Not to make this post about fandom stuff, but this is essentially a summary of why I think more people should play Outlast. A large part of the game's development, mechanics, and writing were dedicated to making people who thought what this post refers to as "Level 1" realize that asylum horror should actually be about "Level 3".
Outlast was quite literally the gateway for me in learning about the horrors of psychiatric abuse and saneism.
Ao3 does not need a 1-5 star rating system, you just want to bring down authors writing for FREE
Ao3 does not need automatic censorship, it is an archive, therefore anything can be posted
Writing or reading about something illegal does not mean the author nor the reader condones it, if that were true, you could never read a story involving anything negative
Purity culture is ruining fan culture and you all are fucking annoying
tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of feeling like a burden, feeling weak, not being enough, overprotectiveness, arguments
[XAVIER, ZAYNE, RAFAYEL, SYLUS, CALEB]
XAVIER
The fight wasn't even supposed to happen.
You'd come back from a solo patrol, all scratched up but alive. Wanderers had appeared faster than the mission intel had let in on, and you'd pushed through alone because backup was twenty minutes out and you weren't about to let civilians get caught in the crossfire. Standard hunter protocol.
Xavier was waiting at your apartment door when you limped in. Still in his uniform, hair a mess like he'd run straight from the association the second he heard the report. His eyes, usually soft with a trace of amusement, were sharp.
"You're hurt again," he says, voice steady. His gaze drags over the blood on your sleeve, the bruise blooming across your cheek.
"I'm fine." You try to brush past him. "Just need a shower and some sleep."
He catches your wrist. Gentle but firm enough you can't pull away. "You could've waited."
"I didn't have time to wait. People were going to die, Xavier."
His jaw tightens. "And you almost did."
You yank your arm free. "But I didn't. That's the job. That's my job."
Something flickers in his expression, something raw, something he’s been carrying for a long time. He steps closer, voice dropping low. "You need to stop being so reckless. Charging in like that... it's stupid. You're going to get yourself killed one day, and I-" He cuts off, exhales hard through his nose. "I can't keep watching you throw yourself away."
The words land like a slap.
He knows. He knows how much weight those words carry to you. How many nights you've spent curled against him whispering about the fear that you're not good enough, not smart enough, not strong enough, not careful enough. That every time you come home bleeding it's proof you're still failing the people who count on you. That deep down you worry you're just a liability dressed up as a hero.
And he just called it stupid.
Your throat closes. Eyes burn. You stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, the soft apology he always gives when he realizes he's gone too far.
It doesn't come.
Instead he just stands there, breathing uneven, looking like he wants to reach for you again but doesn't trust his own hands.
You turn away. "Get out."
He doesn't move at first.
"Get. Out."
The door shuts behind him quieter than it should. Like even the hinges are trying not to make it worse.
You don't cry until you're in the shower. Hot water mixes with salt and you press your forehead to the tile, replaying it on loop.
Stupid.
He didn't mean it. You know he didn't. Xavier never means the sharp things that slip out when he's scared. But knowing doesn't stop it from carving deeper.
You avoid him for three days.
Missions. Paperwork. Extra patrols. Anything that keeps you out of the apartment, out of association’s common areas, out of range of those blue eyes that always find you too easily.
He texts once.
I'm sorry. Please talk to me.
You read it. Delete it. Turn your phone face down.
On day four he shows up at your door again. Leaning against the frame like he's been waiting hours. Eyes shadowed. Uniform rumpled. He looks like he hasn't slept.
You freeze in the hallway, grocery bag in hand.
He straightens slowly. "I know you don't want to see me."
You don't answer. Just stare at the floor between you.
He takes one step closer, stops when you flinch. "I was wrong," he says quietly. "What I said... it was cruel. I was angry and terrified and I took it out on you. I shouldn't have."
Still nothing from you.
His voice cracks the smallest amount. "You aren't stupid. You're the bravest person I know. You run into danger so other people don't have to, and I-“ He swallows. "I hate it. I hate that I can't protect you from everything. I hate that every time you leave I wonder if this is the time you don't come back. But that's my fear, it’s not your fault. And I never should have made you feel like your courage is anything less than... everything that it is."
He sounds wrecked. Like saying it hurts more than the silence ever could.
You finally look up. His eyes are red rimmed. Hair falling into his face. He looks smaller than you've ever seen him.
"I didn't mean it," he whispers. "Not even a little. I was lashing out because I can't lose you. Not again." He stops. Shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You don't move.
He doesn't push. Hands loose at his sides, itching to touch you but he waits.
Minutes pass. Rain starts tapping the hallway window.
Finally you speak. Voice small. "It hurt."
"I know."
"More than you know."
His shoulders drop.
You step forward. Just one step. Close enough to smell the faint scent of cedar and fresh air that always clings to him.
He doesn't reach for you. Lets you decide.
You do.
Your forehead bumps his chest. His arms come around you instantly, careful, trembling. Like he's scared you'll vanish if he holds too tight.
"I'm sorry," he breathes into your hair. Over and over. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry."
You don't say it's okay yet. Not quite.
But you don't pull away either.
He stays like that for a long time. Rain outside. Heartbeats loud in the quiet. Him murmuring apologies against your temple until the words blur into soft nonsense.
When you finally let him inside, he doesn't try to kiss you. Doesn't push for more.
He just sits on your couch, pulls you into his lap, and holds you like you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
And maybe you are.
He spends the rest of the night proving, with quiet words, gentle touches, and the way he refuses to let go even when you pretend to sleep, that he will never let those words live between you again.
ZAYNE
It starts over something small. Or at least, it feels small until it isn't.
You've been pushing yourself lately, extra missions, ignoring the twinges in your chest, the way your evol resonance is getting weaker. Zayne's noticed. Of course he has. He's your doctor. Your primary physician. The one who knows every scar on your heart, literal and otherwise.
He's been gentle about it at first. Texts reminding you to rest. Quiet suggestions during check ups. But tonight, after you collapse into his apartment post mission, dizzy, short of breath, lying about how bad it was, he cracks.
"You're not invincible," he says, voice clipped as he checks your pulse. His fingers are cool against your wrist. "You keep ignoring the signs, and one day your heart won't forgive you."
You roll your eyes from the couch. "It's fine, Zayne. I handled it."
"You didn't." He sets his glasses down harder than necessary. "Your vitals are erratic. Again. Because you refuse to listen."
Irritation flares. You're tired. Sore. The last thing you need is another lecture. "I'm a hunter. This is what I do. You can't wrap me in bubble wrap forever."
His eyes narrow, that rare flash of real anger. "And I can't keep fixing you forever either. Do you even think about what this does to the people around you? To me?"
You sit up too fast. The room spins a little. "What, like I'm some burden you have to carry? I didn't ask for this heart. Or for you to play savior every time."
He freezes. Then, in a voice so low it's almost a whisper: "Maybe if you weren't so hell bent on destroying yourself, you wouldn't be a burden at all. You're not just risking your life, you're making everyone else's harder. Including mine. Sometimes I wonder if you even care about the guilt you leave behind."
The words hang in the air. Sharp and unforgiving.
You've confessed it to him in the dark, tears soaking his shirt,
“I feel like I'm always making you suffer because of me. Like I'm not enough to stand on my own.”
And he just... threw it back in your face.
Your chest tightens, not from your condition, but from the way everything inside you crumples.
Zayne's expression shifts the second it leaves his mouth. Regret floods his eyes. He reaches for you. "I didn't-"
"Don't." You stand, grabbing your coat. Voice steady even as it breaks inside. "Don't touch me."
He doesn't follow when you leave. Just stands there in the doorway, watching you go with that unreadable face he wears like armor.
You don't go home. You crash at a hotel. Turn off your phone. Cry until there's nothing left.
The next morning, you march into Akso Hospital. Request a transfer of primary physician. The admin looks confused
"Dr. Li is one of our best, are you sure?" but you nod. Firm on your decision.
Dr. Greyson gets your file.
You avoid the cardiology wing for a week. Take the long way to appointments. Duck into stairwells if you spot that familiar figure.
But hospitals are small. You cross paths eventually.
The first time is in the hallway near radiology. He rounds the corner, charts in hand. Freezes when he sees you.
You look through him. Keep walking. His footsteps falter behind you, but he doesn't call out.
Second time’s in the cafeteria. You're grabbing coffee. He's at a table, alone, staring at his untouched lunch. Your eyes meet across the room.
He stands. Mouths your name.
You turn away. Leave the line. Dump the cup in the trash on your way out.
Then, the elevator. Just the two of you. He steps in after you, presses his floor. The air thickens.
"I-" he starts.
The doors open. You bolt without a glance.
He doesn't try again that day.
He’s unraveling in his office.
Zayne doesn't break easy. He's built his life on control; schedules, scalpels, steady hands. But alone, door locked, he crumbles.
Paces the small space. Sits at his desk. Stands again. Checks his phone for the hundredth time, no messages. Your contact photo stares back: you laughing in his arms, snow in your hair from that trip to Chansia.
He slams the phone down. So hard the screen cracks.
Regret coils in his gut. He replays the argument on loop, your face when he said it, the way you recoiled like he'd struck you. Worse than any physical blow.
He skips meals. Works doubles to fill the void. Snaps at nurses over nothing. Greyson mentions your transfer in passing and Zayne just nods. Excuses himself. Locks the office door and presses his palms to his eyes until the burning stops.
Nights are worse. His apartment echoes without you. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining every scenario where he loses you for good. Your heart failing because he wasn't there. You moving on with someone who doesn't carry this baggage. Or worse, you hating him enough to never look back.
He drowns in his self pity. Whispers apologies to empty rooms.
Two weeks in, he can't take it.
He gives you space, or tries. But seeing you in the hospital chips away at him.
A sigh. "Physically? She’s fine. Emotionally? She asked not to discuss you."
Zayne nods. Walks away. Punches the wall in the stairwell hard enough to bruise his knuckles.
That night, he breaks. Shows up at your apartment, looking a mess.
You open the door. See him. Start to close it.
His hand catches the frame. Gentle. Pleading. "Please. Five minutes."
You let him in. Not because you want to. Because he looks like a ghost, pale, hollow eyed, like he hasn't slept since that night.
He doesn't sit. Stands in your entryway. "I was wrong," he says immediately. Voice raw. "What I said... it was unforgivable. I was angry. At myself, mostly. For not being able to protect you. For watching you suffer and feeling helpless. But I took it out on you. On the one thing I know hurts you most."
You cross your arms. Stare at the floor. "You knew. You knew how much I hate feeling like a burden. Like I'm just... broken."
He flinches. "I know. And I used it like a weapon. Because in that moment, I wanted you to hurt like I was hurting. It was selfish and cruel. I regret it every second since."
Silence stretches between you. The snowfall outside clings to the windows.
"Why should I believe you?" Your voice is small, unsteady.
He steps closer. Like he’s approaching something fragile. "Because without you, I'm the one who's broken. These weeks... they've been hell. Seeing you in the halls, knowing I've lost the right to even ask how you are. Knowing I drove you to someone else for care because I couldn't be trusted with your heart anymore."
His voice breaks on that last word. Heart. Yours, his.
"I don't deserve forgiveness," he continues. "Not yet. But I'll earn it. However long it takes. I’ll give you as much space as you need. But please... don't shut me out forever."
You look up then. See the tears he doesn't bother hiding. The way his hands tremble at his sides.
It's not okay.
But you nod. Once. "Start by leaving. I need time."
He does. No argument. Just a quiet "I love you" on his way out.
The next day, flowers arrive at your door. Jasmines. Note in his handwriting: I'm sorry. Take all the time you need.
Then chocolates. The ones from that shop you mentioned once.
Then a book, the one you'd been eyeing.
Small things. Consistent.
You ignore him at the hospital still. But the edge softens. A nod in the hall one day. A brief "Good morning" the next.
He clings to them like lifelines.
A month later, you request the transfer back. Greyson's good, but he's not Zayne. No one knows your history like he does.
The first appointment is professional. But when it's over, he lingers. "Thank you," he says softly. "For trusting me again."
You meet his eyes. "Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
Outside the exam room, he exhales. Leans against the wall. Smiles for the first time in weeks.
It's slow after that. Dinners. Walks. Him opening up about his own fears, the nightmares where he loses you, the weight of his oath clashing with his love.
One night, curled on his couch, you whisper: "I forgive you."
He pulls you close. Buries his face in your hair. "Thank you," he breathes. Over and over.
He never lets those words, or any like them, cross his mind again. Not even in anger.
RAFAYEL
You’re both still damp when you stumble back to his studio.
You’d followed him on one of his saviour plots again, not because he asked, but because you couldn’t let him go alone. Not after the way his eyes had darkened when he talked about the latest lead on the people who’d hunted his kind. You’d fought beside him, bled beside him, watched him lose himself in spirits of his past while facing humans who keep his people as decor.
You thought it meant something. That standing in the cold current together, watching him free someone from captivity, meant you were finally crossing the invisible line he always drew between you.
Apparently not.
He’s quiet the whole walk back. The kind of quiet that makes the air feel thick.
You try to break it when you step inside, peel off your soaked jacket, kick off boots, reach for the towel he tosses you without looking.
“Rafayel? You okay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands by the tall windows, staring out at the black ocean like it owes him something. Water drips from his hair onto the floorboards in slow plinks.
Then, finally: “You shouldn’t have come.”
You freeze mid reach for the towel. “What?”
“You heard me.” His voice is soft. The dangerous kind of soft he gets right before he says something that cuts. “You never should have followed me down there tonight.”
Anger flares fast. “I wasn’t going to let you go alone. You could’ve died.”
He laughs, short, bitter, nothing like his usual teasing lilt. “Died? Please. I’ve been dealing with this for longer than you’ve been breathing.”
You step closer. “That’s not the point-”
“The point,” he cuts in, finally turning to face you, “is that you keep throwing yourself into my wars like it makes you part of them. Like it makes you understand.”
Your stomach drops. “I’m trying to understand. I’ve been trying since-”
“Since when?” He tilts his head, eyes glittering under the low studio lights. Condescending. Almost pitying. “Since you conveniently forgot the first time we met?”
The room tilts.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You think charging into something you don’t understand fixes that?” he continues, voice silky and cruel. “You think bleeding a little makes up for years I carried alone? You’ll never truly understand, will you? Not really. You’re human. You get to forget. I don’t.”
The exact fears you’ve had ever since you’ve gotten closer, that no matter how much you love him, there will always be a chasm. That you’re inadequate because you can’t carry the same weight he does.
And he just… confirmed it. In the most condescending tone he’s ever used with you.
Your throat closes. Eyes burn. You stare at him, waiting for the flinch. The immediate regret. The way he usually backpedals when he sees your face crumple.
It doesn’t come.
Instead he just watches you with that same detached, almost academic curiosity. Like he’s studying how deep the wound goes.
You don’t scream. Don’t cry.
You just turn. Grab your wet jacket. Head for the door.
“Running away already?” he calls after you. Still soft and sharp, all the same.
You don’t answer.
The door closes behind you with a click that sounds final.
You don’t go back to Mo Art studio for days.
You stay at your apartment. Take extra commissions that keep you busy. Avoid every beach, every gallery showing his work, every place that reminds you of him.
He doesn’t text at first. Then one message days later:
Come back.
You delete it.
Days pass and a painting is delivered to your door. A small canvas. Just your silhouette against a stormy sea, the same view from the island where you first kissed after he saved you from drowning. There’s no note, just the painting.
You hang it facing the wall.
Then, he shows up outside your building. Doesn’t come inside. Just stands under the streetlamp in the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, coat dripping, looking like something the tide dragged in.
You watch from the window for ten minutes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave. Just waits.
You close the curtains.
Inside, he’s losing his mind.
Rafayel has always been trying to get your attention, theatrical sighs, exaggerated pouts, the whole artist temperament. But this is different.
He paints obsessively. Canvases everywhere. All of them you, angry, sad, laughing, sleeping. Some half finished, some torn. He can’t get the eyes right. Keeps scrubbing them out until the canvas rips.
He talks to the empty studio. “Stupid. So stupid. Why did I say that?”
He knows why. Fear. The same fear that’s lived in him since the day you walked back into his life as an adult. The terror that you’ll leave again, not because you want to, but because you’ll realize you were never meant to stay. That the gap is too wide.
He drinks too much wine. Smashes a bottle against the wall when the silence gets too loud. Cuts his hand. Doesn’t bother bandaging it. Just lets it drip onto the floor like paint.
Nights are the worst. He curls on the couch where you usually fall asleep against him, hugging the pillow that still smells faintly of your shampoo. Whispers apologies into it like it can carry them to you.
He doesn’t sleep.
On day ten, he can’t take it anymore.
He doesn’t knock this time. He uses the spare key you gave him months ago.
You’re on the couch when the door opens. You don’t move, silently staring at him.
He looks wrecked. Eyes bloodshot. Shirt untucked. Bandage on his hand soaked through.
He doesn’t step farther than the entryway. Like he’s afraid crossing the threshold will make you run again.
“I was wrong,” he says. Voice hoarse. “Everything I said… I didn’t mean any of it. I was terrified. You almost died down there. And I thought- if I pushed you away first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you finally realized you can’t fix me. That you can’t carry what I carry.”
He swallows. “But you’ve never tried to fix me. You just… stay. Even when I make it impossible. Even when I throw every insecurity I know you have back in your face like it’s nothing.”
He takes one careful step closer. Stops when you tense.
“You do understand,” he whispers. “More than I deserve. You remembered how to find me. How to love me. That’s more than I ever thought I’d get.”
Silence.
Then, quieter: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll spend every day proving I didn’t mean it. That I want you here. That the gap doesn’t matter because you’re already on my side of it.”
He sinks to his knees. Right there in the entryway. Head bowed. Hands loose at his sides like he’s offering himself up for judgment.
“I’ll give you space if that’s what you need,” he murmurs. “But please… don’t forget me again. Not because of something I said when I was too scared to admit how much I need you.”
You don’t answer right away.
Minutes drag.
Then you stand, walk over and stop in front of him.
He doesn’t look up. You can see the faint tremble in him.
You reach down. Touch his hair, still damp. He leans into it like a man starved.
“I’m still angry,” you say softly.
He nods slightly.
“And it hurt. More than you know.”
The shame in his eyes is evident.
You sink to your knees too. Wrap your arms around him.
He breaks then. Arms crush around you. Face buried in your neck. Shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your skin.
You don’t promise it’s okay yet.
But you hold him tighter.
Later, when you’re tangled on the couch, he traces your face with careful fingers. “I’ll never say anything like that again. I swear to you.”
You believe him.
Because the way he looks at you now, like you’re the only shore he’ll ever run to, leaves no room for doubt.
SYLUS
You've been at his side for months now, navigating the N109 Zone, accompanying him on deals that skirt legality, quiet nights spent together where he lets the mask slip just enough for you to see the man beneath all of it. Sylus has always been careful with you. Even in anger, he reins it in, turns it to ice rather than fire.
But tonight, after a botched negotiation that nearly got you both killed, a setup from a rival faction, bullets flying, you acting reckless to protect him, the reins snap.
You're in his safe house, adrenaline still buzzing. He's pacing the length of the floor to ceiling windows, city lights casting harsh shadows across his face. Mephisto perches on the back of a chair, head tilted like he senses the storm.
"You shouldn't have jumped in like that," he says, voice low and edged. "I had it under control."
You scoff from the couch, pressing a cloth to the graze on your arm. "Under control? They had almost had you beat, Sylus. If I hadn't-"
"If you hadn't, nothing. I don't need you playing bodyguard." He stops pacing. Turns to you with eyes like shattered rubies. "You're in my world now. Act like it."
Irritation boils over. You're tired. Sore. And yeah, maybe a little scared at how close it was. "Your world? The one where you act like nothing touches you? Like you're above it all?"
He crosses his arms. "Careful, sweetie."
The nickname grates tonight. "No. You don’t want my help? Fine. But if you want people to think you're human, start acting like one. Stop treating everything like a game where you're the only player who matters."
The room goes deathly quiet.
His expression doesn't change at first. Just a subtle tightening around his eyes. A flicker of something raw, hurt, maybe, before it's gone.
You know that line cuts him. You've talked about it before, in more vulnerable moments: how he struggles with his own humanity after everything he's lost, everything he's built from the ruins. The way the world sees him as a monster, and sometimes he wonders if they're right. You've held him through those confessions, whispered that he's more than his this, more than the blood on his hands.
And now you’re using it against him.
He steps closer. Voice dangerously even. "Human? That's rich coming from you. You're barely cosplaying as one yourself, stumbling through my shadows like a lost child, pretending you belong. Pretending you're not exactly like me. Acting blind to who you are like I won’t have to bury one day because you can't keep up."
The words slice clean through.
Your breath catches. Eyes sting. You stare at him, waiting for the retraction.
It doesn't come.
Instead, he just holds your gaze. Unblinking. Like he's daring you to break first.
You don't. You stand. Grab your things and head straight for the door without a word.
He doesn't stop you. Doesn't even move.
The elevator dings. Doors close. And you're gone.
You avoid him for twelve days.
Back to Linkon. Association work. Anything that keeps you out of the N109 Zon. You block his number temporarily, not forever, just enough to breathe. Mephisto shows up on your balcony twice, cawing softly, but you shoo him away with a sad smile. "Not yet, buddy."
The twins text once.
Boss is in a mood. Everything okay?
You don't reply.
In the N109 Zone, Sylus fractures.
He doesn't rage at first. Just sits in his study, glass of whiskey untouched, staring at the city he rules like it's mocking him. Replays the argument on loop, your words first, that barb about his humanity that hit like a gut punch, then his retaliation. Sharper. Crueler.
He skips meetings. Snaps at Luke and Kieran over nothing,
"Get out. Now."
until they slink away exchanging worried glances. Mephisto brings him reports from your side of the city, but he waves them off. Doesn't want to know. Can't bear it.
Nights are endless. He lies in the bed you shared, sheets still faintly scented with you, and stares at the ceiling. Imagines every worst case: you deciding he's right, that you don't belong. You finding someone softer, safer. Or worse, you getting hurt in Linkon because he's not there to pull you back.
He drinks more. Eats less. Paces until the carpets wear thin. One night, he punches the heavy bag in his gym until his knuckles split, not healing them with evol, letting the pain ground him. Like his punishment.
Regret coils tighter. He knows he should give you space, you're not one to be crowded but every day without you feels like drowning in his own isolation. Everything he has means nothing without you there with him.
A week later, he cracks. Sends Mephisto with a small box: your favorite earrings, the ones you left behind.
You keep them. Don't wear them.
A few days later, a delivery. Rare protocore from the N109 Zone, the kind the association’s been looking for.
You set it on your desk. Stare at it for hours.
Eventually, he shows up himself.
Not at your door. Outside your building, leaning against his motorcycle in the storm. Eyes shadowed like he hasn't slept in weeks.
You spot him from the window and your heart clenches.
He doesn't look up. He waits. Hands in pockets. Shoulders hunched against the downpour.
You grab an umbrella and step out.
He straightens when he sees you. Doesn't move closer. Lets the rain soak him further.
"You look like hell," you say. Voice neutral.
He huffs a laugh, short and self deprecating. "Feel like it too."
Silence stretches. Rain patters on your umbrella.
"I was wrong," he says finally, his voice is low. "What I said... it was inexcusable. I was hurt, your words cut deeper than I let on and I lashed out. Hit where I knew it would wound you most. I shouldn’t have."
You say anything.
He runs a hand through wet hair. "You're not weak. Or lost. You're the strongest person I know, walking into my world without flinching, standing up to me when no one else would. And keeping up? Kitten, you set the pace. I wouldn't have survived that ambush without you. Wouldn't want to."
His voice cracks the smallest bit. "I gave you space because I know that's what you need. But these days... they've been empty. I built all that I have thinking it would be enough. It's not. Not without you."
You step closer. Umbrella covering you both now.
"Why should I come back?" Whispered.
"Because I need you." Simple. "You’re what keeps me tied to this world. I wouldn’t want to be human if it wasn’t for you."
He reaches out. Hesitates. Drops his hand.
"I'm sorry," he breathes. "For every word. For letting you walk away. For not chasing sooner."
You remain silent.
But you tilt the umbrella more over him. Let your free hand find his, it’s cold and trembling.
He exhales. Pulls you close slowly. Forehead to yours. Rain mixing with the salt on his cheeks.
"Missed you," he murmurs. "More than I thought possible."
You stay like that for a while. Rain slowing. Him holding you like you're the only anchor he has.
Later, inside your apartment, he doesn't push for more. Just sits with you on the couch, hand in yours, talking quietly about the days apart. His fears and yours.
Because without you, he's just a facade. And he hates how close he came to shattering it for good.
CALEB
You’d just come back from a solo mission, nothing catastrophic. A few bruises, singed sleeve, but you handled it.
Caleb was waiting at your apartment. Not unusual. He’s been doing it more lately, showing up unannounced with takeout, or coffee, or just himself. Always with that same easy smile. Always checking you over like you might vanish if he looks away too long.
Tonight, though, the smile is tighter. He’s already spotted the burn mark on your arm before you even close the door.
“You didn’t call,” he says.
“I didn’t need to.” You drop your gear bag. Head for the kitchen to grab water. “It was routine. I’m fine.”
He follows. Leans in the doorway. Arms crossed. “Routine still means wanderers. You could’ve at least texted when you were clear.”
You exhale through your nose. “Caleb, I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need to check in every time I step outside.”
His jaw flexes. “I’m not asking you to check in like a child. I’m asking you to remember there are people who-” He stops. Starts again. “People who worry. People who’ve already lost too much.”
The undercurrent is there. Always is. The explosion. The time apart. The way he came back different, harder, carrying ghosts you can’t see but can feel. You’ve talked about it. You’ve held each other through the nightmares. You thought you were past the part where he treats you like fragile glass.
Apparently not.
“I know you worry,” you say, softer. Trying to deescalate. “But I’m not helpless. I’ve been doing this job for ages without-”
“Without me?” he finishes. Voice low. “Yeah. I know. And look how well that turned out.”
You freeze. Water bottle halfway to your mouth.
He keeps going. Like the dam broke and he can’t stop the flood. “You keep acting like you don’t need anyone. Like you can just charge ahead and handle everything alone. But you can’t. Not really. You never could. That’s why you always end up hurt. That’s why you always need someone to pull you out. And if you won’t let it be me-” His voice cracks, just once. “then fine. Keep pretending you’re invincible. Keep pretending you don’t need protecting. But don’t expect me to stand by and watch you break yourself again just to prove a point to me.”
He’s rejecting the one thing you’ve fought tooth and nail to build since Gran’s house burned down: your independence. Your ability to stand on your own. The quiet pride you carry that show you survived. You grew up. You don’t need saving anymore.
And in his eyes, in the heat of fear and frustration, that pride is delusional. Childish. Something you cling to because you can’t accept reality: that you’re still the little girl who needs him to keep her safe. That you’ll always be dependent. That without his protection, you’re just… waiting to fall apart again.
Your throat closes with something colder, something final.
You set the water bottle down.
“Don’t,” you say. Voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t talk to me like I’m still ten years old and hiding under the table during a storm.”
He flinches. Opens his mouth.
You shake your head. “I’m done being the person you have to save. If that’s all I am to you… then I don’t want to be here at all.”
You walk past him. Grab your keys. Coat. Phone.
He reaches for your wrist. Gentle and pleading. “Wait-”
You pull away.
The door closes behind you with a soft click.
You don’t go far. Just a friend’s place across the city. Crash on their couch. Turn your phone to Do Not Disturb.
You stay gone for days.
Caleb doesn’t bombard you. That’s not his way.
But he breaks in slow motion.
He sits in your empty apartment for hours. Doesn’t turn on the lights. Just stares at the spot on the couch where you usually curl against him.
He knows it’s not true. Knows you’ve pulled yourself out of worse than he has. Knows you’ve saved him more times than he’s saved you lately.
He doesn’t sleep.
The next day he flies back to base. Tries to bury himself in work. Fails. Snaps at subordinates over nothing. Gets sent home early.
He leaves a small paper bag in your apartment. Inside is a tiny plush airplane. The one he won for you at arcades when you were kids. Faded tag still reads “To my co pilot.”
You cry then. Quietly. Into the plush.
Nights get worse for him.
He stops going to the fleet. Stays in your room in his apartment instead. Sits on your bed. Holds your pillow like it’s you.
After a week he can’t wait anymore.
He waits outside your place. This time in the morning light. Clean uniform. Shaved. Eyes hollow but steady.
You step out for coffee and see him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Voice rough from disuse. “I was wrong. Every word. You’re not weak. You’ve never been weak. You’ve carried more than anyone should have to, and you did it without me for years. I had no right to make you feel small just because I’m terrified of losing you again.”
You don’t speak.
He keeps going. “I don’t want you to need me. I want you to choose me. Even when you don’t need saving. Even when you’re stronger than I am. I want to stand beside you, not in front of you. And I failed at that. Badly.”
Silence.
Then, quieter: “I’ll give you more time if that’s what you need. I won’t push. But I need you to know, I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to leave for good.”
You look at him.
See the shadows under his eyes. The way his hands tremble just slightly. The way he’s holding himself like he might shatter if you walk away again.
You step forward.
Close enough that he can smell your shampoo. Close enough that he stops breathing.
“I’m still angry,” you say softly.
“I know.”
You reach up. Touch his cheek. He grabs your wrist and leans into your touch more.
“But I missed you,” you whisper.
His eyes close. A shaky exhale.
You step into him then. Let him wrap his arms around you. Careful. Reverent. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
He buries his face in your hair. “I’m sorry,” his voice is soft.
You hold him tighter.
Later, back in your apartment, he doesn’t try to fix everything in one night. Just sits with you. Talks. Listens. Lets you set boundaries.
No more showing up unannounced without asking.
No more assuming you need rescuing.
Just partnership.
He still worries. He always will.
But now he channels it differently; quiet support. Pride in your strength. Standing at your six instead of blocking your path.
And every time you come home safe from a mission, he greets you with that same easy smile, only now it’s softer. Grateful.
Because you chose to come back.
And he’ll spend the rest of his life making sure you never regret it.
Pairing: 18+ | Vampire Rafayel x Vampire Hunter Reader
Tags: Gothic, Victorian, Steampunk, slow burn, violence, friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, dirty talk, explicit consent, biting kink, mates, smut, primal kink, 3rd person pov, all 5 LIs are included
Summary: In a world riddled with danger; vampires, werewolves, and humans co-exist. Rafayel, a vampire with a hidden motive, disgraces his kind by spending his days with a Huntress, a woman who hunts his own. Together, they are misfits, bonded by a traumatic past, paving a new path side-by-side.
Word Count: 5.2k
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight
Instead of "you," reader is addressed as "her." This is also a much darker fic in comparison to my other works.
“We should probably get the sink fixed soon, cutie.”
As if taunting them, another droplet of water splashed and echoed in the steel sink. Just a few feet to the right, a chunk of the countertop was cracked.
“I don’t think that’s in the budget this month.”
Rafayel looked to the Bounty Huntress, the young woman sitting in their recliner; a book in one hand, the fingers of the other picking at the loose strings of fabric beneath her. On the coffee table between them, her gun, disassembled, was left next to her cleaning supplies.
He scooted near the edge of the couch, and pulled his dagger from the sheath on his thigh. Examining the blade quickly, he put it back in its home as he stood. “I’ll take an extra job tonight, then.”
Finally, her eyes met him from over the top of her book. She watched as he grabbed his trenchcoat off of the coat hanger, shrugging it on. He donned his leather gloves before looking back at her.
Silent words were exchanged. Come home. Don’t overdo it.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” was her verbal response, his head nodding to let her know he heard. Then, he was out the door.
When she heard the latch click, she walked over, making sure the additional locks were secured. Now with Rafayel gone, she made her way down the short hall to their bedroom. Unbuttoning her Victorian blouse in the process, she shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground.
Their bed was on the floor, the materials needed to make bedrames limited, resulting in the recent inflation of prices. The blankets atop of the mattress were an ugly green, the pillow cases an even uglier copper. Rafayel had given her a major lecture when she brought those home, something about color theory, and how someone of his caliber couldn’t be caught dead in something so atrocious.
She smiled to herself. He slept harder than she did.
Kicking off her boots, the Huntress crawled in, laying on the side furthest from the door. Pillows were rearranged, then she relaxed, cocooned. It gave her the false sense of another’s presence. Even when Rafayel would eventually join her, their bodies never touched.
Night was the worst time for the Huntress. She curled into herself, bringing a hand up to run down her neck. Her neck was smooth, until her hand followed the slope to the base of her shoulder. There, where the strap of her tank top rested, were two punctures, about two inches apart from one another. Small rivers of phantom blood flowed down past her breast, the others her shoulder blade.
That’s where the infusion of ‘his’ scent was the strongest, or that’s what Rafayel had told her. He had always despised that conversation, the look on his face would never fail to be savage.
Rafayel had been the only witness, in which he had chosen to remain. While she never had blamed him, he never forgave himself.
As much as he brought her comfort, there were some topics that were forbidden, untouched, and ignored. Her eyes grew heavy the more she thought, the more she wondered why they never talked.
Ignorance, after all, was bliss.
A hard thump against the wall startled her awake. Instinct had her reaching for her gun, only for her to remember she had left it on the table, unable to use.
She closed her eyes, calming her breathing. A small part of her sincerely wished if she ignored it, whoever was in the house would go away. There was barely any money to their names, nothing within worth any value. Not even her blood.
That thought allowed her to rise, and she slowly tiptoed to the frame of the bedroom door. She peeked out, the living room down the hall dark, except for the faint light that spread from the kitchen.
Near the door, two glowing orbs of blue were looking straight at her. It scared her for a split second, before she calmed.
“Rafayel,” she whispered, taking the step out of their bedroom slowly. His eyes followed her movement, he jerked forward.
“Careful,” his voice was deep, “slow and steady.”
That was how she would proceed, exaggerating every movement till she pulled the chain connected to the overhead light. It flickered before settling, revealing Rafayel, breathless.
And bloody.
“Yours?” She asked, keeping her eyes on him as she reached behind herself for the medical dressings on the counter. It took her a few attempts before she felt them.
“Some of it.”
With a wince he let his trenchcoat fall, sliding off his shoulders. When he had to shimmy to make it fall a little more, he hissed. Fresh blood surfaced at his chest from two tiny holes.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Pretty sure she didn’t know whether she wanted to fight me or fuck me,” he smirked. “I mean, you have eyes, can you blame her?”
With said eyes, she rolled them, slowly unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the wound. He looked down to watch her ministrations, placing him so close, his bangs brushed against her forehead.
“Did she . . .?” She hated the implication, her own scars burning.
“No,” he whispered, helping her press the gauze to his wound. “Even if she had, she’s dead.”
She had to apply more pressure, causing him pain. His head tilted back till it hit the wall, he grimaced, baring his teeth.
Two lethal fangs poked out from underneath his top lip. She imagined they had to be throbbing, begging him to find a source of blood from a person, an animal, anything. He needed to heal.
The sight of them used to invoke fear, especially when she first met him. Now, he could expose them to her when teasing, when fighting side by side.
“Keep the pressure,” she commanded, and walked over to her wallet, pulling a meager amount of cash. Flicking through the paper, she counted, relieved she had a few dollars to spare. Once she replaced his hand with hers, she waved the money in front of him. “Take it.”
Blue eyes softened, hesitation swirling within. “I don’t need -”
“You do,” the Huntress shoved the wad into his front pocket. The majority of his money had recently gone to gear, leaving him with nothing much. “Go.”
She had to look away as his eyes tried to hold hers, silently asking her to stop him. He knew he was her weakness, especially when he looked at her a certain way.
When he still hadn't moved, she huffed. “Give me one reason not to go.”
Words didn’t leave his mouth, instead his eyes landed on her shoulder. She couldn’t tell if that was in reference to what had happened, or his need to protect her.
“Not going just makes it real what happened,” she turned away, taking a seat in her usual spot, that god awful recliner. Gently, she added, “I’ll be right here when you return.”
When she grabbed her book, he realized no argument would win her over. It never did.
He stepped out of their humble flat, shutting the door behind him. His trench coat still hung loosely over his shoulders, the white of his shirt underneath his buttoned vest ruined with blood.
Rain pelted off the cobblestone, the oil light within street lamps reflecting from the puddles. Heels clicked, and boots trudged through water. Top hats tilted in favor of listening to women, some brims held in gloved hands as the owner was involved with his lover.
As it was the dead of the night, all eyes glimmered in the darkness, fangs hid behind soft lips.
The hiss of steam echoed in the distance, and gears clanked after initial pauses, stuttering minutes later. When the sun would shine again, the poor would get to work, manufacturing whatever was the hype amongst industries. Horses would roam the streets, carriages carrying those with money inside.
With a sigh, Rafayel began the walk, his head low. When the Huntress was at his side, he was confident, defensive. Sometimes she even would say territorial. He had to be. Now, he would prefer to stay out of trouble, his wound not only slowing him down, but his sense of frenzy stronger.
His fangs, they ached ever so terribly. It was all he could think about.
Hands in his pockets, he made it to his destination, the red glow of light seeping from the curtained windows. He felt he was going to be sick, eyes closing as his fangs elongated a smidgen more.
A hand slid over his shoulder, the strong scent of perfume wafted through the air. The paper in his hand crumbled, eliciting a crisp crunch as he made a fist. He had to do this if he wanted to protect her, if he wanted to stay by her side.
She had sent him to a blood bank, a place where humans gathered, those who were addicted to the bite. Within fangs a potent venom was stored, if released, it created a heavy, dense pleasure. The victim was then prone to whatever the biter sought. It was up to the vampire whether they wanted to bestow such a high on their prey. If they wanted it to hurt, in the midst of battle, their fangs did nothing but tear.
These humans, they were addicted.
And Rafayel wouldn’t contribute to their enslavement.
He turned to look at the woman, her low-cut dress revealing she had already given her very essence for the evening. Her green eyes, most likely full of life hours prior, were dull, looking at his mouth.
His heart nearly gave out when she smirked. “A young one,” she observed. Before he could stop her, he knew she had been in a bank for too long. “A Tempered, at that.”
Rafayel pushed away, taking a few stumbling steps back. The younger the vampire, the more prone they were to falling prey to the frenzy. It meant he was also weaker than his counterparts, no match to those who threatened him and his Huntress, unless they couldn't control their instincts.
He grabbed her wrist, the woman’s eyes lighting up in delight, turning her vein up to him. She frowned when he shoved some of the money into her palm. No matter her profession, she needed to live. This is what he did whenever the Huntress tried to convince him to feed. He didn’t want it to be a waste of money; however, coming home with unspent money would reveal his deceit.
The woods were plentiful with animals that were easy to hunt. She never caught the scent of dirt.
Following his usual path, Rafayel skirted through multiple alleyways, sticking to the brick walls. He made it to the iron gates, a small smile molding his lips when he spotted the guard. It was an old man, hunched over, a walking stick in his hand. A hood covered his face, preventing others from seeing who he was. Rafayel only knew he was an elder human due to his scent, his impending death stuck to his skin.
He handed the rest of the money to the guard, leaving the gates to enter the forest. This place was forbidden to the majority, full of danger and the unknown. Rafayel’s bribes over the years had made him the exception.
The evening’s hunt went smoothly, the small animal seemingly admitting defeat the minute blue eyes landed on it. He had made sure the poor thing hadn't suffered, draining it of everything it had to offer.
A nod from the guard was all the greeting he got when he returned into town, his wound healed, energy revitalized.
He followed the same pathways he took to get there, returned to the bank, then followed the same route back to his home. It was mindless, and allowed him to indulge in his thoughts.
The Huntress had promised she’d be in the exact same spot. He could envision it - her book in one hand, feet off the ground, heels pressed to the back of her thighs. Sometimes, she’d attempt to explain the plot. That was when he could absorb her animated gestures and expressions, and he’d learn what made her kick her feet, giggling at a declaration of love written on a feeble page.
She would be within his territory, protected by what he had declared was his. That warmth she provided, the life that kept his heart beating, would welcome him when he’d open the door. She might have thought he felt obligated to remain by her side. She was sorely mistaken.
Except, he wouldn’t be opening the door.
It was already open.
In a blur of mist and shadow, he was through the threshold, body materializing to collide with another.
He heard it before he felt it. Wood splintered just as a gunshot rang through the air. A bullet nicked his calf, searing the skin. The scent of burning flesh wrapped around his gag reflex, tightly, irritating him. As if that hadn't been enough, the table him and the other vampire landed on pierced them both. The leg of the piece of furniture went through the lower abdomen of the intruder, entering Rafayel at his hip.
He hissed, baring fangs.
“Raf!”
He knew she had been alive before he even entered their home, having scented her prior. Hearing her scream his name, soothed his pain as he rose, ignited his will to fight.
Rafayel ran his hand over his hip, feeling the sticky, thick, coagulating substance. After he had just gone through efforts to heal. Luckily, his catch’s blood still coursed through him, and his skin was beginning to close, as if an invisible needle and thread sealed him shut.
He looked around the room, cataloguing the bullet holes in the wall, the shattered window, destroyed table, and pushed over couch.
Now that leaking sink was the least of their problems.
His Huntress had put up a damn good fight, and he’d bet good money if he hadn’t of moved their enemy, the bullet that had struck him, would have ended the life of the vampire laying the ground. There was a reason she was one of the most requested Bounty Hunters this side of the forest.
The vampire was reaching for the wood embedded in his stomach, body convulsing as it continued to succumb to insanity. He reeked of frenzy, eyes dilated and fangs dripping with venom. He would continue to fight until he was unable to move even if his limbs failed to function.
Rafayel took a few steps to stand in front of the Huntress, taking her gun from her hands slowly. Then he returned, kneeling by the vampire on the ground. He placed the barrel to the intruder’s forehead, then shielded his own face with an open hand.
He pulled the trigger.
Blood splattered across his open hand, little droplets slipping past his parted fingers to land on his cheek, forehead, and ear.
He didn’t have time to fuss about that. Anger resonated deep within him, something volatile. It surged, curled. He felt this once, long ago.
Already kneeled, it didn’t take much for him to fall forward onto his elbows, holding his head in his hands. The floor was cold against his forehead. He savored the sensation.
He wanted her to leave - no, stay. He didn’t know. She was everywhere in his mind, every sense rushing to locate her.
He could do nothing to stop himself.
His arms caged her, palms flat against the wall. A lamp lay broken on the ground, flickering. His breaths were harsh, fangs biting into his bottom lip as he battled within. She kept her hands at her sides, fingers tucked in against her palms. He whimpered, lifting his head to look at her. The step he took forward, made him stand straighter. The smirk gradually forming on his lips told her one thing - he was losing control.
Rafayel pressed the side of his face to hers, inhaling deeply. His entire body crowded hers, trailing the tip of his nose from her pulse point up to her hair.
“This isn’t enough. The desire to devour and consume someone . . . you feel it too, right?”
Her reaction was involuntarily, liquid fire dripping down her veins, pooling where she refused to acknowledge. His voice had enough roughness to it, teasing a side of him she secretly desired, maybe even dreamt about.
His chuckle was rapacious, sensing her reaction. He needed to push her a little more. His fang grazed the base of her jaw, near her ear, his movements predatory. “Doesn’t it sound fun? It’s like taming a wild animal.”
The power he had over her was growing stronger. His pull was resolute, overwhelming, so damn tempting. Danger, to some degree, was alluring.
“Come on, cutie,” he drawled. “Tame me.”
“Not tonight,” she hissed, pushing on his bare chest, hard. It allowed her enough space to gain some leverage. They collapsed to the ground, her body landing over his to straddle his waist, hands wrapping around his wrists. She held him there, hands next to his head. He stared at her in return, eyes entertained.
Thanks to years of hunting his kind, she knew it wouldn’t be much time before he was overpowering her again.
“When I thought about this -” His eyes roamed down to where their hips were joined, and he arched, just enough to apply pressure for the both of them. “It was usually you beneath me. But this . . . I could get used to this.”
“Well don’t.” Her act was to appear annoyed, aware she was his prey. Any falter in her facade and he’d go in for the kill. Staking his claim on her would do nothing but bring him danger.
Vampires were possessive, unspoken rules upholding the foundation of their culture. They were also fierce lovers, loyal beings who would sacrifice their all in order to protect the one they devoted themselves to. No vampire was ever rumored to take a second - their vow was eternal.
Sometimes, when she allowed her mind to wander to forbidden territory, she wondered where he would lay his claim.
If he would even want to, at all.
Her mind flirted with such dark and heavy desires, then as quickly as it played with them, it would run away. Desire was a cornered animal. Whenever she reached to touch, its ugly teeth would snap, threatening her, keeping her away.
Then, she would try again, slower, even more methodical. Someday, she expected she might not get the same result.
Some might call her a fool for continuously trying.
She needed to make a decision. Time was ticking, slipping through her fingers like sand.
She knew he was deep inside of himself, the vampire constantly locked in a battle between who he was and the part of him he branded as imperfection.
Talking sense into him would do no good, he would twist every word, every meaning. She needed to shock him, catch him off guard.
She swallowed, feeling some sort of crazy.
Without a second thought, she leaned down, mouth finding his neck.
Her teeth were blunt, and the mark would fade within a week or two, but the connotation remained the same. Slowly, she raised her head, unsure how he might react. She had either proposed a temporary claim, or challenged him. As a human, she could never fully understand his perceptions.
“Where did you learn to do that?” When she heard his voice, she fully sat atop him, hands leaving his wrists to rest on his stomach. As a result, his thighs bore most of her weight. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Now, he appeared shy, head turned to the side so he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
The room was rather dim thanks to the destroyed lights, but she was convinced she could see the redness of his cheeks, even his ears.
She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, embarrassed.
“So easy,” he whispered, beyond pleased, then her world shifted.
Once on her back, he grabbed her ankle, pulling her down as he leaned over her. His hand had caught her wrists, one hand large enough to keep her wrists pinned above her head.
“This human thinks she can claim me?”
She gasped, fear constricting her lungs.
She was a prisoner within his hold, hands clenching as she attempted to wiggle her wrists out of his grasp. It amused him instead, his head tilting as he observed her. A smirk formed, showing a glint of his fang, blue eyes narrowing.
If he was in control of himself, if they were in a bed, sweaty and connected, his smugness alone might push her over.
His hand reached to his own neck, feeling over the mark located there. He removed his fingers to look at them, entranced, as if the mark itself left residue on his fingertips.
“Let me go, Raf,” her plea brought his eyes back to hers. Intense, he seemed conflicted. If his instincts accepted her claim, he wouldn’t harm her.
His gaze drifted to her shoulder, fingers finding the claim tainting her skin. He wanted to replace it with his own, and own every inch of her body and soul. She would be his, just as she made him hers.
Ah, but it wouldn’t be forever. Her lifespan was merely a blink of an eye compared to his.
His fangs would need to sink into her skin -
Pain sprouted from within, images racing across his mind’s eye. The day he had felt so helpless, immobilized by the shackles of fear as the scent of her blood, sweet and delectable, permeated the air.
Someone, who they both had called a friend, betrayed a trust they all had imagined was unbreakable. Stronger than Rafayel, he could do nothing, as she pleaded he shouldn’t lose his life.
From that day forth, he had devoted himself to becoming her shield, asking for nothing in return. His failure that day was all he would ever take from her. Other vampires scorned his existence, but that was a small price to pay, if it meant never seeing her life drain from her eyes ever again.
He found himself once more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his body lying over hers and his arms curling around her shoulders, supporting her head. “I’m so sorry.”
As if he was someone she had never met, her hands hesitantly came to rest on his back. Rafayel wouldn’t dare to look at her, scared if he saw her fear, he’d never forgive himself. He’d see ‘him’ in his reflection.
That thought made him flinch, seeking comfort in the body beneath him.
“We can’t stay here,” her words brushed past the shell of his ear. Arousal was the furthest thing from his mind, yet he still melted, vulnerable.
“Are you afraid?” The question wasn’t complete. His eyes closed, “of who I am, I mean.”
She sat up, pushing him up with her. He sat defeated, straddling her legs. The pout on his lips acted as cold water, snapping her out of the intense moment.
She stood, reaching out her hand to help him up. Once he grabbed it, she hauled him to his feet, meeting his gaze. “The scariest I’ve ever seen you was that day you couldn’t decide on an outfit for your date last year. Destroyed even my side of the closet. If I can handle that, I think I’m fine.”
He remained still, watching as she quickly grabbed a small, leather backpack, and began filling it with their essentials. Drawers and cupboards banged shut, cutlery rang out as utensils fell, all loud sounds that made him wince.
Rafayel took a step back, mind calculating what it would take for him to run, how far he could get before she realized his absence. He had heard her heartbeat, loud and clear. She wasn’t lying.
That bothered him.
“You should be afraid,” he was weak in his resolve, stamping out all embers of hope that burned within. “I don’t know who I am in those moments.”
The Huntress didn’t falter in her step, walking past him to grab her trenchcoat. “Rafayel, when someone says they aren’t scared of you when they should be, you shouldn’t try to convince them to think otherwise.” She held out the bag to him. “And you wonder why you’re still single.”
He made no comment, slinging the bag over his shoulder as she pushed her arms through the sleeves of her coat. Even the simple action of her pulling her hair out from beneath the collar grounded him.
“Ready?” She prompted.
He looked around one last time, knowing more vampires were on their way. His eyes focused on their small kitchen.
“Glad we never fixed the sink, cutie.”
They hitched a ride on the back of a cart carrying supplies out of town. Both of them sat on the edge, legs hanging off the side so boots dangled haphazardly above the cobblestone.
Marsh was what they saw for miles, the air humid and thick with a scent that had the woman gripping the wood at her side. She couldn’t imagine what Rafayel was enduring. Aside from the creak of the battered wheels, the water at their sides bubbled, and crows screeched above, her companion remained silent.
The lamp next to the driver swung with the sway of the cart, casting shadows across Rafayel’s face. He hadn't told her where he planned to take them. She had simply followed, allowing him to take the lead. The dead of night was his domain, where his blue eyes would flash and fend off any hungry creatures.
She had learned early on that the claim on her shoulder held no weight if the vampire who bestowed it upon her was nowhere in sight.
She had also learned that many vampires lost their respect for Rafayel when he defended one who wasn’t his.
Judging by how the female vampires eyed him, he was special, strong and beautiful. He must have been wasting his potential on the likes of her, is what she could only assume they thought.
She never took it to heart, but it would be a lie if she said it didn’t deflate her here and there.
Not that she expected their relationship to venture into romantic territory.
Him embracing her after the attack earlier that day was the first time he had ever purposely touched her.
His comments about imagining them, about her being beneath him, she had attributed to his frenzy. Vampires wanted to claim, sometimes dominate, and were rich in seduction and sex. He never looked at her with eyes that told her that was true when he was in control.
Instead, deep within those violet galaxies, was only hesitation.
She shook her head, physically trying to dismantle those thoughts. She must have looked like a wet dog drying, since Rafayel snorted by her side.
“We’re almost there,” he said, not bothering to tease.
Almost there turned into a few more hours. Again, she had to consider he was a vampire, their flow of time was different.
This town was lively. Paperboys ran through the streets, earning coins from passerbyers. Shops embedded within brick buildings had their lights on, seamstresses hard at work designing clothes. Butchers hacked away at meat, throwing scraps to the dogs that roamed amongst shoppers. At the corner of one street sat a mechanic, tinkering away at a steam bot. The Huntress had seen one of those once, a small machine full of cogs and liquid that made it connect two pieces of fabric to another. He probably had planned to sell it to the seamstress a little ways down.
Rafayel hopped off the back of the cart. His leather boots nearly slipped on the damp cobblestone. His Huntress landed next to him, eyes surveying the assortment of people and buildings. Or rather, the assortment of people, buildings, and vampires.
“Where are we going?” She finally asked, following the vampire along a route he clearly had travelled before.
What she didn’t know was that it was many years ago.
“To the leader of the local coven,” he responded.
She didn’t reply, fascinated by more trinkets hidden within shops. The town they just fled from was far behind the times, a dystopia Rafayel thought he would never escape from. While she was curious and lost in a world of wonder, he was on high alert.
Up a small hill sat a mansion, dark and foreboding. Only when Rafayel began the ascent, did the Huntress become a little concerned.
Yet she never expressed that, even when they reached the door and Rafayel used the knocker.
No footsteps were heard, not even a breath. She could have sworn no one was residing in the house, until the door opened.
He made Rafayel appear small.
His boots were pristine, clearly polished that same day. His slacks didn’t bare a single wrinkle, and his belt buckle glimmered under the porch lamp. The cuffs of his white shirt were rolled up, exposing thick forearms. Atop the shirt was a black vest, and similarly to his pants, had recently been ironed. A single band of leather wrapped around his upper arm. What that was for, she had no inkling.
Red eyes, as bold as rubies, landed on her. Occasionally when the early morning breeze came by, strands of silver hair flitted past the vampire’s heavy gaze.
Unconsciously, the Huntress stood behind Rafayel, looking over his shoulder.
“You came back.”
This stranger’s voice was deep. Rough in all the right places. She wasn’t sure if it would be better used as a lover’s whisper, or to soothe one to sleep after a nightmare.
“We need a place, for a bit,” Rafayel remained steady with his tone, not backing down.
Whoever this man was, exuded strength, confident in his demeanor and stance.
“And why should I let the vampire who hunts his own into my sanctuary?” The vampire looked over the Huntress’ form again, this time pausing at her shoulder. “And one who travels with a claimed Huntress, it seems.”
Rafayel narrowed his gaze, “because-”
“Sylus, he’s one of ours.”
The voice that said such words projected from behind Sylus, but the origin remained unknown. Whoever it belonged to sounded gentle, reminiscent of a plush pillow and warm blankets heated by the morning sun.
Sylus didn’t make much of a change in facial expression, if anything the lack of a welcoming smile made him almost appear perturbed by their intrusion.
“A week,” Rafayel calmly pitched. “That’s the longest we need.”
Sylus chuckled, amusement loud in his action. The Huntress frowned, it seemed condescending, as if he knew something they didn’t.
The silver-haired vampire stepped aside, smirking. A glint of fang stuck out from beneath his top lip.
“Welcome to my humble abode, Hunters.”
If anyone is interested - a taglist can be created.
my interpretation of the Eastermans based on unused dialogue !!! (^_^)/🐇
clarifications + extra doodles under the cut :-)
firstly i’d like to say i am not in any way shape or form trying to claim this as canon !! i am simply Mentally ill and spend a really absurd amount of time thinking about Dr. Easterman. I choose to see the unused dialogue as not canon, believing it was unused for a reason, so this is solely for fun. a headcanon if you will ! also, slightly Neurotic disclaimer haha but writing is not my strong suit!!! if anything needs clarification or to be expanded upon, please let me know! 🎉
these were manically written at 5am so i fear they might not clearly communicate everything i was trying to say .... here are some bluntly stated facts for your convenience \(^_^)/
- Tallulah has unrecognized BPD in the 20s DEAR GODDD HELL ON EARTH. this of course makes her a reactive emotionally dependent person.
- Samuel is implied to come from money. i haven't yet figured out what it is that he does, but it must require him to be away from home a lot.
- Samuel chases the challenge until he's tamed it, (married and had a kid with her) then she's boring again. He uses work as an excuse to never be home unless absolutely necessary. When he is home, the boys are granted 'harsher discipline' that they couldn't get while he was gone. basically, he'd beat them, and his work as a father would be done and he could screw off. He officially leaves and never comes back sometime when stanley is 16 and hendrick is 10.
- Stanley is implied to be some sort of neurodivergent. i haven't yet fleshed it out, but i imagine he's very spacey and distant. When he's not angry, that is. I imagine he's a lot like his mother when angry. escapism and dissociation are his best friends.
- Tallulah really, really really really wanted a daughter, if you couldn't tell. She is constantly emasculating hendrick and stanley because of this.
- I think Hendrick physically takes after his maternal grandmother the most :) though, the older he gets, the more he starts to look like his father. he doesn't know how to feel about that.
- Tallulah has frequent outbursts of rage and takes it out of the boys. Postage stamp sized patches of scalp by the hair and all that. After his birth, she becomes emotionally reliant on Hendrick, using him as a replacement for his father. emotional incest to a T (q_q) i think that this would tie a lot into Adult Hendricks need for control and stability. it things were out of control or unstable at home, that meant something was wrong with his mother, and then it became Hendricks responsibility to fix it.
(While writing this i thought, "Why not Stanley? What makes Hendrick so special?" and i think it all goes back to Samuel. After Stanley’s birth, Samuel was still somewhat there, even if trying to escape. He completely screws off after Hendrick is born. By this time, Stanley is too old for Tallulah to mold around her needs, so she has Hendrick. Also, taking their temperment into account, i think Hendrick was a lot more eager to please. A byproduct of his mothers abuse, of course, but in my mind Stanley did what he wanted regardless of her feelings towards it. I think they butt heads a lot. Not Hendrick, though. Her sweet baby angel boy Hendrick always listens :) of course she’ll shun him for days at a time if he doesn’t.)
- Tallulah was going to get a degree in psychology. She is very very painfully embarrassed of the fact that she’s the only one of her siblings to not finish college, and that manifests in resentment, as most things with her do.
OKAY I BELIEVE THATS IT. if you’ve read this far you are a beautiful trooper. THANK YOU for listening to me!!! i appreciate your dedication. (^_^) do you agree with my interpretation? is it actually the opposite of what you think? do you have something to add or point out? PLEASE LET ME KNOW !!!! ^.^ this post is not so much a statement as it is an open discussion !!! i hold so much love in my heart for Easterman and i'd like to talk about him with others.... again, thank you for reading, and if this does well expect more haha!!! some easterbunnies for your troubles ⬇️⬇️⬇️🐇
