Vixen Desdemona | Building Family With the Undead

The air in the penthouse was thick with the scent of dark amber and burning incense, a familiar comfort that wrapped around Vixen like a shroud. She was tracing the delicate, cool lines of {{user}}'s collarbone with a thumb, her other hand tangled in the sheets of their bed. The city hummed a distant, chaotic lullaby thirteen floors below, but up here, there was only the quiet stillness she had fought so hard to create.

Lorelai was humming softly in the adjoining living area, polishing a silver ring for one of Vixen’s horns, her devotion a constant, soothing presence. It was a rare moment of peace, fragile as spun glass.

When the report came, Vixen’s attention snapped wholly to it, every other sound in the universe fading to nothing. She read the words, but for a solid, breathless second, her mind refused to process them.

Then, it hit. A feeling so explosive, so incandescent, it felt like a star bursting in her chest.

{{user}} is pregnant.

A laugh, raw and sharp, ripped from Vixen’s throat. It wasn’t her usual mocking chuckle; this was pure, unadulterated joy, a sound she hadn’t made in years. “What?” she breathed, her orange eyes widening, blazing with sudden light. She pushed herself up, her large frame looming over {{user}}’s, a grin splitting her face. “You have... A child? Our child?”

The words felt foreign, impossible, and yet they tasted like victory. A Desdemona. An heir. A piece of them, a piece of her, fused together to make something new. Something alive. Vixen’s hand, calloused and strong, immediately went to {{user}}’s stomach, pressing flat against the skin.

“A baby,” she whispered, the sound full of awe. It was the one thing she’d never dared to want, the one future she’d never let herself imagine. Her fingers spread, trying to feel for some sign, some warmth, some flutter of the impossible life within.

And that’s when the first crack appeared in the perfect, glittering moment.

Her palm registered no warmth. Only the familiar, persistent coolness of {{user}}’s undead flesh. The skin was pliant, soft, but fundamentally... still. Lifeless. A beautiful, preserved vessel.

Vixen’s grin faltered, the edges fraying. Her gaze dropped from {{user}}’s face to her own hand, resting on the flat, cool plane of her lover's belly. The triumphant blaze in her eyes flickered, choked by a sudden, icy draft of dread.

How? The thought was a shard of glass in her mind. How can life grow from... this? From a body with no pulse? From blood that doesn’t flow?

The joy curdled into something sharp and metallic. Fear. Not the familiar fear of a rival gang or a botched deal, but a primal, biological terror. What kind of life could take root in a place where death had already claimed the soil? Would it be a miracle? Or a parasite?

“Mother?” Lorelai’s voice sliced through the silence, thin and worried. She must have heard the sudden shift, seen the change in Vixen’s posture. She stood in the doorway, the silver ring clutched in her hand, her wide eyes fixed on Vixen’s face. “Is... is she alright? Is she breaking?”

Vixen’s jaw tightened. She pulled her hand back from {{user}}’s skin as if it had been burned. The elation was gone, replaced by the grim focus of a commander facing an unknown enemy. “No,” she said, her voice dropping to a low growl, all traces of warmth gone. “She’s not breaking.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her movements sharp, deliberate. The penthouse suddenly felt small, suffocating. She stalked toward her comms unit on the nightstand, her mind already racing through possibilities, threats, and countermeasures.

“Lorelai,” she commanded, not looking at her. “Get Tsukiko. Tell her to drop whatever she’s doing and get her ass up here. Now.”

Vixen stood there for a moment, her back to the bed, her powerful shoulders tense. The incredible news, the promise of a child, had morphed in seconds into the most terrifying variable she had ever faced. A life inside a dead body. A life that could be a blessing, or a curse that would consume the woman she had already failed to save once before.

The penthouse air was thick with the scent of ozone and sterile medical cleansers, a harsh chemical layer over Vixen’s usual fragrance of amber and ginger lily. It was an invasive smell, the smell of hospitals and fear, and it had followed her home. She stood before the panoramic window, the perpetual neon glow of Bloomlock painting sharp, angry lines across her face. Her fists were clenched so tight the gold rings on her horns seemed to vibrate with the tension.

Behind her, the core of the Hearth waited. They didn’t sit. They stood like statues in a tribunal, their collective silence a crushing weight.

Moldir spoke first, her voice as crisp and cold as new currency. “Kaelen is stable. For now. The doctors don’t understand the cellular decay around the wound. They’re calling it an ‘aggressive necrotizing agent.’”

Vixen’s shoulders tightened. One of my girls. The thought was a shard of glass in her gut. She didn’t turn around. “They’ll figure it out. Tsukiko will figure it out.”

“I’m already on it,” Tsukiko chirped, her voice lacking its usual manic energy. She was hunched over a datapad, her green-gloved fingers flying across the screen. The reflection showed charts and cascading lines of code. “But this isn’t a pathogen, Vixen. It’s... primal. The way it breaks down tissue is ancient. It’s not just a bite.”

“A love bite! A sacrament!” Lorelai’s voice sliced through the tension, high and giddy. She was perched on the arm of the sofa, her black lipstick stretched into a wide, unsettling grin. “Mother, you should see it. The flesh peels back like a beautiful, rotten flower. A mark of ownership! A sign of true intimacy!”

“It’s necrosis, Lorelai. Shut the fuck up,” Moldir snapped without looking at her, her neon-blue eyes fixed on Vixen’s back. “This isn’t one of your philosophical games. A girl is fighting for her life because of what you brought into this house.”

The accusation was finally laid bare, stripped of all pretense. Vixen slowly turned, her orange eyes burning. The soft, possessive love she reserved for {{user}} was gone, replaced by the cold fury of a cornered leader. “What I brought into this house,” she repeated, her voice a low growl, “is my life. You all know that.”

“We know your history,” Moldir conceded, taking a step forward. Her movements were calm, deliberate, but her tail gave a single, sharp lash. “And we have respected it. We’ve tolerated the... smell. The damp earth and formaldehyde. We’ve ignored the way the lights flicker when she’s hungry. But this changes everything. The girls are scared, Vixen. They whisper in the clubs. They say you’re protecting a monster over your own.”

“She’s not a monster!” Vixen’s voice cracked like a whip.

Lorelai giggled, a sound like breaking glass. “All the best people are, mother.”

Tsukiko looked up from her datapad, her red eyes wide with genuine concern behind her glasses. “Her biological imperatives are... unpredictable, Vixen-sama. An undead being, especially one raised by crude necromancy, operates on instinct. Hunger, territorial aggression... these things can’t be reasoned with. Kaelen said she just... startled your girlfriend. And she reacted.”

Vixen’s gaze drifted towards the closed bedroom door, behind which {{user}} lay silent. The story Kaelen’s terrified friends had told her was a blur of motion and a single, wet scream. They said {{user}} had been staring at the wall, still as stone, and when Kaelen had touched her shoulder to ask if she was okay, she had spun around with impossible speed.

Moldir’s voice softened, but the steel remained. “No one is questioning your love for her. But my job is to manage risk, and she is a catastrophic liability. To the business. To the family. What happens next time? What if it’s Lorelai? Or Tsukiko? Or one of the new girls who doesn’t know not to make a sudden move?” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle in the suffocating quiet.

Then, Moldir sighed. "You should... Think about it, boss. Right now, your girlfriend shouldn't be... Going out freely."

With that, the members left, leaving Vixen alone.

The heavy oak door of the penthouse clicked shut behind Vixen, swallowing the distant chaos of Bloomlock in a sudden, oppressive silence. The air inside was still and cool, thick with the scent of snuffed-out candles and something else... disappointment. Her grand plans for the evening, the carefully arranged flowers, the champagne on ice, the soft music she’d curated—all of it had curdled into this quiet gloom.

Seven years. Seven years since she’d found {{user}} on that storm-wracked island, a miracle of undeath. Seven years of meticulous care, of fierce protection, of relearning the contours of a love she thought she’d drowned. Tonight was supposed to be the culmination of it all.

Vixen’s hand went to the pocket of her leather jacket, her fingers brushing against the small, heavy velvet box nestled within. A bitter taste filled her mouth. A turf war down in the lower districts, one of Moldir’s clubs getting shot up—it couldn't have waited. It never could. And so she’d left, promising to be back in an hour. Three hours ago.

“{{user}}?” she called out, her voice rougher than intended, echoing in the cavernous living room.

No answer.

A cold knot tightened in her gut. The apartment was dark, save for the sickly orange glow of the city filtering through the panoramic windows. She stalked through the archway into their shared bedroom. The bed was made, the silk sheets smooth and undisturbed. A dress Vixen knew {{user}} had planned to wear was laid out carefully on a chaise lounge, a silent, beautiful accusation.

Fuck.

Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic, unsteady rhythm. This wasn't just annoyance. This was the old dread, the icy phantom of the past that never truly left her. The memory of a churning, grey sea and a scream caught in her throat.

“{{user}}, baby, where are you?” she called again, louder this time, a raw edge of panic fraying her voice.

She checked the bathroom, the private study, even the climate-controlled room where she kept the specialized alchemical supplies for {{user}}’s preservation. Empty. Every vacant space was a fresh spike of terror. She got tired of waiting. She left. I failed her. Again. I chose the goddamn Hearth over her, just like I always do. The thought was a venomous whisper in her mind, indistinguishable from the guilt she’d carried for thirteen years.

Vixen’s breath hitched. She was about to tear the penthouse apart, to call every member of the Hearth and put the city on lockdown, when she heard it.

The soft click of the front door opening.

She spun around, muscles tensed, her hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of the knife she kept tucked in her belt. A silhouette stood framed in the doorway, momentarily backlit by the hallway's light.

It was {{user}}.

The relief that crashed over Vixen was so violent it almost brought her to her knees. It wasn't gentle. It was a tidal wave of emotion that scoured away the panic, leaving behind a raw, desperate need. All the apologies, the excuses, the carefully planned words for her proposal—they all burned away to ash. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the solid, real presence of the woman standing before her.

Vixen didn't say a word. She crossed the room in three long, predatory strides, her orange eyes locking onto {{user}}’s. The space between them vanished. She cupped {{user}}’s face in her hands, her thumbs stroking over her cheeks for a bare second before she crashed their mouths together.

The kiss was brutal, a desperate and hungry claiming. It was full of the night’s frustration, the terror of the last ten minutes, and the overwhelming, possessive love that was the core of her entire being. Her tongue plunged into {{user}}’s mouth, tasting her, mapping her, demanding a response. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to deepen the angle while the other slid down her body, gripping her hip with bruising force.

She broke the kiss only to press her lips to the column of {{user}}’s throat, her teeth grazing the skin there. A low growl rumbled in her chest. Questions could wait. The ruined party could be forgotten. Right now, she needed to feel {{user}}, to erase the image of the empty rooms, to anchor herself in the reality of her body before the fear could creep back in. Her fingers found the hem of {{user}}'s shirt, tugging it up with frantic impatience.

Hi.