hrrmmphhh..."
Still... he grinned beneath the gag, the edges of his mouth pulling tight under the tape. He hadn’t given up. Not even close.
He was Mondo Owada.
And nothing- not even steel and concrete- was gonna break him.
The Crazy Diamonds hesitated at the edges of the room, exchanging another series of nervous looks.
"Boss said not to let him out 'til he tells us," One muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "We better let him... work it out."
"Even if he's stuck like that all night?" another whispered.
There was no answer. He just nodded toward the exit.
One by one, the gang members filed out, boots scuffing against concrete, leaving Mondo alone in the vast, echoing warehouse. The heavy door groaned shut, and with a final clank, it latched.
Silence. Bitter, biting silence.
Mondo jerked his arms, muscles flaring beneath his jacket. The cuffs rattled mockingly. His bare feet strained against the shackles, toes curling against the cold floor as he heaved his body weight forward. The chain dragged maybe an inch, scraping noisily- but that was it. The heavy engine didn't even budge.
"Rrmmphh!" Mondo snarled into the tape gag, furious. Furious at the chains. Furious at himself.
He slumped forward slightly, panting through his nose. The tape clung uncomfortably to his sweaty skin.
Still bound, still gagged, still stuck. He squeezed his eyes shut.
And in that darkness, another weight- heavier than the iron- settled on his chest.
Daiya wouldn't have gotten caught like this, he thought bitterly. My brother... he wouldn't have needed some dumbass stunt to prove he was tough.
Mondo shifted again, writhing against the cuffs until the metal bit deep into his wrists. He groaned low, a strangled noise against the tape, "Mrghhh..."
Daiya had been fearless. Respected. Legendary. When he spoke, the gang moved like a single living creature. When he walked into a room, the air itself seemed to tense.
Mondo?
Mondo still felt like a damn kid playing dress-up in a dead man's boots.
He growled through the gag, a long, furious noise, yanking so hard against the cuffs his shoulders ached. The cuffs held. The chains held. Nothing broke.
"Nhhrghh-!" he cried, thrashing again. His hair was plastered to his forehead, breath sawing out in desperate, muffled gasps.
He hated this feeling. This helplessness. This weakness.
Was he really just a shadow of his brother? Some reckless idiot who could bark loud but never live up to the legend?
Sweat dripped down the side of his face as he sagged forward, the chain rattling softly with the motion. He stayed there, kneeling on the cold floor, the weight of everything- the chains, the memories, the expectations- crushing him down.
A ragged, barely audible sound escaped him through the gag, "...mrmph..."
He wasn't good enough.
Not yet.
Maybe... maybe not ever.
But he would be. He had to be. For Daiya. For the Crazy Diamonds. For himself.
Slowly, gritting his teeth under the tape, Mondo lifted his head. His muscles burned. His skin stung. His wrists were raw against the cuffs.
Good. Pain meant he was still fighting.
Pain meant he was still alive.
And if he was alive- he could still win.
With a deep, snarling breath, he planted his feet against the concrete, every muscle in his body straining against the chains once more.
The engine didn’t move. The cuffs dug deep. But Mondo Owada-
"MMPH-!!" he roared into the gag, a savage sound of pure, unfiltered will-
Wasn't giving up.
The minutes- or maybe hours dragged by in a haze of agony and fury.
Mondo had no way of keeping time. Just the sound of his ragged, muffled breathing behind the duct tape, the constant clink and scrape of metal against concrete, and the burning fire in his muscles.
He thrashed harder. Again. And again.
The cuffs carved angry red lines into his wrists. His ankles ached from how tightly the iron shackles bit into them, raw and scraped from his jerking struggles. His jaw hurt from straining behind the tape gag, his skin tender and irritated where the adhesive pulled with every grunt and growl.
And yet-
He didn't stop.
"Rrrghh...! Mmmpghh-!" he snarled low in his throat, eyes burning, forehead pressed to the cold floor for a moment as he sucked in furious breaths through his nose.
He refused to let these chains keep him down.
He refused to be weak.
He refused to stay shackled to some damn hunk of scrap metal like a trapped animal.
With a savage roar, Mondo dug deep- deeper than he ever had before- and heaved.
Muscles screaming, he twisted his hands as violently as he could behind his back, wrenching against the handcuffs until-
CLINK- SNAP!
One of the cuffs popped loose with a painful jerk, biting his wrist open in the process. Blood welled up, but Mondo didn’t even flinch.
He staggered forward, dragging the chain still shackling his ankles. Sweat poured from him. His knees buckled. But his grin- God, his grin - split across his face under the tape, wild and triumphant.
He dropped heavily onto his side, forcing his hands in front of him, fumbling to rip at the tape gag with trembling fingers. His fingernails caught the edge of the sticky mess, peeling it painfully from his raw skin.
It felt like ripping off a layer of himself- but he didn’t stop.
"Khh-!" he hissed as the tape tore free, finally letting his bruised lips part. He spat out a heavy breath, his voice hoarse from grunting and growling for so long.
"Hahh... hahhh..." He sucked in deep gulps of air, tasting freedom, tasting victory.
Mondo sat there for a long moment, completely wrecked- wrists bloodied, face red and raw, legs still trapped by the heavy chain- and still, he laughed. A low, raspy chuckle that grew into a full, stubborn, defiant laugh.
"Heh... Heh-heh... Haah...!"
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing a bit of blood and sweat, his chest heaving from exertion.
Still shackled to the heavy weight, still hurting all over- but free from the cuffs, free from the gag, free from the worst of it.
And even now, beaten and bruised and practically vibrating from the effort, that same cocky, stubborn smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
"Tch..." he muttered, dragging himself slowly to his feet despite the heavy chain. "Guess... I ain't such a damn weakling after all, huh, bro?"
He could almost hear Daiya’s voice in the back of his mind- not laughing at him, not mocking him- but proud.
Mondo stood there, broken and bloody and still standing, and for the first time in a long time... he actually believed he was worthy of being the Crazy Diamonds' leader.
And he'd damn well keep proving it- no matter how many times he had to fight. No matter how many times he had to break the chains himself.
can you do „where the hurt doesn’t reach but with Charlie Morningstar, Emily and Verosika mayday? (The reader dies due to abuse of the stepfather and in Charlie and Verosika case he was mistakenly sent to hell)
A/N: Yes, @ultimategraffitiguy! There are quite a few requests for this, most of them are Danganronpa LOL I love switching things up though, so I love that now there are more fandoms I can write for :}
Where the Hurt Doesn’t Reach pt.3
pt.2 - pt.4
pt.1
Charlie, Emily, and Verosika x Male!Reader
Warnings: Themes of Trauma/Abuse, Mentions of Assault/Threats, Mental Health Topics, Sensitive Touch & Boundaries, Self-Harm, Social Anxiety /Avoidance, Mentions of Nightmares/Sleep Issues
Word Count: 3398
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Charlie:
Hell wasn’t what he expected.
There was no lake of fire, no pitchforks, no screaming banshees. Just... noise. Colors too bright. People too loud. The overwhelming sensation of eyes on him- men with their sharp grins and cruel laughter, and women with their razor stares. It was too much. Too fast.
(Y/N) didn’t know why he’d been sent here. He knew he wasn’t a saint, but what happened to him wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t fair. He had tried to survive. But the world above had ignored the bruises, the fear, the shaking hands. And one day, he didn’t wake up again.
His stepfather had made sure of that.
And now here he was, in Hell.
He kept to the shadows of the city, hiding behind dumpsters, curling into corners when the crowds got too loud. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since arriving. Every man who looked at him with interest sent him recoiling like a wounded animal. He hadn’t eaten in days.
Until someone found him.
She looked like she didn’t belong here. Blonde hair like sunlight, warm eyes, a kind smile that didn’t waver even when she saw how dirty and thin he was. She crouched, slowly, as if approaching a stray.
“Hi,” she said softly. “My name’s Charlie. What’s yours?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was tight. His body, tense. He expected a trap. A laugh. A demand.
But none came.
Charlie stayed kneeling, a respectable distance away, her hands resting on her knees. She spoke in low tones, like a lullaby, talking about a hotel- some place for redemption, a safe place, a home. Her voice didn’t press. It invited.
After a long silence, (Y/N) rasped out his name.
Charlie’s smile brightened, but not in a way that hurt his eyes. It was... soft. Real.
“I’m so glad you’re here, (Y/N),” she said.
He didn’t believe her. Not yet. But he let her help him to his feet.
It took weeks.
Charlie gave him a room at the Hazbin Hotel- quiet, cozy, safe. She let him lock the door if he wanted. There was food on the table every morning. Books. Music. A plant on the windowsill.
She was careful with him. Never touched without asking. Never raised her voice. And when Alastor’s booming laugh or Husk’s growls sent him into panic, Charlie would gently guide him away, her hand hovering nearby, a silent offer. Never a command.
One evening, (Y/N) sat in the lobby, knees tucked to his chest, staring at the flickering fireplace. Charlie sat on the couch across from him, reading something light.
“Why am I here?” he asked, finally. His voice was quiet. Broken.
Charlie looked up, blinking.
“In Hell?” she asked gently.
He nodded.
“I- I tried to be good,” he said. His voice cracked. “I didn’t hurt anyone. I was scared. I was just... scared all the time.”
Charlie set the book down and leaned forward, hands clasped.
“I believe you,” she said. “The system’s broken. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. And you don’t belong here.”
Tears welled in his eyes. His hands trembled.
“I’m not safe,” he whispered. “Not even now. I still feel him.”
Charlie’s expression twisted- not with pity, but with something deeper. Fierce compassion.
“You are safe,” she said, firmly this time. “I swear it. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you again. Not ever.”
His breath caught. He stared at her- searching, trembling.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” he asked.
Charlie smiled again, that same gentle smile from the first day.
“Because I see someone who deserves to be cared about,” she said. “And I think maybe... you haven’t heard that enough.”
The tears finally spilled over.
Charlie didn’t move toward him. She let him cry. Let him feel. And when he looked at her through the blur, she was still there. Patient. Real.
Something started to shift after that night.
It was slow, like ice melting in a warm hand. But it was real.
(Y/N) started leaving his room more often- early in the mornings when the hotel was quietest, when the light from the stained glass made the hallways glow like sunrise. Sometimes, he’d find Charlie in the kitchen humming off-key while burning toast, or laughing with Vaggie over something small. And he liked that. The softness of it. The warmth.
Charlie always greeted him with a smile. Never forced conversation. But she noticed him. She always noticed.
“You’re up early,” she’d say, with that gentle lilt in her voice, like music that didn’t ask anything from him.
And he’d just shrug, or nod. But he didn’t hide anymore.
He found himself drawn to her.
Not just because she was safe- but because she made things feel safe.
Books she left on the counter had little sticky notes in them, pointing out jokes or poems she thought he’d like. Sometimes, she’d pass him in the hallway with a quiet “I made cookies,” and then disappear before he could respond, as if she knew praise or thanks might overwhelm him.
She never made him feel small for being afraid. Or for being quiet. Or for not knowing how to accept care.
(Y/N) had never had that.
He didn’t know what to call what was happening inside him. But when she laughed, it stirred something. When she sat next to him on the couch- still at a safe distance, still always waiting for his lead- his pulse fluttered. He didn’t shrink away anymore. Sometimes… he even leaned closer.
One evening, the hotel was quiet. Most of the others were out.
(Y/N) sat by the window in the common room, watching distant flames flicker across the skyline. The hellscape beyond the glass didn’t frighten him so much now. Not when the room behind him felt like peace.
Charlie approached softly.
“Mind if I sit?”
He shook his head.
She settled beside him on the couch. A bit closer than usual. Not touching- but close enough for warmth to reach him. She glanced out the window too.
“It’s kind of pretty, in its own way,” she murmured.
He looked at her instead. She caught him, and smiled.
And for the first time, he didn’t look away.
“You really don’t belong here,” he whispered.
Charlie tilted her head, curious. “What makes you say that?”
He swallowed. His throat was tight, but not in fear. Not anymore.
“You’re... good.”
A quiet smile played on her lips. “So are you, (Y/N). You just never had the chance to know it.”
He hesitated. Then-
“I like being around you,” he said. Barely above a breath. “More than anyone.”
Charlie blinked, stunned- but only for a moment. Her smile softened into something deeper.
“I’m really glad,” she said, her voice thick with something tender. “I like being around you too. A lot.”
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was soft. Steady.
And then, cautiously- slowly- he reached out.
His fingers brushed hers on the cushion between them.
Charlie didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She just turned her palm up and gently laced their fingers together.
(Y/N) let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
It didn’t feel like fire.
It felt like home.
Emily:
Hell wasn't fire and brimstone the way (Y/N) had always pictured it. It wasn’t pitchforks and devils with snarling faces. It was worse- confusion. Loneliness. Screams in the distance that never quite stopped. The acidic sting of regret settled into the corners of his soul like mold.
He hadn’t expected to wake up at all. The last thing he remembered was cold tile, the way his lungs struggled to hold air, and the sound of his stepfather’s voice rising like thunder. Then… nothing.
Then… this.
He didn’t belong here. Even the damned knew it.
He barely spoke, flinching away from the touch of strangers, shrinking at the bark of a man’s laugh or the sudden rise of a voice. He wandered the quieter corners of Hell, ignored for the most part- just another broken soul in a place full of them.
Until she appeared.
Emily didn’t look like anyone else here. For one, she glowed. Not metaphorically- actually. Like a star set to wander, her feathers radiant and soft gold, her six wings moving with an elegance that didn’t belong in this place. When she descended into that quiet alleyway where he sat huddled, (Y/N) had thought for a moment he was hallucinating.
He recoiled at first when she reached a hand out. She didn't blame him. She knew fear when she saw it- not the Hell-bred fear of punishment, but the raw human kind. The kind etched deep from betrayal, from pain at the hands of those who should have offered safety.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she had said gently. Her voice was warmth over frost. “You weren’t supposed to end up here.”
He didn’t speak. He hadn’t in days. He just looked up at her, blinking with wide, empty eyes.
So she sat with him. Didn’t press. Didn’t reach again.
She came back the next day. And the next. She brought little things: feathers woven into cords, soft celestial cloth for his shaking hands, the hum of ancient lullabies. She shielded him when passing demons snarled too loud, standing taller than most would expect with those bright, protective wings curling around him.
“You were a child,” she whispered once, brushing hair back from his eyes when he allowed her close. “It wasn’t your fault.”
(Y/N)’s throat tightened. He wanted to believe her.
He wanted to believe someone.
Sometimes he woke screaming. Not from what he saw here- but what he remembered from before. The heavy footsteps. The things said in the dark. The ache in his ribs that never quite faded, even in death.
Emily never flinched. She didn’t try to force silence or push for peace. She simply held him, wings folding like a cathedral around them both.
It was the first time he’d been touched gently by someone older, someone stronger.
He cried the first time she held his hand. Just held it. No force. No pressure. Just presence.
“You were lost,” she murmured one evening, as they sat in a quiet crumbling church where no one else dared go. Her wings shimmered in the shadows. “But I found you.”
“You’re not scared of me?” he rasped. His voice was cracked and unsure, like something unused for too long.
Emily’s expression softened. “You’re not something to be feared. You’re something to be protected.”
Tears welled again, unbidden, burning hotter than any flame Hell had offered him. “I was… just a kid.”
“I know.”
His fingers curled around hers.
She never called him weak. Never asked him to stop trembling. She understood that survival sometimes looked like silence. That fear wasn’t a flaw- it was a wound.
And slowly, with every brush of her feathers, every patient moment she gave him to breathe without expectation, (Y/N) started to believe something new.
Days turned into something like weeks, though time in Hell was slippery, hard to track. It didn’t matter. What mattered was her.
Emily never pushed, but she was always there. In the quiet places. The corners where screaming didn’t reach. The crumbling building where the air felt lighter with her near.
And (Y/N)- he found himself wanting to be near her.
At first it had scared him, how easy it became to lean toward her presence, to seek her glow like a sunflower might seek the sun. But Emily didn’t punish his want. She didn’t mock it, or twist it, or make it feel like a trap. She simply welcomed it.
Some days, they sat in silence, legs tucked beside each other on the old church pew. On others, she spoke in soft stories- of stars, of old memories, of places far above that he had never seen but could picture vividly when she described them.
He began speaking back, little by little. His voice stayed low, cautious. But he talked. About Earth. About the cold tile floors. About his mom, and the music she used to play when she thought no one was listening. About the boy he used to be before everything fractured.
Emily listened as though his words were sacred.
And (Y/N) realized one day- with quiet awe- that he liked the way she made him feel.
Safe.
Worth listening to.
Not a burden. Not broken beyond repair.
Just… him.
One evening, as they sat beneath what passed for a moon in Hell’s sky, he turned to her, eyes still ringed with shadow but no longer so hollow. He watched how her feathers caught the pale light like strands of gold.
“I like being around you,” he said softly. “It’s... easier to breathe when you’re here.”
Emily blinked, surprised by the weight of sincerity in his tone- but then her lips curved into the gentlest smile.
“I’m glad,” she whispered. “Because I like being around you too.”
He didn’t recoil when she reached for his hand this time. In fact, his fingers found hers first.
There was still so much left to untangle inside him- trauma didn’t vanish with kindness. But in Emily’s presence, the sharpest edges of his fear dulled. The ghosts of the past still whispered, but they were quieter now, easier to face.
One night, as he curled against her side, wings wrapped around him like a sun-warmed cocoon, he let himself believe something impossible:
That maybe he deserved this.
Verosika:
The living world had never been kind to (Y/N). It was a patchwork of slammed doors, quiet sobs, and footsteps he learned to fear before he could even drive. His mother tried her best, but his stepfather’s voice was louder- louder than love, louder than reason. Bruises hid beneath long sleeves. Scars weren’t always skin-deep.
By the time he stumbled into Verosika Mayday’s hellish orbit on Earth, (Y/N) was more ghost than boy- skittish, silent, always flinching when any man so much as looked his way. But Verosika? She wasn’t a man. She was fire and glitter and whiskey-wrapped confidence. She was chaos in high heels and didn't give a damn what anyone thought- except when it came to him.
She noticed right away how he tensed around others, how he wouldn't meet her bandmate’s eyes, how even her touch, no matter how gentle, made him freeze for a breath too long. Verosika wasn’t known for tenderness, but she softened around him like ice under sun.
"You don’t owe me anything, sugar," she’d whispered one night, brushing his hair from his eyes as he trembled against her side. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
She let him set the pace. Sometimes that meant silence. Sometimes that meant sitting together, no music, no glamor, just her and him and the quiet.
It wasn't perfect. Verosika had demons of her own- ego, anger, the sting of rejection- but she never raised her voice at him. Not once. Never made him feel small.
But the past has sharp teeth. And some monsters wear human faces… Like her.
The call came on a gray Tuesday, long after she'd started calling him “darling” like it meant something. Long after he started smiling again, small and real and barely there but there. Verosika had just come off stage, sweat still clinging to her skin, makeup smudged from a killer performance.
Then the call.
He was gone.
The bastard had done it. No one had stopped him in time.
(Y/N) died scared. Alone. Verosika knew it the second the voice on the other end confirmed what her gut had already screamed. The world tilted. The bottle in her hand shattered. Her scream shook the walls.
The descent back into Hell was nothing new for Verosika. She'd come and gone a hundred times before, always with fanfare, lights, and an entourage of sin. But this time was different. There were no backup dancers. No adoring fans. Just her, hollow and shaking, mascara still streaked from tears that hadn’t stopped since the call.
She was back in her true form now, wings twitching, tail low, heels echoing through the streets of the Lust Ring like a funeral drumbeat. Everything felt louder without him. Uglier. Useless.
He’s not here, they told her.
“No record of a soul by that name,” the clerks at the soul registry droned, lazily flipping through pages like they weren’t talking about him. “Probably made it up top.”
She should have been relieved- he deserved Heaven, more than anyone she’d ever known. But the thought of him wandering eternity alone, without knowing the truth about her, that gutted her.
Would he hate her?
He’d never asked where she went after midnight gigs, never pressed when her eyes glowed too bright or when she healed a bruise on his arm with a touch she played off as luck. But he wasn’t stupid. Just scared. She never wanted to be another shadow over his shoulder.
Verosika wandered the outlands, hoping, praying- something she never thought she’d do again- that he had found peace.
Until she heard it.
A soft, familiar cry.
Not the scream of the damned. Not wailing torment. Something more fragile.
Him.
She knew it the instant she heard it. That broken sound he made in his sleep when the nightmares came crawling. The sob in the back of his throat like he was trying to hide it from the world.
She ran.
Faster than she ever had in stilettos, wings half-spread, heart pounding like it might give out. Through alleyways of bone and brimstone, down corridors no demon cared to tread- until she found him.
Curled in a corner of a crumbling stone chamber. Small. Shaking. Pale.
He was in his human form. That’s how lost he was. That’s how scared.
“(Y/N)...?” her voice cracked, softer than it had ever been. He didn’t look up at first.
She dropped to her knees beside him, ignoring the soot and blood and heat. Gently- so gently- she reached out, brushing trembling fingers against his arm.
He flinched hard.
Her hand retreated.
But his eyes- those familiar, wounded eyes- finally lifted to meet hers. Wide. Shiny with tears. Recognition bloomed slow in his face, like dawn breaking through thick fog.
“...V-Verosika...?”
She exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Yeah, baby. It’s me. I’m here.”
He stared at her, still trembling. “Y-You... You’re...?”
She nodded. Couldn’t lie to him. Not now.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never wanted to scare you. I just... I didn’t want to be another thing you had to be afraid of.”
His lip trembled. “Are we... in hell?”
The words broke her.
“Yeah, sugar. But you’re not supposed to be. They said you went up. I think... I think you got lost.”
He looked around, like seeing Hell for the first time, like he hadn’t quite processed it yet. “I don’t... I didn’t wanna leave you... I was s-scared... and then he-”
He cut himself off, curling tighter, and Verosika swore her heart cracked again.
“No, no, no- don’t do that. You didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispered, crawling closer but keeping her distance. “You hear me? He hurt you. He was the monster. Not you.”
Tears spilled down his cheeks. “I was so scared... I thought I was alone...”
She bit back her own tears and finally reached out again. This time, when she brushed his hand, he didn’t flinch away. He gripped her fingers like a lifeline.
“You’re not alone,” she breathed, crawling forward until she could pull him gently into her arms, his head tucking beneath her chin. “Not anymore.”
He clung to her like he’d fall apart otherwise. She stroked his hair the same way she used to, back when he was still alive, when he still smelled like cheap shampoo and fear.
“I missed you,” he whispered against her throat.
“I missed you too,” she choked. “So damn much.”
They stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for the brimstone to cool beneath them. Long enough for the screams of Hell to fade into background noise.
And when he finally slept in her arms, breathing slow and deep and safe, Verosika knew one thing:
If Heaven didn’t want him-
She’d build one for him down here.
hello, can u make nsfw headcanons for sub!makoto naegi x male reader plisss
A/N: Absolutely! I can do that :}
Melt for Me
Sub!Makoto Naegi x Male!Reader
Warnings: MDNI 18+, Explicit sexual content, Dominance/Submission Dynamics, Praise Kink, Physical Restraints, Orgasm Control/Denial, Overstimulation
Word Count: 645
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- Makoto is a naturally obedient mess: It doesn’t even take (Y/N) raising his voice. A firm look, a subtle command, or even a hand at the back of his neck is enough to have Makoto nodding, face burning, ready to do whatever he's told.
- He craves praise like oxygen: (Y/N) quickly picks up on it- a murmured "good boy" in his ear will have Makoto melting, his knees buckling, his face hiding against (Y/N)'s chest to escape how much he's blushing.
- Makoto has the softest whimpers when (Y/N) pulls his hair: Not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough to guide his head wherever (Y/N) wants it. It makes Makoto shiver- it always leaves him pliant and needy.
- (Y/N) loves the way Makoto fidgets when he’s being teased: Biting his lip, shifting his weight, fists clenching at his sides like he's fighting the urge to beg out loud. Sometimes, (Y/N) will order him to "keep still," just to watch him tremble from the effort.
- Makoto secretly loves being marked: (Y/N) trailing his teeth along his neck, leaving faint bruises hidden under his clothes? It makes Makoto feel claimed. It’s both humiliating and addictive.
- Punishments are almost worse because Makoto likes them: If he slips up- talking back, hesitating too long, or being bratty- (Y/N) makes him kneel, hands behind his back, eyes low. And Makoto aches to be forgiven.
- Makoto is so easy to overwhelm with dirty talk: A few low-spoken threats or promises from (Y/N) and he's a shaking, panting mess, barely able to function. (Y/N) teases him by whispering filth in his ear during normal activities, just to see him choke on his words.
- Makoto is absolutely weak for being pinned: Whether it's pressed up against a wall, pinned to a bed, or trapped on (Y/N)’s lap with no escape, it gets Makoto dizzy and breathless fast. (Y/N) loves using his strength to manhandle him a little, especially when Makoto squirms just to be caught again.
- Overstimulation Games: (Y/N) loves to tie Makoto’s wrists above his head, blindfold him, and just… take his time. Feather-light touches, whispered threats, teasing and denying him until Makoto’s begging- voice cracking- promising he’ll be "so good" if (Y/N) just lets him finish.
- "On Your Knees": Makoto reacts instantly when (Y/N) uses that tone. Doesn’t matter if they’re home, in a hallway, anywhere. His legs give out almost automatically, pupils blown wide, waiting for permission to move any further.
- (Y/N) trains Makoto to ask for what he wants: No more shy hints or hopeful glances- Makoto has to say it, clearly and properly. "Please, touch me." "Please, can I come?" And every time he does, (Y/N) rewards him devastatingly well. No vague whining- full sentences, clear language, desperate voice. "Please, I need you. I need you so bad, I'll do anything, please just-" (Y/N) watches, arms crossed, making him work for every reward.
- Orgasm Control: (Y/N) sometimes forbids Makoto from finishing until he says he can. Makoto's thighs tremble, his whole body tight with the effort to obey. The first time he accidentally came without permission, the punishment was so slow and deliciously cruel that Makoto apologized for days.
- Despite all the heat and dominance, there's a tenderness underneath it: Makoto knows, with unshakable certainty, that (Y/N) treasures him- every trembling, obedient part of him. Makoto gets pulled into (Y/N)'s lap, wrapped up tight, praised sweetly until he’s hiccuping little sobs of gratitude against his chest. - Aftercare Overload: No matter how rough (Y/N) gets, after it’s over, Makoto is tucked into bed, hair stroked, soft kisses pressed against every sore spot. (Y/N) whispers praises into his hair, calling him beautiful, perfect, precious- until Makoto falls asleep blissed out and safe.
Ember in the Dark pt.4
Young!Silco x Fem!Reader
pt.3 - pt.5
pt.1
Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Smoking, and threat/following.
Word Count: 3895
Summary: Drunk and lost in thought, (Y/N) is helped to her room by Silco, who dismisses her drunken compliments about his appearance despite the buried feelings they stir. The next morning, she wakes with a pounding hangover and regret but pushes forward. Down in the bar, she shares a tense yet teasing conversation with Silco about the previous night. After making breakfast for their group, (Y/N), Silco, Vander, and Felicia head out to handle supply shipments. Along the way, (Y/N) notices hooded figures following them. She and Silco silently acknowledge the potential threat, deciding to stay cautious.
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The night stretched on, the hum of the Undercity’s distant machinery a lull beneath the quiet of the nearly empty bar.
(Y/N) had long since stopped paying attention to her drink, her fingers still loosely curled around her cigarette, the ember fading to nothing. She slumped against the bar, her head resting on her folded arms, her thoughts drifting somewhere Silco couldn’t follow.
He watched her for a moment, then sighed.
She was a mess. But then again, weren’t they all?
With quiet efficiency, he slid off his stool, stepping around to her side. "Come on," he murmured, voice softened just enough to be different from his usual sharpness.
She barely moved, blinking sluggishly as he pried the cigarette from her fingers, snuffing it out before guiding her up. She was unsteady, the alcohol dragging her limbs down like lead, but she followed his lead without complaint.
He brought her to her room- small, tucked away, but hers. He wasn’t gentle, not exactly, but he was careful as he eased her onto the thin mattress. She flopped onto it with a quiet sigh, her eyes half-lidded, lost somewhere between wakefulness and the pull of exhaustion.
Silco turned to leave.
Then- a hand on his wrist.
Her grip was weak, barely there, but it stopped him nonetheless.
He glanced back.
(Y/N) wasn’t looking at him, her gaze still distant, but her fingers curled slightly, as if to keep him from disappearing like the rest of her thoughts.
For a long moment, Silco just stood there.
Then, with an exhale, he sat down at the edge of the bed.
He wouldn’t stay forever. But for now? He’d stay.
(Y/N) stared up at him, her eyes glassy, unfocused- but still seeing him. Really seeing him.
Silco wasn’t looking at her. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely clasped together as he exhaled through his nose. He looked exhausted, always carrying the weight of his thoughts, his ambitions. The dim light filtering through the grimy window cast soft shadows over his face, highlighting sharp angles, tired blue eyes.
Gods, he was pretty.
The thought drifted through her whiskey-soaked mind before she could stop it, her lips parting slightly as if she might say it aloud.
She had fallen in love with him years ago, back when they were younger, when their world had been a little smaller, their dreams a little simpler. She had never said anything, never acted on it. What good would it do? They had always been fighting for survival, struggling to carve out something more in a city that tried to swallow them whole.
But the whiskey made her tongue looser than it should have been.
"You know," she murmured, her voice softer than usual, slightly slurred. "You’re really pretty."
Silco blinked, turning his head to look at her properly.
(Y/N) just smiled lazily, her cheek pressed against the pillow, eyes still locked on his face. "Too pretty, really… s’not fair."
Silco scoffed, shaking his head. "You’re drunk."
She hummed in agreement. "Maybe."
He looked away, rubbing a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath about her being a lightweight.
(Y/N) just kept watching him, her mind a fog of whiskey and years of feelings buried too deep.
"Bet you don’t even realize," she mused, her voice barely above a whisper.
Silco turned back to her, brow furrowed. "Realize what?"
(Y/N) just smiled, slow and lopsided.
"Nothing," she murmured, letting her eyes slip shut. She’d keep her secret, for now.
Sleep took her quickly, pulling her under like the tide. The stress of the day, the weight of unspoken thoughts, and the whiskey swirling in her system all dragged her into the depths of exhaustion.
Silco sat there for a moment longer, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her breath.
She had always been like this- carrying too much, saying too little. Even now, in her drunken haze, she had stopped herself before saying something real.
With a quiet exhale, he stood, carefully pulling the thin blanket over her.
"Idiot," he muttered, though there was no real bite to the word.
Then, with one last glance at her sleeping form, he turned and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
(Y/N) woke with a groan, her head pounding like someone had taken a hammer to the inside of her skull. Her mouth was dry, her stomach twisted in protest, and every little sound outside her room felt like a personal attack.
Shit.
She had done this to herself. Again.
It wasn’t the first time she had woken up feeling like death after drinking too much, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Still, that didn’t make it any less miserable.
For a moment, she just lay there, her face buried in the pillow, trying to will the world away. But she knew better. The longer she stayed in bed, the worse she’d feel.
With a groan, she forced herself to sit up. The room spun slightly, her stomach lurching in protest, but she swallowed it down, running a hand through her tangled hair.
She needed water. Food, maybe. And a cigarette.
With slow, sluggish movements, she dragged herself out of bed and started getting ready for the day, just like every other morning.
(Y/N) moved through her morning routine on autopilot, every action deliberate and slow to avoid making herself feel worse. Don’t move too fast, don’t think too hard, don’t throw up.
By the time she was dressed, her head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and her stomach was a mess of nausea and regret. But she had survived worse.
She made her way downstairs, the air in the bar thick with the lingering scent of old liquor and smoke. It was still early- too early for business. The Last Drop didn’t open until midday, sometimes later, depending on what Vander felt like or how much of a headache they all had to deal with.
The place was quiet, save for the distant hum of the Undercity beyond the walls.
(Y/N) let out a slow breath and leaned against the bar, rubbing at her temple. She needed coffee. Or maybe just another drink to even herself out.
She wasn’t sure which sounded worse.
(Y/N) opted for the easiest solution- whiskey.
With a practiced reach over the bar, she grabbed the bottle and poured herself a glass, the amber liquid sloshing slightly as she tried to be steady. She took a slow sip, wincing as the burn hit her throat. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was better than the headache clawing at her skull.
She was halfway through the glass when she heard footsteps descending the stairs.
Silco.
He stepped into the dimly lit bar, looking as put-together as ever, despite the late night before. His sharp gaze flickered to her, then down to the glass in her hand.
“Whiskey for breakfast?” he asked dryly, his voice laced with amusement.
(Y/N) didn’t bother looking up. “Helps the headache.”
Silco scoffed, moving toward the bar. “It causes the headache.”
She shrugged, taking another sip. “Then I’m just balancing things out.”
He leaned against the counter, watching her for a long moment.
“You remember anything from last night?” he asked, his tone casual- too casual.
That made her pause.
She frowned slightly, her mind sluggish as she tried to recall the details of the night before. She remembered drinking. She remembered feeling heavy- dragged down by old memories and smoke. She remembered Silco bringing her to bed…
And then-
Shit.
She had said something, hadn’t she?
(Y/N) took another sip of whiskey, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Not much,” she muttered. “Just that I drank too much.”
Silco hummed, unconvinced, but he didn’t push.
“Figures,” he said, reaching over to steal the glass from her hand, taking a sip himself.
(Y/N) rolled her eyes but didn’t argue… Maybe it was better if they both let last night go.
(Y/N) exhaled a long breath, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with steady hands- too steady, considering the storm in her head.
She didn’t want to let it go.
Even if the whiskey had dulled the details, she knew what had been there underneath- the truth of it. It wasn’t some drunken slip, some meaningless flattery. It had been real.
And maybe it was stupid, definitely reckless, but for once, she didn’t want to bite her tongue and bury it.
She watched as Silco took another sip from her glass, his sharp eyes already moving past the conversation, onto something else.
(Y/N) took a slow drag of her cigarette, letting the smoke settle in her lungs before she spoke.
“I meant it.”
Silco raised a brow, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “Meant what?”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the cigarette. “What I said last night.”
Silco studied her, the amusement from earlier fading into something unreadable.
(Y/N) exhaled smoke, glancing off to the side. “I don’t remember everything, but I know I meant it.” She flicked ash into a nearby tray, her voice lower now. “Still do.”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Silco leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. “You are aware you were completely sloshed, yes?”
(Y/N) scoffed. “Doesn’t mean I was wrong.”
Another silence.
Then, Silco smirked, slow and sharp. “I am quite pretty, aren’t I?”
(Y/N) rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the slight curve of her lips. “Asshole.”
Silco just chuckled, pushing the whiskey back toward her. “If you’re going to start confessing things, at least wait until you’re not hungover.”
(Y/N) shook her head, taking another sip. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t… But at least she had said something.
(Y/N) downed the last of her drink, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray before stretching her arms over her head. The whiskey had dulled the edges of her hangover, at least a little, but it wouldn’t last forever.
Time to get moving.
She pushed off the bar, glancing at Silco, who had already made himself comfortable with her glass of whiskey, refilling it. “You planning on helping, or just sitting there looking pretty?”
Silco smirked. “I think you already established my strengths.”
(Y/N) rolled her eyes and made her way toward the small kitchen in the back. The Last Drop wasn’t exactly known for its fine dining, but they had enough supplies to make something decent- decent meaning anything edible that kept them from starving.
Felicia and Connol usually stopped by around this time, and Benzo wasn’t far behind. It had become something of an unspoken routine, a part of their mornings that had settled naturally into place. And (Y/N)? She was usually the one who ended up making breakfast.
She didn’t mind, though.
It was something normal. A small, steady thing in the chaos of the Undercity.
She gathered what ingredients they had- eggs, some bread that wasn’t too stale, and whatever meat Vander had managed to get his hands on- and started cooking, the familiar sounds of sizzling filling the air as she focused on the simple motions.
Soon, the others would show up. The bar would come alive again, and another day in the Lanes would begin.
(Y/N) carried the plates out to the bar, setting them down so everyone could grab what they wanted when they arrived. The scent of cooked food lingered in the air, mixing with the ever-present smell of smoke and old whiskey.
They still had time before the bar opened for the day, so for now, things were slow- calm, even.
Benzo was the first to arrive, pushing open the door with a casual stride. “Smells good in here,” he commented, tossing a glance toward the food. “Better than whatever the hell that street vendor was sellin’ on my way over.”
(Y/N) smirked as she leaned against the bar. “That’s not exactly a high bar, Benzo.”
He chuckled, grabbing a plate without hesitation. “Hey, food is food.”
Not long after, Felicia and Connol arrived.
Felicia was talking before she even stepped fully inside. “Finally! I was starting to think you forgot about breakfast, (Y/N).”
(Y/N) scoffed. “Like I’d let you starve.”
Connol, quiet as usual, gave a nod in greeting before helping himself to some food. He had been around more lately- a lot more, and while (Y/N) didn’t fully know what to make of him yet, he seemed alright. He made Felicia happy, at least, and that was worth something.
Everyone settled in, eating and talking, the morning taking on the familiar rhythm of their routine. For a little while, it almost felt… normal.
Once breakfast was done and the plates were cleared, (Y/N) wiped her hands on a rag before making her way over to Vander and Silco, who were already deep in conversation near the bar.
Vander had his arms crossed, his usual serious expression in place, while Silco leaned against the counter, flipping through his notebook.
(Y/N) slid into the space between them, raising a brow. “So, what’s the plan for today?”
Vander glanced at her, then exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Depends.”
Silco, without looking up from his notes, added, “We’ve got some shipments coming in later- nothing major, but enough to keep an eye on.”
Vander nodded. “And I was thinkin’ we might head back to the mines later, put in a few hours. Keep up appearances.”
(Y/N) sighed. They didn’t have to work in the mines as much anymore, not with the Last Drop slowly becoming a more stable source of income, but keeping ties there was still important. “Figures.”
Silco finally shut his notebook, glancing between them. “And, if we have time, I wouldn’t mind checking out a few places in the Lanes. Get a read on things.”
That caught (Y/N)’s attention. “You mean more than just ‘getting a read,’ don’t you?”
Silco smirked. “Always.”
Vander gave him a look but didn’t argue.
(Y/N) crossed her arms, considering. A trip to the Lanes could mean anything- connections, information, or just making sure they weren’t falling behind on what was happening in the Undercity.
“Alright,” she said finally. “Sounds like a full day.”
Vander grunted in agreement, and Silco just gave a knowing tilt of his head. With the plan set, they went over the details quickly.
“Alright,” Vander said, leaning against the bar with his arms crossed. “First, we handle the shipments. Make sure everything’s in order.”
Silco nodded, already thinking ahead. “After that, we move through the Lanes, see what’s stirring. There’s been talk of tensions rising in a few places- I’d rather not be blindsided.”
(Y/N) exhaled, rolling her shoulders. “And then we finish off in the mines.” She smirked. “Saving the best for last.”
Vander chuckled. “We’ll be in and out. Just enough to show our faces.”
Felicia, who had been listening from the side while finishing the last of her drink, stretched her arms over her head. “Sounds like a long day.”
Silco shot her a dry look. “You are still capable of working, yes?”
Felicia smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be there. Just don’t expect me to be happy about it.”
With everything decided, they gathered what they needed. (Y/N) grabbed her coat, Silco tucked his notebook away, and Vander made sure the bar was set to be running while they were gone. He had gotten one of his newly hired bartenders to come in, along with asking Benzo to sit around and drink… Just to watch things.
Then, without wasting any more time, they headed out into the Undercity to start their day.
Felicia lingered by the door, saying a quick goodbye to Connol before he disappeared into the winding streets of the Undercity. Whatever he did during the day was still a bit of a mystery- probably something inventive. He looked like the type to be scientific, always thinking, always watching.
But that wasn’t (Y/N)’s concern right now.
With Connol gone, the four of them set off, making their way through the dimly lit streets toward where the shipments were being delivered. The air was thick with the usual blend of smoke, oil, and the distant hum of machinery. It was a scent that clung to everything in the Undercity.
As they walked, Vander took the lead, his broad frame naturally clearing a path where needed. Silco, as always, kept sharp eyes on their surroundings, his thoughts likely already drifting toward whatever he expected to find in the Lanes later. Felicia walked beside (Y/N), hands in her pockets, a casual bounce in her step despite the rough streets beneath them.
(Y/N) flicked the butt of a cigarette into the gutter as they approached their destination- a tucked-away storage lot run by a man named Harker, a supplier they’d worked with a few times before. The shipments weren’t anything fancy, just supplies for the Last Drop- booze, some preserved goods, and whatever else they needed to keep the place running.
Vander stepped up first, knocking twice on the metal door. It took a moment, but soon enough, they heard the sound of locks shifting before Harker himself pulled the door open.
The man squinted at them, his face rough with age and soot. “You’re early,” he grunted.
Vander shrugged. “You got it ready or not?”
Harker snorted, stepping aside to let them in. “Yeah, yeah. Come on in. Just don’t touch nothin’ that ain’t yours.”
(Y/N) exchanged a glance with Silco before following the others inside. Time to get to work.
(Y/N) adjusted her grip on one of the heavier crates, the weight digging into her arms as she walked alongside the others. The streets of the Undercity were always filled with movement- faces ducking in and out of alleyways, the low hum of machinery echoing in the distance- but something felt different.
She had noticed them the moment they left the Last Drop- a few hooded figures lingering just a little too long in the alleys, their steps just a little too measured. At first, she thought it might be a coincidence, just another group moving through the Undercity like everyone else.
But now, as they neared the bar, she knew they were being followed.
She didn’t say anything at first, choosing instead to glance toward Silco, who was walking slightly ahead of her. His sharp gaze was usually quick to pick up on things like this- he had to have noticed, right?
Felicia, carrying a smaller crate beside her, was too caught up in complaining about the weight to notice anything. “Seriously, why does alcohol have to be so damn heavy? Can’t we start serving something lighter?”
“Like what?” Vander asked dryly, barely breaking stride.
Felicia huffed. “I dunno, something that doesn’t make my arms feel like they’re gonna fall off.”
(Y/N) wasn’t listening. She shifted her hold on the crate, subtly glancing over her shoulder.
The hooded figures were still there. Three of them. Keeping their distance, but staying close enough that it wasn’t natural.
Her pulse quickened, but her expression remained calm.
Silco turned his head slightly- just enough for his eyes to flicker toward her before looking forward again. He had noticed.
Good.
(Y/n) exhaled through her nose, keeping her pace steady. They were close to the bar now, but that didn’t mean they were safe. Whoever these people were, they weren’t just watching- they were waiting.
For what?
And more importantly- why?
As soon as the last crate was set down in the storage room, (Y/N) dusted off her hands and made her way over to Silco. He was already expecting her.
The others were still busy- Vander double-checking the shipments, Felicia stretching her arms and complaining about the heavy lifting. It gave (Y/N) the perfect moment to pull Silco aside, just out of earshot.
“You saw them too,” she muttered, keeping her voice low.
Silco leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes watching her carefully. “Of course I did.” His tone was calm, but there was a knowing edge to it.
(Y/N) exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “They’ve been following us since we left the bar. I didn’t get a good look, but… they weren’t just passing through.”
Silco hummed in agreement. “No. They weren’t.”
That unsettled her. If Silco was concerned, it meant this wasn’t just her overthinking things.
“You think they’re watching us specifically?” she asked.
Silco tilted his head slightly, considering. “Possibly. Could be unrelated, but I doubt it.” He glanced toward the door. “Three of them, moving like they had a purpose. If they wanted to attack, they would’ve done it already. That means they were either scouting us or waiting for something.”
(Y/N) crossed her arms. “And that’s what worries me.”
Silco studied her for a moment before lowering his voice even further. “Did you notice anything about them? Anything off?”
(Y/N) thought back. They moved well, blending into the streets with ease. But something had felt strange about them. “Their movements were too careful,” she muttered. “Like they weren’t just random thugs.”
Silco’s expression didn’t change, but she could see the gears turning in his head. “We’ll have to keep an eye out. If they’re still around by the time we head to the Lanes, we’ll know for sure.”
(Y/N) nodded. “Should we tell Vander and Felicia?”
Silco considered it, then shook his head. “Not yet. No need to spook them if this turns out to be nothing.” (Y/N) hesitated but ultimately agreed. For now, they’d just have to watch their backs.
With the shipments handled and the Last Drop running smoothly for now, the four of them set off once more, weaving through the winding paths of the Undercity. The Lanes were the heart of the Undercity’s chaos- filled with traders, workers, gang members, and those just trying to survive another day. It was where information spread fastest, where rumors carried weight, and where they could keep their fingers on the pulse of the city.
(Y/N) stayed alert, her eyes flickering to the shadows between buildings, the alleys where trouble tended to brew. She hadn’t seen the hooded figures since they returned to the bar, but that didn’t mean they were gone.
Vander led the way, as he often did, his presence alone enough to command respect. People recognized him now- not as some leader, not yet, but as someone reliable, someone who got things done. Silco walked beside him, quiet but watchful, his mind likely still working through the same concerns (Y/N) had.
Felicia, as usual, brought a different kind of energy to the group. “We should get something to eat while we’re out,” she suggested, stretching her arms. “That stew from Elda’s stall? Real good. And I’m starving.”
Vander smirked. “You’re always starving.”
Felicia grinned. “Yeah, well, lifting crates all morning will do that.”
(Y/N) barely heard them, her attention on the movement around them. She caught glimpses of familiar faces- merchants selling scrap, chem-dealers peddling their poisons, Enforcers nowhere to be seen. It was business as usual.
But still… something felt off.
As they rounded a corner near one of the busier market areas, she caught it again- just for a second. A hooded figure, leaning against a wall, just barely in her peripheral vision. By the time she turned her head fully, they were gone.
Her stomach twisted… They were still being watched.
THIS!!! THAT WEIRDO WHO THREATENED ME!!!
I posted the dm's they sent me, but beware, it's completely unhinged.
//Hey everyone! OOC speaking
Here's the accounts run by that aoi asahina creep, so you can block them and avoid interacting:
aoisitsonmyface
sweepingstarlight
bonbonpuppet
king-bon-asahina
bonbonpuppet117
glowstone-mod
aoiasahinasboyfriend
Keep in mind they could have more, so if they're still sending you asks or threats just ignore them, and if you know of any other accounts share them with me so I can add them to the list
Please may I have The Walking Dead platonic headcanons of what if Carl Grimes had a older sister who is maybe 3 years older than him and had a 6th Sense when it comes to safe houses and places that is unlikely raided for supplies and what to avoid...e.g. if a certain place seemed overrun with walkers being one of them and when someone offering a safe haven being too good to be true and they seemed 'off'..which had saved her group on numerous occasions. She's a good one and always had been..even after her mother's passing, she promised to look out for Carl and for Judith. She learnt how to use a gun under her father's guidance at the start from the age of 12 before handling it on her own when it comes to having to shoot walkers..or use daggers. She is mostly the person who looked after and raised Judith since infancy and was willing to die to protect her when she was in harm's way.
Rick Grimes relationship with his daughter
Carl Grimes relationship with his elder sister
Lori Grimes relationship with her daughter too.
The Group's relationship with her..(with the same ones who knew Carl for a long time too)
Shane's relationship with her..and how he felt that she didn't see him as a father very much..she saw right through him but she didn't say anything because he was her Dad's colleague and friend.
A/N: Absolutely! I might make a longer fic based on this request! Already got permision from the requester :} I'm either gonna base it off this one, or make one new walking dead fic all together. Eighter way, ill credit you for the request, @the-letter-horror-lover!
Raised by the End of the World
Older-Sister!Reader x The Walking Dead Headcanons
Warnings: Violence/Death, Parental Loss, Trauma, Existential Despair/Sacrifice
Word Count: 1798
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- (Y/N) has an uncanny gut instinct that rarely fails her: While not supernatural, her "sixth sense" is more of a hyper-awareness built from trauma, observation, and cold survival logic. She knows the difference between quiet and too quiet. She’s the type who will stop everyone mid-step because something “feels off,” even if there are no walkers or sounds- and more often than not, she’s right.
- She can “read” people frighteningly well: One look, and she can tell if someone is lying, desperate, dangerous, or putting on an act. Rick has learned to trust her instincts even over his own at times. In abandoned houses, she can glance at the dust, placement of things, and smell of the air and tell if someone’s been there recently. She’s especially good at finding caches of supplies overlooked by others. She's the one who always checks under floorboards, between false walls, and above ceiling tiles. It’s almost become a running joke- until she finds a forgotten stash of canned goods or ammo.
- Rick started training her in basic gun safety and handling when she was 9, back before the world fell apart: It began with weekends at the range- slow, careful lessons on how to respect the weapon. Mostly so he could eventually go hunting with him, and actually know how to aim.
- She took to it quickly, surprising even Rick with her precision: She never flinched. When she asked to learn how to use a knife next, Rick hesitated, but taught her anyway- something he later thanked himself for.
- After everything went to hell, she became one of the best shots in the group: Not just accurate, but calm. She doesn’t waste bullets. Every shot counts. She's also quick with a dagger or makeshift blade. She's not the strongest, but she’s fast and precise- throat, eye, skull. She's had to learn how to end things cleanly, especially when Judith was with her.
- Lori loved (Y/N), but often didn’t understand her: While Carl was more emotionally reactive, (Y/N) was quiet, steady, and internalized everything. They had friction- especially as the world began to collapse- with Lori sometimes chastising her for “acting like an adult” or “trying to be in charge.” (Y/N) never argued back. She just kept doing what needed to be done… But deep down, Lori was proud. She told Rick, before her death, that (Y/N) was stronger than both of them- that she had something in her that would keep them all alive.
- Their last real moment together was quiet: Lori cupped her daughter’s face, said “Take care of your brother. Take care of Judith.” And (Y/N) nodded once, already promising without needing to say it aloud. After Lori’s death, (Y/N) was the only one who stayed with Carl that whole night. She didn’t say a word. Just let him lean on her until he slept…
- Now (Y/N) often acts more like Carl’s second parent than just a sister: She's firm when she needs to be, but she's never condescending. Carl listens to her more than most, even when he pretends not to. They argue like siblings, but when the world goes to hell (again), Carl always looks for her first. If she’s nearby, he knows things will be okay.
- From the moment Judith was born, (Y/N) took over almost all of her care: She was the one waking in the middle of the night, rocking her, warming formula, changing diapers even during the hardest of times.
- Judith’s first word wasn’t “mama” or “dada.” It was “Sissy,”: The whole group melted when they heard it. She braided Judith’s hair when it got long enough, wrapped her in scraps of blankets when they were on the road, and told her made-up fairy tales when the real world was too ugly to explain. If Judith ever cried or screamed when walkers were near, (Y/N) would press her forehead to hers and whisper calming things until she went quiet- even if her own heart was pounding out of her chest. She once hid with Judith in a broken-down car overnight, clutching her tightly while walkers passed within feet of them She didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn’t breathe until the moans were gone.
- Rick sees (Y/N) as both his daughter and his second-in-command: After Lori’s death, she became the emotional pillar of the family, even when Rick wasn’t in a place to be the father she needed. He regrets that he put too much responsibility on her shoulders too early- relying on her to help raise Judith, to keep Carl in line, to read the room when he couldn’t. But deep down, he trusts her instincts more than almost anyone.
- Their bond is strong but often unspoken: Built on quiet glances, half-nods, and wordless understanding. When something goes wrong, she’s usually the first person he looks to. He’s told her, more than once, “You shouldn’t have to be this strong.” And each time, she just gave him a tired smile and said, “I know.” He worries about the cost of the apocalypse on her soul, even more than Carl’s. She carries so much, and rarely lets anyone see her fall apart.
- Carl both idolizes and resents her, in that complex sibling way: She’s his protector, his compass- but also a reminder of everything they lost. She was the one who taught him how to bandage his first walker scratch, who stayed up with him after nightmares when Rick was spiraling. When Carl went through phases of trying to be hard or emotionless, it was her disappointment- not Rick’s- that stung the most. She didn't yell, just gave him that look that said, "You know better."
- He never wanted to admit how scared he was of losing her: But when she once got clipped during a raid and bled out onto the concrete, Carl didn’t leave her side all night. She always made him feel like he didn’t have to be strong all the time. He could crumble, and she would carry the weight for both of them.
- Everyone knows not to second-guess her gut feelings: Even Daryl has said, “If (Y/N) says we don’t go in there, we don’t go in there.” She's quiet but respected- the kind of person people turn to when things get tense because she doesn’t panic, and she always has a plan. Carol shares a soft, maternal bond with her- the two often look after Judith together. Carol sees how much of herself is reflected in (Y/N)’s sacrifices. Glenn was always amazed by her resourcefulness; he once told Maggie he thought (Y/N) could find a full grocery store in a burnt-out gas station.
- At an abandoned hotel just outside of Atlanta, the group thought they’d struck gold: Clean water, canned goods, beds. (Y/N) took one step in and froze. Said the smell was wrong. Turned out it was a trap set by scavengers waiting on the roof with rifles.
- During a harsh winter, she led them to an abandoned church no one wanted to check: “too obvious,” they said. But she felt it in her bones. Not only was it untouched, it had a hidden root cellar stocked with old food from a prepper priest.
- Once, they were approached by a smiling man offering food and shelter at his supposed “community.”: Everyone wanted to hear him out. She stared him down, her voice flat: “He’s not hungry. Look at his boots- clean. He’s hunting, not surviving.” The man ran when she exposed him.
- When walkers broke into a safehouse and (Y/N) was upstairs with Judith: She shoved the dresser in front of the door, locked herself and the baby in the closet, and readied her knife. She didn’t expect to survive- only to keep the door shut long enough for someone else to get to Judith. In a moment where bullets ran out and Judith was in direct danger, she used herself as a human shield without thinking. Daryl pulled her out at the last second, but she was ready to die without hesitation.
- Once, she and Carl were separated from the group during a supply run: She kept Carl behind her the entire time, even when they were ambushed by a lone hostile survivor. She was the one who fired first- Carl never forgot the look on her face after. Calm. Empty. Controlled.
- Daryl Dixon: Daryl sees a kindred spirit in her. Not loud, not flashy, but lethal when it counts. He’s seen her gut a walker with one arm while holding Judith with the other. They often patrol together in silence, both appreciating the lack of small talk.
- Carol Peletier: Carol is maybe the only person who understands what it means to be both warrior and mother in one body. She once told (Y/N), “We do what we have to, and we carry it forever. That’s just how it is for people like us.”
- Michonne: She respects (Y/N) fiercely. They’ve fought side-by-side more than once, and Michonne once admitted she thinks (Y/N) has the best instincts in the entire group. When things feel “off,” Michonne always checks her face first.
- Glenn Rhee: Glenn used to tease her gently, trying to get her to laugh or loosen up. He told Maggie that she reminded him of a cat- quiet, deadly, and always watching.
- Maggie Greene: Maggie bonded with (Y/N) over motherhood. Though their circumstances were wildly different, they shared a resilience born from loving someone so small in a world so cruel.
- Hershel: Before his death, Hershel treated (Y/N) with warmth and fatherly affection. He once told Rick, “That girl’s got an old soul. Like she’s lived through this before.”
- Shane never knew quite how to handle (Y/N): She was polite, respectful, but distant. She didn’t laugh at his jokes the way Carl did, didn’t trust him the way Lori sometimes did. He could tell she saw through him. Through the bravado, the barking orders, the possessiveness over the Grimes family. And that infuriated him- because she never said anything. Never called him out. Just looked at him.
- That silence was worse than yelling: It was judgment without words. Shane knew she didn’t see him as a father figure- not even close- and that burned. He tried, once, to bond with her. Brought her a box of supplies and said, “Thought you’d like first pick. You earned it.” She just nodded and said, “Thanks,” but her eyes didn’t soften.
- After Shane’s death, she didn’t speak of him often: But once, years later, when Judith asked about “Uncle Shane,” (Y/N) just said, “He tried to love us. But he lost himself before he ever really could.”
Question: Aside from fanfics, are you open to headcanon requests? If so, do you have any sort of character limit?
Hello, anon! :}
I'm open to doing headcannons, I mean, I basically insert all of my hc's into the stories I write LOL
It might take some getting used to, though! Since I'm so used to writing flowing stories.
As of right now, I don't have a character limit. But be aware, the more that is requested, the longer it might take to write. I usually write every other day, so I have days in between to draw. I'd appreciate if the characters requested are in the same fandoms, though. Unless it's something like a mix of fandoms, like my Hunter x Fem!Reader (which was a mix of TOH and SU) fic that was requested.
Just make sure any requests follow the guidelines on my masterlist, and I'd be more than willing to try!
Thank you for asking!
YAYYY thanks for Kyoko/Celeste/Toko request it was awesome (the inclusion of Jack caught me off guard since I personally don't find her attractive but idm!!! /Gen I should've been more specific whoopsie haha!) very well written, I enjoyed it alot!
Ps. Unfortunately an infamous ableist, homophobic, fatphobic (amongst other awful things) user liked that post :( if you wanted to block them or not M/ommy/hon/da (without the slashes, they search their name up for people talking about them hence the censoring
Oh, my bad about the Jack inclusion! I hope it was okay nonetheless! And yes, I noticed that user, and I already promptly blocked them :}
Thank you for the warning. If you have any more requests, feel free to make them. I'll try to keep it strictly to the characters asked from now on. I consider Jack/Toko sorta the same person (or ya know, two people sharing the same body), which is the only reason why I added them lmao.
Had to remake this post, because someone reported it for a symbol on one of the images, (that I didn't see and forgot to sensor, so fair. I respect that.) but I'm posting it again, because I feel like I absolutely need to.
To whoever this person is, I genuinely hope you get help, you freak.
I'm more than likely going to stop writing for this character, because jeez, I do not want to deal with that shit again.
TW: threats under the cut.
I knew the Danganronpa community was ick, but I guess I underestimated how foul some of the people in the community could be. At first I was like "haha, this is cringe, funny." But then the stuff he sent kept getting worse, and worse. THEN he threatened to r@pe me, like it was some fun little thing he could just throw around. As a S/A survivor myself, I think you are absolutely horrendous. You need help.
Can you do platonic sera x overlord!reader multipart/fanfction?
The lore: The Y/N is a powerful overlord who own entertainment district of pentangram (he posses velvet tea and Vox souls after they tired to kidnap Charlie, val dies lol) also he’s best friend of alastor and Charlie Morningstar. During one of this meeting with his subordinates vox and velvette they noticed something was fallen from heaven, they goes to check this out only to find out fallen sera and VERY hurt and wounded Emily, after he find out they known Charlie he help takes Emily to hotel, where lucifer helps Emily with her wounds. Y/N calm down sera enough to she could tell what happened in heaven. In heaven after sera approved Charlie plan after extermination, where due to that pentonius reddemed himself, lute somehow thanks to other seraphim’s, which convinced that hell and their allies are the danger managed to overthrow sera and the rest seraphim’s who were on sera and Emily side and she (lute) brought totalitarian rule to heaven.lute kills pentonius for being a “spy” and BRUTTALY injures Emily (she lost wings, right leg, left hand and the right eye) and banish her and sera to hell. She also planned in 6 months organize the final extermination, where he plans to kill all people not only from hell but also on earth.
A/N: Yes, of course! This one took me... Way longer than I thought it would LOL. Got it done though! Gonna start working on my other requests now, since this was the one I was solely focusing on, trying to get it done :} Also, fair warning, I didnt have all the colors I wanted for their dialogue. (Y/N), Charlie, Alastor, Sera, and Emily all have specific colors, buttttt... Everyone else doesn't. Sorry, but I did what I could.
Ashes of Grace
Sera x Overlord!Male!Reader
Warnings: Religious themes, Violence/Body horror, Death, Torture/Enslavement, Corruption of authority, Genocide/Extermination, Substance use
Word Count: 4868
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Pentagram City rarely slept. And neither did its monsters. Between the sleaze and sin, the neon-soaked streets, and the endless echoes of jazz and gunfire, power shifts were as common- and as violent- as the weather.
When Valentino’s body finally hit the floor, burned out and twitching under the weight of a wrath he'd never anticipated, the District changed forever.
At the center of it all stood (Y/N)- a name now spoken in equal parts awe and terror. A new overlord, born not from vanity or greed, but something deeper. Something biblical.
His rise hadn't just been loud; it had been seismic. After Velvette and Vox made the mistake of trying to kidnap Charlie Morningstar- Hell’s favorite princess, and (Y/N)'s dearest friend- (Y/N) retaliated with fire and iron. Velvette and Vox now belonged to him, their souls shackled to his service. Sometimes figuratively, sometimes... not. They wore their chains like tarnished jewelry, reminders of the price of betrayal.
Valentino didn’t get that luxury.
He died.
And with him, the District fell.
What rose from the ashes wasn't just a new territory. It was an empire of creativity, ruthlessness, and control- no longer just a playground for abusers, but a stage for something greater. Alastor, always amused by chaos, had grinned wide at the news. Charlie, overwhelmed, had cried when it was over, throwing her arms around (Y/N)'s shoulders.
"Thank you," she whispered against him, her best friend…
(Y/N) only nodded, hiding the smoldering rage still burning deep in his bones.
A week passed. And inside his repurposed theater, (Y/N) lounged in a battered chair at the head of a heavy oak table, eyeing Vox and Velvette with lazy disinterest.
The two former overlords sat like petulant children, glaring daggers at anything but him.
"Don't act so bitter," (Y/N) drawled, resting his chin in one hand. "You're lucky I didn't turn you into lawn ornaments."
"I'd rather be one," Velvette muttered under her breath. "At least I had free will before."
Before (Y/N) could reply, something flashed through the high, smoke-clogged sky.
Not light. Not in the Hellborn sense.
It was something... higher… And it was falling fast.
Vox stiffened, staring upwards. "...That came from upstairs."
The theater doors slammed open, and they raced outside.
What they found wasn’t a crash site. It was a massacre.
The crater still smoked, shards of shattered halos glittering in the ash. Feathers- too white, too pure- floated like dying fireflies through the air. In the center, two figures lay broken.
One was barely breathing- her right leg severed, her hand gone, one eye torn out, her wings sheared off like scrap paper.
The other, though bleeding and shaking, was already dragging herself upright. Protective. Furious. Radiating raw divinity even through the grime.
(Y/N) approached carefully, his hands open, head tilted like a curious wolf.
"...You're angels," he said slowly. "Do you know Charlie?"
The seraphim’s expression cracked. She nodded, voice raw. "Yes... She's... our friend."
That was all (Y/N) needed.
Without hesitation, he lifted the mutilated one- Emily-into his arms. Gentle, despite the gore. His voice was low, steady.
"Then you're not enemies," he said. "You're survivors."
The Happy Hotel had seen its share of strange guests. But even here, Emily’s condition turned every head.
Charlie gasped the second she saw her, rushing forward to help. Vaggie barked sharp orders at Angel and Husk, clearing the lobby with military precision. Alastor, all false grins and real concern, set up a makeshift recovery area with eerie efficiency.
Then, Lucifer Morningstar himself swept in, as radiant and ridiculous as ever.
"Charlie!" he boomed, voice theatrical. "I came to see if-" His words cut off the second he spotted Emily. “Oh, fuck…”
Then Lucifer dropped to his knees beside her, pressing a glowing hand over Emily’s shattered body. His usual swagger softened into something almost tender.
"Hold on," he murmured. "We can fix you."
Hours later, after Emily stabilized under a blanket of maigc and careful hands, (Y/N) sat across from the still-shaking seraphim- Sera.
She couldn’t sit still. Pacing, flinching at every noise. Until finally, (Y/N) stood and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.
"Breathe," he said quietly. "You're safe."
Slowly, she exhaled. And spoke.
"After Sir Pentious... After he came to Heaven, some of us began to question things," she said hoarsely. "Charlie’s idea of redemption didn’t seem so crazy anymore. Emily and I... we supported it. We gathered others. We tried to change things from within."
Her voice broke.
"But then came Lute."
The name seemed to leech the warmth from the room.
"After losing her arm in the fight you all had, she twisted everything. She called Charlie a devil. Called the hotel a trap. She rallied the fearful and the bitter... and they listened. Heaven turned into a machine."
Sera’s fists trembled.
"They hunted us. Emily and I were caught trying to flee. She... She ripped Emily apart. Then she banished us here, as a warning."
At the doorway, Charlie stood frozen, fists shaking.
Sera turned to face them fully.
"And it’s worse than that. She’s planning a Final Extermination. In six months. Not just Hell. Not just sinners. Earth, too."
Silence fell like a blade.
(Y/N) straightened, shadows unfurling around his boots. His voice, when it came, was steel.
"Then we’re not just saving Hell anymore," he said. "We’re saving everyone."
...Far above, Heaven's Throne Room had changed...
Where once golden beams warmed marble floors, now the light was colder, harsher, casting long skeletal shadows.
Lute sat perched atop a jagged throne, once a Exterminator- now a Leader.
A trembling seraphim bowed low before her.
"All remaining supporters of Sera have been purged. The rest... converted."
"And the traitors?" Lute asked. Her voice was a metallic hiss.
"Banished or destroyed."
She rose, wings unfolding in sharp, almost mechanical snaps.
"In six months’ time," she declared, "there will be no Hell. No Earth. Only perfection. Heaven will ascend through fire."
The court erupted in cold cheers as the corrupted seraphim spread their wings.
Back in the Happy Hotel, Emily’s eye fluttered open.
She was alive. Battered. Different. But alive.
Charlie was instantly by her side, gripping her hand tightly.
"You’re safe," Charlie whispered. "I promise."
Emily tried to sit up, her body aching with every movement.
"C-Charlie...?"
"Yes, it's me. Don’t worry. We’ve got you."
Lucifer, leaning nearby, flashed a crooked, nervous smile.
"Only because bleeding out on my daughter’s carpet is absolutely unacceptable. Bad for the aesthetic," he said, lightly. Then, more serious, he added, "I healed what I could. Your leg, your hand... But your wings..." He trailed off, frowning. "Those may take more work."
Tears welled in Emily’s remaining eye.
"Sir Pentious... He's really..."
Lucifer’s face darkened... Charlie just hugged her tighter.
Across the room, Sera sat curled at the bar, silent. Husk, uncharacteristically gentle, pushed a mug of something nonalcoholic toward her.
Nearby, Alastor watched with predatory curiosity.
"So," he said brightly. "Heaven’s fallen into the claws of a madwoman. Your friends butchered. Your hopes dashed." He smiled wider. "Welcome to Hell."
Sera flinched.
"We tried," she whispered. "We tried to save them. We believed in Charlie's dream..."
(Y/N) approached quietly, Vox and Velvette trailing behind like resentful ghosts.
"You still believe in it?" he asked.
Sera looked up, tears brimming.
"Yes."
He nodded once, a grim glint in his eye.
"Then we fight."
From the couch, Angel Dust cackled, tossing a grenade from hand to hand.
"About time! I’ve been dying to throw hands with someone uptight!"
It didn't take long for one of the Hotel’s many rooms to be taken, and changed. Celestial maps sprawled across walls and floors. Candles flickered wildly against the cracked stone.
Around a heavy oak table stood Lucifer, Charlie, Alastor, and (Y/N)- each face carved with focus.
"She wants to erase everything," Charlie said, voice tight. "Not just sinners. Everyone."
Alastor chuckled, low and eerie. "An ambitious apocalypse. I almost admire it."
(Y/N) planted his palms on the table, voice low and furious.
"We can't just defend. We strike first."
Charlie nodded fiercely, fire blazing in her eyes.
"We’re going to stop her. We’re going to prove we matter."
Lucifer clapped a proud hand on her shoulder.
"That’s my girl."
The mood was heavy, but not hopeless. A tense undercurrent thrummed through the room, setting everyone on edge. Maps and blueprints lay scattered across the table, papers weighed down with empty mugs and books. Sera stood at the center of it all, tracing a slow line along a map with two fingers, brow furrowed.
Around her, the others listened in silence. Charlie, Lucifer, (Y/N), Alastor, Vaggie, Angel Dust, Husk, and Emily- propped up in a wheelchair and bundled in fresh bandages around her shoulders- watched with focused, anxious attention.
"Most of Heaven’s 'Winners' are still willing to listen," Sera said, voice low but steady. "They aren't like the Angels. They're just... humans. Humans who died and moved on. They remember. They can think for themselves."
Charlie tilted her head thoughtfully. "But what do they have to do with all this?"
"If we’re going to have any support up there, it'll be through them," Sera replied. She glanced around the room. "Lute’s seized control of Heaven’s higher ranks. She's convinced most of the Angels, crowned herself their queen. But the Winners... they’re still undecided."
(Y/N) crossed his arms, the gears already turning behind his narrowed eyes. "We could start a rebellion inside Heaven itself. Get the truth out before Lute locks everything down."
Sera gave a sharp nod. "Exactly. But we don’t have much time. After Emily and I fell, Lute accelerated her plans. She’s preparing the final phase right now."
"Then we don't just defend anymore," Lucifer said, his voice darkening. "We invade."
Sera met his gaze without flinching. "We hit fast. We send the message. And we take Lute out before she can trigger the Final Purge."
As the meeting dissolved into quieter preparations, Angel Dust wheeled Emily back toward her new room, a soft pink guest suite Charlie had thrown together- full of pillows, gauzy curtains, and delicate little touches meant to comfort. Emily was quiet, shrinking into herself, the overwhelming changes of the past days pressing in on her.
Angel, never good with heavy silences, plopped into a chair beside her and swung an arm lazily over the backrest. "So," he drawled, "how’s it feel bein’ the first angel who didn’t try to shank me on sight?"
Emily managed a weak, almost surprised smile. "We were taught that... souls in Hell couldn’t feel... I knew no different until I met Charlie."
He snorted and bumped her elbow with his. "Yeah, well, guess we’re full of surprises down here. Welcome to the club, doll."
She blinked, absorbing that, then tentatively leaned against him. "Thanks... for not being thrown off by me."
"Pfft." Angel waved it off. "Sweetheart, I’ve seen worse. Hell, you look better than half my dates."
"...I’m not sure if that’s comforting."
"It ain’t. But it’s true."
Later that evening, the corridors of the hotel grew quieter. Emily, wrapped in a simple jacket Charlie had picked out for her, made her way slowly down the hall. Every step was stiff, awkward- her balance thrown off.
Pushing through the swinging doors, she made her way to the bar, wincing as she hoisted herself onto a stool. Husk looked up from polishing glasses, one ear twitching as he noticed her.
"Not servin' you liquor, kid," he muttered, voice rough. "Charlie’d have my ass."
"I don't want a drink," Emily said quietly. "I just... wanted noise. Not pity."
Husk grunted, setting the glass down. "You walked pretty far," he said, more observation than praise.
Emily let out a hollow little laugh. "Didn’t want to stay in that room. It's too... Quiet."
She tapped the side of her head lightly. "When it’s that quiet, all I can hear is screaming from outside..."
Husk didn’t flinch. He just leaned his weight against the bar and nodded slightly, like he understood all too well.
They sat in silence for a while, broken only by the low hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of glass against glass.
Eventually, Husk broke the quiet. "Why’d you come down here, really?"
Emily hesitated, looking down at the frayed sleeve covering her wrist. "Because... I think I'm scared." Her voice cracked slightly. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be anymore."
For a moment, Husk simply stared at her. Then, with a grunt, he reached beneath the bar and pulled out a battered, worn playing card- the Queen of Hearts. Its corners were frayed, a small tear across the center.
"My last hand in a real poker game," he said, sliding it across the bar to her. "Lost everything. Still survived."
Emily stared down at the card like it was something sacred.
"You’re giving this to me?"
"Loaning it," Husk corrected. "For luck."
She tucked the card against her chest like armor, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. "Thanks," she whispered.
"Don't thank me. Win the next hand."
Meanwhile, across the hotel, final preparations were underway. In the lounge, Lucifer clapped his hands sharply, drawing everyone's attention.
"Our infiltration team, then," he announced, a glint of theatrical excitement in his eye. "Charlie- the optimist; Sera- the righteous outcast; Emily- our fallen helper; and you, dear (Y/N)- the wildcard’s wildcard."
(Y/N) raised an eyebrow. "You gonna narrate the whole mission?"
"Only the dramatic parts," Lucifer quipped, giving him a large smile.
"...So basically, all of it," (Y/N) muttered.
Charlie, ever the peacemaker, cleared her throat gently. "We have three objectives: reach the Holy Gates, rally the Winners to our side, and remove Lute before she can lead an attack."
Lucifer’s playful air faded slightly, replaced by something colder, sharper. "This isn’t just about Hell anymore. Or Heaven. This is about Earth. About proving redemption isn't some cruel joke."
Sera met his gaze and nodded once, solemn. "Then we strike fast."
At Lucifer’s gesture, a portal shimmered open in the air, unstable and crackling with divine static. It glowed like a tear in reality itself- liquid gold and silver threads of light straining to stay woven together.
Charlie approached the portal first, her hands trembling slightly, though her face was set with determination. Opening a portal to Heaven from Hell was unnatural, dangerous- and it showed. The light bled into the floor, the walls, everything it touched humming unnervingly.
"We don't know how long it'll hold," Lucifer warned. "Maybe a few hours. Maybe less if you screw around too much... Portals like these aren't usually supposed to be opened from this side..."
(Y/N) adjusted his coat, checking the weapons strapped across his hips. Nearby, Vox and Velvette watched, their usual smugness tempered by real worry. Sera tightened her grip on her sword, the blade gleaming faintly. Emily secured Husk’s playing card near her heart, her new sword slung awkwardly across her back.
Together, they looked ready.
Charlie turned back to Lucifer, her eyes fierce. "We’ll be back."
Lucifer smiled- but it was a fragile thing, brittle at the edges. "I know," he said.
Without another word, they stepped through the portal- and into stillness.
The air on the other side was cool, quiet in a way that felt... unnatural, like the whole world was holding its breath.
The gates loomed ahead, bathed in blinding light that offered no warmth. The team emerged slowly, blinking against the unnatural brilliance. Emily exhaled shakily, her hand tightening on her sword.
“The gates aren't usually... empty,” she muttered.
Normally, Saint Peter would have stood watch. Now, there was only silence.
(Y/N) swept his gaze over the endless marble sprawl before them. The architecture was grand, opulent- but it felt hollow, abandoned. Like a stage after the actors had fled mid-performance.
Sera muttered under her breath, voice strained. "This isn't right. Something's wrong."
Charlie tightened her grip on her staff, glancing nervously at the others. "We need to move. Fast."
They slipped forward through the eerie stillness, boots whispering over immaculate stone. Statues of angels lined the path, their faces twisted into expressions that were almost... pained. Not the serene smiles Heaven was famous for.
Emily limped slightly, favoring her newly healed leg, but kept pace grimly, the Queen of Hearts tucked safe against her ribs. She refused to slow them down.
As they neared the first courtyard- a vast open space dominated by a towering monument of silver and gold- (Y/N) raised a hand sharply. "Wait."
Movement… At first, it was just a ripple, like a heat mirage. Then forms began to materialize.
Dozens. No- hundreds.
Figures stepped out from the edges of the courtyard- Winners, eyes shadowed, hesitant. They were armed with angelic weapons- some with swords, others with halberds or spears- but none of them attacked.
Instead, they just... stared.
One woman near the front- a thin, graying soul with sharp cheekbones, hollow eyes, and large bunny ears- took a step forward.
"You're the ones who escaped," she said, voice cracking.
Her gaze landed on Sera, then Emily. "You came back."
Charlie stepped forward quickly, heart hammering in her chest. "Please- we’re not here to fight you. We’re here to stop Lute. To save everyone."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some looked uncertain. Others terrified. A few- a precious few- hopeful.
(Y/N) moved to stand beside Charlie, his voice carrying clean across the courtyard. "You know what she’s planning," he said coldly. "You’ve seen the signs. The exterminations... the disappearances. Heaven isn't salvation anymore. It's a slaughterhouse with a crown."
Silence.
Emily, breathless and shaking, found her voice. "I lost everything because I tried to help," she said, voice trembling but steady. "Sera and I... we saw the truth. If you stand with her, you'll lose yourselves, too."
A long, agonizing pause.
Then- a man near the back threw down his spear.
It clattered against the marble with a ringing finality.
One by one, others followed. Weapons dropped. People stepping out of their neat little lines, their faces raw with emotion.
The graying woman stepped forward again, her hands shaking.
"We follow you now," she whispered
(Y/N) let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Charlie pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, overwhelmed.
Sera looked ready to collapse from relief.
But before anyone could celebrate-
A loud banging sound tore through the air. Mechanical. Shattering. It echoed through the bones of the city like a death knell.
Charlie paled instantly. "She's coming."
From above, like a thundercloud, Lute descended. Around her, Exterminators unfolded from the shadows- sleek, brutal things, all flashing blades, baring their masks.
Lute smiled- a cruel, hateful one. "So this," she hissed, "is your rebellion?"
The newly turned Winners hesitated, fear rippling through their ranks.
(Y/N) stepped forward without hesitation, drawing his blade in one smooth motion, the tip glinting with something darker than metal.
He didn’t need to shout.
His presence alone was command enough.
Emily braced herself, lifting her sword with both hands. Sera set her jaw, raising her blade to guard. Charlie lifted her hands, trembling- but with fire in her eyes.
Lute laughed, the sound hollow and electric. "So be it," she said. "You can all burn together."
The Exterminators surged forward.
And the battle for Heaven began.
Lute met (Y/N)'s charge head-on, screaming a soundless war-cry, her wings flaring out wide like a specter of vengeance.
Their blades collided- but (Y/N) didn’t yield. He pressed forward, every strike hammering her defenses, forcing her back with sheer will. Charlie fought at his side, her eyes glowing with desperate red light, every swing of her claws another prayer hurled like a weapon. Sera drove her blade home again and again, ignoring the golden blood leaking from her side where a blade had caught her earlier. Emily, staggering but unbroken, struck too- a shallow cut, but enough to make Lute snarl and stagger.
The four of them moved like a single force. Hope. Anger. Love. Defiance.
"You're DONE!" (Y/N) bellowed. He struck low- a brutal, gouging slash across her knees.
Sera was already moving, her sword flashing upwards- tearing open Lute’s exposed side. And Emily- battered, exhausted Emily- threw her sword with everything she had.
The blade spun through the air- and punched through Lute’s heart.
The world seemed to stop.
Lute gasped, golden blood streaming from her mouth. Her wings spasmed violently, the corrupted light sputtering. Her eyes, so cold and cruel, flickered- fear flashing through them for the first time.
She fell to her knees.
"You… can’t…" she rasped.
(Y/N) stood over her, breathing hard, the others gathering behind him.
"You already lost," he said, voice quiet and absolute.
Lute tried to lunge one last time- a desperate, broken advance-
(Y/N) drove his blade through her throat.
The light died.
Lute crumpled, falling limp onto the marble. The Exterminators, leaderless, gave in, most either fleeing, or tossing down their weapons in defeat.
Across the courtyard, the everyone fell silent.
The battle was over. For a long moment, none of them moved.
The only sound was the ragged breathing of the survivors.
Then, slowly, Winners who had fought alongside them began to move through the carnage, beginning to clear the battlefield- gathering their fallen, offering silent prayers.
An eerie, heavy silence settled over Heaven’s once-pristine halls.
At the center of it all, (Y/N) stood with Charlie, Sera, and Emily.
Sera wiped her blade on her tattered dress and sheathed it slowly. She walked over, Emily limping close beside her, the two of them visibly shaken but steady.
Sera stopped before them, and for a moment, the words caught in her throat… Then she bowed- a deep, respectful gesture.
"You saved us," Sera said, her voice rough but sure. "You saved Heaven."
Emily offered a trembling smile, her bandaged hand pressed to her heart.
"You saved us," she echoed. "And... maybe yourselves too."
Charlie shook her head, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "We saved each other."
Sera smiled- soft, sad, but real. She looked at the group- at Charlie, at (Y/N), at Vaggie, Angel Dust, Husk, Alastor lingering just out of the bloodstained light.
"I hope," Sera said, "that one day... when your mission fully succeeds... when Hell isn’t just a prison anymore... we’ll see you all again."
She swallowed hard, her hand brushing against her sisters.
"In Heaven."
Emily nodded fiercely, emotion thick in her throat. "You deserve it," she said. "Every one of you."
(Y/N) tilted his head slightly, a faint smile curling the corner of his mouth- something tired, but deeply grateful. "We'll hold you to that," he said.
Behind them, the golden portal by the gates- flickering dangerously now- shuddered violently, cracks spiderwebbing across its edges.
Lucifer’s voice echoed from near the portal, "Time’s up! If you don’t wanna get stuck up here with the corpses, MOVE!"
Charlie turned, urgency snapping her back into motion. She grabbed Vaggie and (Y/N)'s wrist, tugging them toward the portal. Sera and Emily stepped aside, watching them go with solemn pride.
One by one, they sprinted toward the portal, battered and bruised- but alive. Alastor practically skipped through, humming under his breath. Angel Dust threw an exaggerated salute at Emily before diving in backward. Husk grumbled something about Emily keeping the card he gave her under his breath, but followed close behind.
The light swallowed them all.
And then- with a soft shuddering sigh- the portal collapsed, leaving only the broken battlefield and the survivors behind.
Above the battered gates of Heaven, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the light began to soften. No longer harsh. No longer cruel.
But warm.
Hopeful.
And far below- in a hotel full of sinners and misfits- redemption no longer seemed like just a dream.
The group stumbled out of the collapsing portal like survivors of a storm. They hit the lobby floor hard, some collapsing onto couches, others simply dropping where they stood.
Charlie sagged against the wall, clutching her chest, gasping huge breaths of smoky hotel air like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted. Angel Dust sprawled dramatically across a bench, one leg draped over the backrest. "We’re alive! Suck it, Heaven!" Vaggie just dropped onto a nearby chair, burying her face in her hands with a weak laugh. Husk growled low in his throat, shuffling over to the bar- which Charlie didn’t even bother to scold him for.
(Y/N) stood a little apart from them all, his shoulders tight with exhaustion but his eyes still sharp, scanning every corner like he expected another attack.
Alastor straightened his coat with a little flourish, looking barely ruffled despite the battle they'd just fought. He approached, that permanent sharp-toothed smile a bit softer now- genuine, in its strange, predatory way.
"My, my," Alastor said, voice lilting. "I knew you had potential, but even I didn’t expect that little symphony." He gave (Y/N) a low, mocking bow. "You have my admiration."
(Y/N) snorted quietly. "Coming from you, that's... concerning." But a tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Charlie pushed off the wall, her footsteps slow but determined, and closed the distance between them. She stopped in front of (Y/N), looking up at him with an expression so open, so grateful, it nearly staggered him.
"You didn’t have to do this," she said quietly. "You didn’t have to stay." Her voice wavered, just slightly. "But you did. And you saved so many more lives than just ours."
(Y/N) reached up, brushing his knuckles lightly under her chin, tipping her head just a fraction higher. "You’re my friend," he said simply. "That's all the reason I need."
Charlie’s throat bobbed in a thick swallow. She reached out impulsively- wrapped her arms around him in a tight, fierce hug. For a second (Y/N) froze- then he exhaled, slow and warm, and wrapped his arms back around her, grounding her.
Alastor watched with a faint tilt to his head, the smile on his face unreadable, but his red eyes softened around the edges.
When they finally pulled apart, Charlie’s smile was damp and glowing. "You’re one of us," she said. "No matter what anyone says."
(Y/N) ruffled her hair lightly, making her sputter a weak laugh- before his expression turned a little wry.
"...Speaking of things that belong to others," he muttered, voice dry.
Across the lobby, Vox and Velvette- looking thoroughly miserable- stood awkwardly by the doors. Velvette noticed him looking and made a dramatic gagging motion. Vox simply scowled, his screen flickering with static annoyance.
Charlie giggled nervously at the sight, covering her mouth. Even Alastor chuckled low in his chest, the sound like an old radio popping on.
(Y/N) sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. I better get the gremlins back to their cage before they start redecorating."
He turned back to Charlie and Alastor one last time, catching their expressions- tired but proud.
With a mock salute, (Y/N) turned on his heel and strode across the room. He grabbed Vox by the back of his stupid designer jacket and yanked him forward, ignoring the glitchy cursing. Velvette followed, grumbling under her breath.
The front doors of the Hotel creaked open with a slow, eerie groan. (Y/N) paused just once in the doorway- glanced back over his shoulder.
At the threshold, the warm, battered light of the Hotel spilled across the floor behind him. It caught the edges of his coat, the lines of his frame, silhouetting him against the chaos they'd left- and the strange, imperfect hope they'd returned to.
Charlie stood watching him, Vaggie at her side, Angel Dust waving lazily from his perch. Alastor leaned on his cane nearby, grinning wide but... almost actually looking happy, while Husk offered a casual two-fingered salute from the bar.
(Y/N) let the corner of his mouth quirk up- a tired, crooked smile- and gave a simple nod.
Then he turned, dragging his reluctant prisoners with him, disappearing into the neon-drenched night of Pentagram City.
Outside, the air buzzed with tension and distant sirens and screams, the streets littered with scattered debris from the city’s usual violence. But somewhere under all the rot and grime, a pulse beat- faint, stubborn. The pulse of change. Of something new.
Inside the Hotel, Charlie wiped her face quickly, sniffling once before straightening her back.
"We're going to make this work," she said quietly, but with growing conviction. "We're going to fix this. All of it."
Vaggie squeezed her hand tightly. "We will."
Alastor chuckled, adjusting his tie. "The world will never know what hit it."
Angel Dust sprawled further across the bench with a groan. "Wake me up when it’s time for the afterparty."
Husk just muttered into his glass, "We better get a damn good one."
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