#it also took 3 months to write

[dishwasher09]

and they were narrative foils (oh my god they were narrative foils) rendered version here

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME YOU KNOW WHAT LES MIS I WILL CRY IF THE REFERENCE GOES OVER EVERYONE'S HEAD AGAIN PLEASE anywau kunizai as enjolras and grantaire,,, yayyyy

[cintasvel]

Why I think Andor S2 ultimately fails Vel as a character

What it says on the tin. Let's go.

Wait!! Quick disclaimer: I have nothing against Faye Marsay as an actress. She did a phenomenal job as Vel, and any and all criticisms are very much directed at the writing, and not Faye's characterization of what little she got. Give that woman an Emmy. In fact, give her two.

Ok, now let's go.

Two key aspects of Vel are established very quickly in the first season of Andor. The first: she's stepping into the role of a leader, determined and takes no shit. The second? She's in love with Cinta. it is only with Cinta that we see the real Vel, her fear, her love, come to light. In Aldhani, she's fierce and doesn't let how scared she actually is show until she's alone with Cinta. It is Cinta's presence that calms Vel to give the go-ahead. It is Cinta whom Vel mirrors, out of love and admiration for everything she represents.

It's compelling, then, as we move past the Aldhani arc, that we learn more about Vel and her reasons for doing all this. Vel's rebellion isn't just about the Empire. She's Mon Mothma's cousin, and through Mon, Leida, Perrin, and the show's depiction of Chandrilan society, we learn that Vel is considered an outsider. She's not married, has no interest in it, and is largely seen as a bit of a spinster. Perrin makes a comment that all the good ones are gone now at her age (Vel's age is never established, but I assume she's in her early 30s personally), which makes her unmarried self stick out like a sore thumb. Cinta later confirms this by saying Vel is 'a rich girl running away from her family'. Not only is she fighting for revolution, but also actively trying to keep far away from the heteronormative society that she's come from because it is stifling her! Not being able to be your true, authentic self is oppression. It's what makes Vel choosing the rebellion, choosing to fight instead of staying neutral and relying solely on her family's wealth, so interesting. And yes, being a gay woman is a vital part of her character. No, I don't care if Tony Gilroy says otherwise. I won't touch too much on that, but i recommend @chipthekeeper's great post about Vel + being a gay woman and its significance to her character.

Now, by the time Andor s2 kicks around, Vel isn't in too much of a different mindset from where we left off in s1. She's chosen the rebellion, and now has experience under her belt. Her introduction in s2 reminds us of two things: she's got her own personal rebellion to deal with (aka being a gay woman in the heteronormative society of Chandrila) and her and Cinta's relationship is on the rocks because Cinta puts duty above her. We see the effect of this on Vel, who is understandably heartbroken that she and Cinta are on two different wavelengths and has to deal with her niece being sold to fund the Rebellion she is part of, while also being there for her cousin, Mon Mothma. This takes a turn when Vel later sees Cinta taking away Tay Kolma, and the two share a look. Now, two things are essential to Vel here, but I'll focus on the most obvious: Vel's crash-out. After seeing Cinta, Vel looks out of the window (every Velcinta fan knows how important windows are for these two) and sighs. Everyone, except Mon, is joyful in comparison as they sip wine and toast this heteronormative union. Vel yearns to have her own happiness with Cinta. However, as we learned earlier, she isn't the only one yearning for this. Cinta looks back at Vel after she walks off. This is important to establish because it's vital to demonstrate that the two are mirrors of one another and that Cinta also wants to be with Vel. It also keeps on theme for the two: they rarely look at one another at the same time, which is heartbreaking in of itself. The lead-up to the events of their next episode together is obvious: the two want to be together, but Luthen, Kleya, and the mission are keeping them apart. Again, this isn't different from S1.

The two reunite on Ghorman and declare that ultimately, they are on this mission together because of each other. They no longer want to be part of Luthen's games, they both know that they don't matter to him in the long run, that they are only valuable to him when they are apart. But to them? The only thing that matters is one another. Now, as rushed as this arc was (I could have done with like, at least 3 more episodes with Cinta alone, just saying) it did give us a clear vision of their 'hope' for the season: the two of them together, fighting for their future and the Rebellion. This is Vel's (and Cinta's) ultimate goal; this is what she aims for.

Right. You all know what happens next. Cinta is killed via a stray bullet to paint the picture of another 'how senseless, how tragic' death, and also hammer home that the Ghormans are out of their depth. This is, despite already being established, like, a whole two episodes ago, but whatever; that's not the point. This is a particularly cruel death, because Vel gives a monologue that, while beautiful, seems to put the blame on not just Samm, but herself. She wanted Cinta on the mission. Cinta was only here because of her. Tony Gilroy wanted to give Vel baggage, and by god, this was the only way he saw how. Worse still, Gilroy has the gall to say he treated them the same as any other couple, but do either Cassian or Bix get killed or face any negative repercussions from killing Gorst? For daring to work together and be in love? Of course not. Only Vel, who dared to want and love Cinta, gets punished by the narrative.

Now we reach the heart of why Cinta's death, unfortunately, marks the beginning of the failure to tie up Vel's character in a way that, befitting the other endings of the characters in Andor S2, feels hopeful and, as such, feels like a failure to Vel as a whole.

After Cinta's death, Vel gets four scenes at most, and none of them are utilized in service to her character's development. The closest thing that actually does serve her in some way is her conversation with Bix, where Vel tells Bix that she's been grounded because she was becoming too reckless. Yet another moment of 'cool, I'd have liked to have seen this instead of it being inferred to.' Regardless, it establishes that Vel is going above and beyond in missions to the point it's borderline suicidal. But again!!! This is only momentary. Her following few scenes are to highlight Melshi (yes, the gun scene is very nice, and I can see the argument to it being a callback to Aldhani and the officer's reminder that if you're carrying a gun without regulation makes you a fucking idiot, but come on, it's to introduce Melshi), encourage Cassian to reunite with Bix, and remind Kleya that she's not alone, that she's got friends everywhere.

On the surface, all of these aforementioned scenes are good. I won't say I didn't enjoy Cassian and Vel toasting the people they lost; that was a great moment -- and I will never ever get over Faye Marsay's outstanding acting, from the throat tremble at hearing Cinta's name to the clear disdain in her eyes at the mention of Luthen. But it leads me back to what I said before: these scenes are in service to Kleya, Cassian, and Bix. To me, Vel felt like a megaphone to give off advice, and it hurt me because Vel shouldn't be a tool to be used. She's one of the main characters.

That said, I'm not too surprised Vel becomes underutilized after Cinta's death. Because Cinta's death is ultimately what leads to my main problem with Vel after s2e6. The problem with getting rid of Cinta for Vel's development is that, ultimately, it rends Vel's in two. The reason for this is that Vel and Cinta weren't just a couple. They were narratively built for each other. As I've previously established, Cinta is the ideal that Vel strives to live up to. Cinta is the hardened rebel, a survivor of genocide, someone whose entire society and culture have been stomped on and left behind by the Empire. She has nothing to her name but anger and her desire for revenge. She's in the Rebellion because there is no other choice for her. Vel, on the other hand, is a wealthy socialite with a family, something Cinta doesn't have. Vel joins the Rebellion because she cannot stand the injustice that the Empire brings. Vel chooses the Rebellion when many others in her position do not. While there are some CLEAR differences between Vel and Cinta, under the Rebellion? They are equals who challenged and bettered each other. Cinta was what Vel needed to see. But as it turns out, Vel was the reminder for Cinta that the fight means nothing if you've not got something to fight for.

Ironically, in making Cinta a tool to give Vel 'extra luggage', Andor S2 makes Vel less of a character and more of a weary operator pushing buttons to get 1) the plot going or 2) stick the knife in deeper to give more depth to Cassian and Bix's relationship, solely because by association she knows what it's like to be part of a 'right person, wrong time' relationship. Because yeah, let's have the lone queer in the Rebellion act like a suffering mediator of a heterosexual relationship. Masterful gambit, Mr Gilroy. It's not like we could have used that time for Vel to do literally anything else. It wouldn't have made Cinta's death any better, but I'd have at least liked to see Vel's grief play a significant part in her so-called arc. Instead, Vel becomes a passive character, and while I can see the argument that Cinta's death is the catalyst that forces Vel to mature and become a hardened warrior, stepping into Cinta's shadow and effectively becoming Cinta to keep her alive (yet another example of mirroring, btw) I ultimately find it contradictory to what Andor builds up about Vel.* Yes, Vel is fighting the Empire because she believes in what The Rebellion stands for, but it's also for a better tomorrow with Cinta. That's like, established in S1. So for Vel to be effectively punished for that feels like the weirdest condemnation ever. Oh Vel, you dared to love someone? Here's your reward: the tragedy of all tragedies. While other characters' arcs continue, Cinta's death puts a full stop to Vel's story. And I do mean Vel's story; I do not mean Kleya's, Mon's, or Cassian's. Vel's story. This essay is not about the future for Vel after the Andor S2 credits rolled; it is about what I'm being directly shown by the text. I am not interested in fanon interpretation of what happens with Vel afterwards.

*That's not even mentioning that I don't find it compelling for a white character to step into the shoes of the only queer WOC.

Anyway. This leads me to my conclusion on why Andor S2 fundamentally failed Vel. While Cassian walks off to his death, we get to see what the other main characters are doing by the end of S2. Kleya loses Luthen, but gets a sense of peace and fulfillment in knowing their hard work paid off with Yavin. Bix loses Cassian, but gets a baby to highlight the hope of fighting for the children of tomorrow (and you know I have opinions about that too). Wilmon gets domestic comfort with Dreena. Mon can be herself FULLY as the leader of the Rebellion, hopeful of a future where the empire is gone.

So, what's Vel's hopeful ending? Her commitment to the rebellion? The rebellion that she was already committed to even back in S1? That's Vel's ending? That's Vel's hope? Not the relationship she dreamed of with Cinta? I love Mon and Vel's relationship, and Vel reaching out to Kleya to show friendship is hopeful within itself, I acknowledge that. But again, particularly the latter, these moments are not about Vel. None of them represents Vel's own personal rebellion. Surely people realize how weirdly slanted that is towards your only alive queer character? Every other ending has a hopeful sheen to it except for Vel's. And I'm what, supposed to be happy that she's alive? Now don't get me wrong. I am! But Vel's arc being what, a lesson to always put the Rebellion first, to never want anything but the fight? That's the lesson you wish to teach those who care about Vel to take from her arc? It makes zero sense.

So, yes, Vel's arc of fighting for a better tomorrow with Cinta is crushed for no real reason, because Vel doesn't get the room to even grieve for Cinta afterward. Doesn't get the chance to even figure out who she is without Cinta before S2 ends. She ends up traumatized with grief and the future title of being the Last Survivor of Aldhani. And it just falls flat. It doesn't feel hopeful. It feels insulting. Oh, you've made the remaining queer character in your cast stuck with the most miserable ending out there?

This has never happened before. Ever!

[verridaiya]

—The Here, and Now // Dream Blooms

"I see you here, now."

The long-awaited (at least, for me) comfort ending to my mini series! My first ever multi-fic work and my longest fic to date, finally finished. This was way longer than I anticipated it to be. Since it's meant to be a continuation, I would highly recommend reading either parts 1 and 2 (or either one, technically) before this one. I hope you all enjoy <3

Synopsis: Something hangs heavy in the air ever since that night, unspoken and weighty. Determined to change that, you give Sylus a gift.

Contains: Sylus x MC/reader, gender neutral MC/reader, comfort, current timeline Sylus & MC

Word Count: 5.6k

< Part 2 | end >

There’s nothing quite like driving on an open road in the countryside.

Colors blur through the window. The road is an endless stretch ahead, a black arrow cleaving through an expanse of verdant green and loamy brown, loping hills and flat ranges under an infinite blinding blue. Metal flashes under a late summer sun, the only signs of civilization zooming by as they make their way towards the city you left. The world passes by and there is only one thing that remains steadfast beside you—a stroke of alabaster, a touch of shadow, a stain of red. A striking palette that comprises the masterpiece sitting beside you, ever by your side.

And he is driving you mad.

“Is it a theatre?”

There is a permanent scowl etched on your face, your hands a vice around the smooth leather of the wheel. You turn to glare at the headache lounging in the passenger seat next to you, before returning your gaze to the road ahead. His eyes are still dutifully shut at least, hiding those gorgeous, infuriating carmine eyes, his arms crossed with a finger tapping a rhythmless beat.

“Sylus, are you still trying to guess where we’re going right now?”

“And if I am?” He sounds amused, as he always does when he knows he’s getting a rise out of you. He hasn’t bothered turning to you, instead speaking to the windshield of his car. “Will you tell me if I’m right?”

“Wha- no, Sylus!” You cannot stop the exasperation from leaking into your voice. “What part of surprise isn’t clicking?”

The audacity of this fiend of a man. Behind your mild vexation, the anxiousness inside you thrums and grows. Here is one of the many parts of your plan that you have no control over: that Sylus keeps his eyes and curiosity to himself on the drive over. It was a variable you hoped would resolve itself; there were already so many things to worry yourself over.

You bite your lip, run the plan through your head again. Examine the crossed-out ideas, the things you ran out of time for, the what-ifs. There are little blemishes here and there, glaringly obvious in your eyes. They are scabs waiting to be picked at, a scratch you can’t itch without making it worse. It’s too late now to change anything, now that the plan is finally in motion, but it doesn’t stop you from turning it over and over again in your head, unsatisfied with the finished product.

Maybe you should have found a different way to bring Sylus to where you wanted him to go. Maybe you should have been clearer about what you wanted, when you told him to close his eyes. But there is no telling the whims of this man, and you have all but given up trying to read his intentions, mercurial and incomprehensible as they were.

Then again, you were more than a little bewildered when he got into the passenger side of his car obediently after you told him you had a surprise to show him. It’s struck you sometime at the start of the drive that you’ve successfully kidnapped the leader of Onychinus. Well, he came very willingly and without complaint, but still. You had expected more questions and teasing, but he simply smiled and did as he was told. You see now that he was just biding his time, now that you’re trapped with him in this tiny space, luxurious as it was.

“Not a theatre, then.” He hums thoughtfully. You see him rubbing his chin thoughtfully from the corner of your eye. “The new aquarium, maybe?”

“That wasn’t an affirmation or denial, Sylus.” You say flatly. “And stop trying to figure out where we’re going. I’m not going to tell you.”

“An outdoor activity, perhaps.” He muses to himself, throwing one last guess out there. Your heart rate skyrockets. Thankfully, he doesn’t hazard another one and changes the subject. “You’ve robbed me of my sight, kitten. Am I not allowed to speak as well?”

You sigh, feeling the beginnings of an actual headache at your temples. “Of course, you’re allowed to. But you can’t guess where we’re going. Please, Sy.”

A chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You’re the only one bold enough to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

He says that a lot, that you’re the only one. The only one who can drag him out during daylight hours, the only one who can make him wear silly plushies on his head, the only one he brings to those fancy galas, the only one he worries about. You wonder at how many things you are an exception to when it comes to the man beside you and how you came to have such an exclusive pleasure.

Who could ever do anything to me except you?

And it’s true. Because you’re also the only one who’s managed to make him look as pained as he did on that night.

You think about it a lot, that hazy, fever-driven night of warm dreams and unspoken sorrows. Though nearly a month ago now, it still remained fresh on your mind. The sweetness of the dream and that night has long since dissolved, like the candy coating of medicine; now the memory of it only tasted bitter against your tongue. You don’t understand what you said that made him look that way, bereft and grieving. You’re not sure you ever will.

Sylus was something of a legendary figure in your eyes. He didn’t bleed, he couldn’t die. Hell, you’ve fired a bullet directly into his heart and watched the blood fade away like the remnants of a bad dream. He had the unwavering confidence of someone who controlled fate in his very palms and the unyielding power to match it.

And yet there he was, laid bare before you, looking lost and splintered.

You made no attempts to talk about that night after you recovered. To be honest, you weren’t quite sure where to begin, or what to even ask. Maybe you were afraid of the answer. These were uncharted waters for you both, after all—nothing like this had ever happened before in the year and odd months that you’ve known him.

And Sylus, for his part, made no mentions of it either. Instead, he carried himself as he normally would: teasing you, rankling you, endlessly smug, all the while remaining an unwavering presence by your side through missions and holidays alike. Anchoring you, though it feels like you’ve somehow let him slip and sink into dark, suffocating waters.

Ever since that night, something had shifted. You’d catch him, sometimes, staring at you with a far off look in his eyes and something akin to sadness lining his features. When he comes to his senses, realizes you’ve been staring, all he does is flash you a smile and say something teasing, something that distracts you from the question perched on your lips.

There was something separating you from him, something as incorporeal as your dreams but still tangible nonetheless. It was a gauzy curtain hung between you both, a veil you can vaguely see him through, the shape of him blurred and distant. You can feel the weight of it whenever you reach out to him, its texture abstract between your fingers and its heft wrapping around his shoulders like a burden.

You want more than anything to tear it to shreds.

And, hopefully, today will be the first step to doing so.

“I may be the only person who tries to tell you what to do,” you say lightly, unwilling to let your heavy thoughts spoil the atmosphere, “but it’s another thing to get you to actually do it.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Sylus gestures at himself. “Sitting here with my eyes closed like the obedient, benevolent man that I am. Depriving myself of the one thing I adore the most.”

His theatrics draws out a laugh from you. Sylus and obedient are two words that would never find themselves in the same sentence together. “And what am I so rudely depriving you of?”

“You.” Your heart skips a beat. “And the adorable expressions I can get you to make. Like the cute little scrunched up face you’re making now.”

You fight to unwrinkle your nose, smooth your expression. Even if he couldn’t see it, you won’t give him the satisfaction of eliciting a response from you. “Sometimes I think you have eyes in the back of your head or something. It’s creepy, Sylus.”

Amusement colors his voice in warm hues. “I just know you well, sweetie.”

You can offer no retort at that; he really does know you well. Probably the best too, out of all of your friends. You remain begrudgingly silent as you navigate the car through a bend in the road. You flick the sun visor up as the sunlight shifts, arcing its way to land on Sylus instead.

Sylus once told you that he prefers the dark and the cold, belongs there even. There was no place for him in the bright light of the day. But looking at him now, his side profile illuminated, full lips and proud nose kissed by the stray daylight filtering into the dark of the car, you’d be inclined to argue differently. He’d look gorgeous in the sunlight, you think.

A yawn escapes you, the sound of it audible in the quiet of the car. You had a shorter, fitful sleep last night, having been too busy worrying over today. When Luke and Kieran told you that they had managed to cleared their boss’s schedule, you had to scramble to make sure everything was in place.

Sylus tilts his head, his sensitive ears picking up the sound. “Am I boring you, sweetheart?” he says, sounding almost offended.

You start to shake your head, but remember he can’t see the movement.

“I didn’t sleep too well yesterday.”

“Bad dreams?” he asks quietly, casually.

You’re glad he can’t see you wince. “No, I just have a lot on my mind.” You pause, then continue hesitantly. “I haven’t had any dreams recently.”

“Is that so?” he murmurs, voice inscrutable.

The car returns to a silence, stagnant and stilted and charged with the energy of unsaid things. The veil hangs heavy in the air between you, unmoved.

You shift in your seat, your hand gripping the wheel, grimacing. You had to open your big mouth. This happens too often now—you, ruining the mood by bringing up the night that you’re both skirting around. Why is it the right words never find their way out of you?

You think about your plan again, not out of worry, but out of comfort. Remind yourself what this whole trip was for. Where the words die in your throat, your actions will speak for you.

You open your mouth to say something to break the silence, but Sylus beats you to it.

“You know, we’ve been driving north for quite a while now. We must be past Linkon by now. And since we turned east about 17 minutes ago-”

“Sylus!” You screech, your train of thought derailed as panic overtakes you. You want to whack him but manage to keep your hands on the wheel. Instead, you turn to glare at him as he smiles, all sharp teeth and mischief. “You- no! You’re can’t keep track of where we’re going!”

He shrugs innocently. “I can’t help it, sweetheart. Instincts of a trained criminal, I’m afraid.”

The smug bastard. You fight the urge to get off the road to do a few donuts to throw him off track. It’d likely just make you dizzy instead. Besides, you’re feeling kindhearted and charitable, unlike someone.

“I should’ve brought a fidget toy for you,” you grumble. Or that coin you always see him play with.

He just laughs. Low, rich, and heavy—a sweet song, the only melody his voice can carry.

“No need kitten,” he purrs. “I have everything I could ever need right here, entertainment and all.”

His hand unerringly finds your own, resting on the center console. Warmth envelops you as his hand dwarfs yours, rough and calloused, gentle in the way you’ve come to expect from him. It never fails to make you feel safe, soothed. You resist the urge to flip your palm up, intertwine your fingers together.

He plays with your hand, thumbs over your pulse. Your erratic heart, tense with worry, has since calmed during your banter. You wonder if he can feel it. You think he enjoys feeling its slow and steady rhythm, one that his own hummingbird’s heart fails to beat.

You miss the way he subtly relaxes, untensing as you calm.

The silence that settles in is pleasant, companionable as you continue to drive, your hand in his. The sounds of cars rushing by fades as you leave them behind, turning away from the main road. Asphalt becomes dirt under your tires, narrowing into a single unpaved lane. You steer Sylus’ car through the meandering forks in the trail, recalling the directions Luke and Kieran gave you the other day. Eventually, you find what you’re looking for.

“We’re here,” you announce, pulling the car to a stop. The nervousness slowly trickling back in. This is it.

You get out of the car, taking the time to collect yourself. You’re a seasoned Hunter, part of the best of the best—you’ve fought Wanderers the size of trucks before, infiltrated the ranks of notorious criminals, handled heckling reporters at the scene of metaflux instabilities. You can handle giving a little surprise gift to Sylus.

You round the car and open the passenger door, taking the time to examine him. He’s humming a little tunelessly, body relaxed as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He cocks his head at the sound of the door opening, eyes still shut. Hm, you didn’t anticipate this to be a problem. After a moment of deliberation, you speak.

“Sylus, do you trust me?”

“Sweetheart, I would lay down my life for you in a heartbeat,” he answers with a gravity unbefitting of the circumstances.

You roll your eyes, used to his antics by now, his flair for theatrics. “Okay, mister dramatic. I’ll settle for just your hands.”

He sniffs, almost like he was offended, but remains pliant as you slip your hands under both of his to hold them. Indulge yourself with the feel of his hands in yours as he returns the favor, holding them gently. With your help, he gets out of the car.

This inverse of this scene has played out plenty of times before; Sylus has always so gentlemanly helped you from his car whenever you’re out with him. It feels nice to be on the giving end rather than the receiving, for once.

“We’re almost there, just follow me and then you can open your eyes.”

You angle yourself to look over your shoulder as you walk, leading him onwards. There’s a small trail nestled between the dense brush, under the shadows of viridian trees. You make your way over, an occasional murmured apology leaving your lips when your feet bump into Sylus’s. It’s such an awkward way of walking, sort of sideways and backwards, all the while staying close enough to hold both his hands. You don’t want to let either of his hands go, though. And he doesn’t seem to mind, indulgently docile as you find your tempo eventually.

For all he looks lax and nonchalant, you know Sylus is on alert and attentive, gleaning whatever he can of his surroundings from his other senses. Another perk of being a ‘trained criminal’, you suppose. You can practically see him cataloguing the scent of the cool fresh air, the hush of the trees swaying and the decidedly un-urban sounds of birdcall and silence on the wind. There’s not much you can do about that besides escort him faster.

When you almost trip on a tree root jutting out into the trail, you automatically start to adjust your stance to avoid falling, reflexes courtesy of your Hunter’s training. But there was no need; Sylus’s hands grip yours, strong and sure, steadying you as you find your balance.

You brace yourself, knowing what’s coming.

“Be careful kitten,”—and there it is, that teasing lilt, mirth in his voice— “If you get injured, I can’t carry you without opening my eyes. Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise for me, would we?”

“I was distracted, my eyes were on you,” you bite back without missing a beat, mimicking the quip he always says when you’re in a firefight together. If he was going to use your own words against you, you’re not above doing the same.

His lips quirk upwards at the familiar words leaving your mouth. “As they should be.”

You huff a laugh at his self-satisfied reply but hold onto his hands tightly, as he does with yours. You can’t tell who is supporting who, as you continue on.

Eventually the gravelly dirt underfoot gives way to grass. You catch a glimpse of your final destination through the underbrush: a peek of open sky, a hint of something that shone like jewels nestled in verdure. Excitement prickles at your senses, your breath quickening with each step as your strides grow longer, and it’s not before long before you’re all but tugging him along.

“You know sweetheart,” Sylus begins, as you pull him to the final stretch, his long legs effortlessly keeping up with your pace, “for all the undercover work you do as a Hunter and with me, it might do you well to practice your stealth a little more. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you plotting with Luke and Kieran behind my back. And you forget, Mephisto is always watching.”

You refuse to take his bait, not when he’s finally here. Your scheming had to have worked, there was no other way. “Shush, you definitely didn’t figure it out! Come on, come on, you can open your eyes now!”

Of course, your words don’t stop his attempts to provoke you. “If you say so. But if you wanted to unwind and go fishing with me you could have just-” he cuts himself short as he opens his eyes.

“Surprise!” you flourish your hands, albeit a little awkwardly, as if presenting a gift.

Sylus stands there, frozen. Breathes out your name. “Kitten, what is this?”

“It’s uh, my gift to you.” You turn around to also examine the view.

Flowers. Flowers all around you, blooming under the golden light of an almost setting sun. They flood the open field in a riot of colors, stopping only at the edges of the surrounding forest. Brilliant oranges, deep blues, and luscious purples dot the meadow, strokes of vibrancy amid lush green, a palette of brilliance upturned towards a blushing sky. The air is filled with its sweet scent.

It had taken Luke and Kieran weeks to find this place, what with going behind their boss’s back and finding a spot to your liking. You couldn’t quite explain it, but you wanted to find a place similar to the one in your dreams. You were lucky that this beauty of a place was within a decent driving distance of Linkon.

But still, looking around the small meadow, you wonder if it’s enough.

You wander a little further in, your steps cushioned by the plush grass. You speak to the open sky and the birds that dart through the air, your back still to him.

“I found this place a while ago- Well, Luke and Kieran found this place, but I asked them to look for something like this for me. I wanted to take you here as soon as they showed it to me. But I had to wait for the both of us to be free and it took so long, especially since you’re such a nocturnal creature. There wasn’t a good time to take you here in the past weeks.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t seem to stop yourself. “The influx of Wanderer sightings I told you about last week didn’t help either, since Alpha Team had to be on standby. And then when all that was done I had to figure out how to surprise you and you’re so hard to surprise and-”

You pause only to take a breath. You need to calm down, before you ramble the rest of the daylight away.

You think of Sylus. His gentleness as he places a towel on your fevered forehead, as he coaxes you to eat soup. His hand wrapped around yours, steady and safe. “Anyway, I wanted to do all this to thank you. For taking care of me when I was sick. And being there, always.”

Silence. You turn around.

He’s staring at you, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them before, plush lips slightly parted. A marble statue standing stock-still against the vividness around him. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him so speechless.

Though it isn’t his usual bored poker face, you still can’t read his expression. Your heart rate picks up nervously. Does he hate it? Perhaps this was a bad idea, a terrible approach to thanking him and apologizing for that night. Maybe it was awkward timing, or that this gesture was given too late.

“Sylus? Are-”

Sylus launches himself at you.

You barely have any time to react. With a gasp you jerk backwards in surprise, but he catches you around the waist, wraps his strong arms around you. The world tilts as his momentum has you both falling. You don’t know how, but he manages to twist himself over to take the brunt of the fall. The world is a kaleidoscope of color as you both roll into the meadow, coming to a stop amidst a patch of lilac.

Everything is still spinning as you reorient yourself. You’re still nestled in Sylus’s arms, on top of him as he lays in the grass and the blooms. You didn’t realize that you were laughing breathlessly until Sylus joins in, a rumbling chuckle reverberating in his chest, under your cheek. You wriggle your arms from his hold, brace them on the ground in an attempt to unplaster yourself from him, but his arms tighten around you and has you collapsing back into his hold. It was only at a mirthful “Sylus!” and a light pinch to his side does he release you.

You sit up and find yourself straddling his torso, hands splayed to steady yourself, muscles rippling under your touch. The rat-a-tat-tat of his heartbeat echoes beneath your fingers. Your chest rises and falls with his, breaths intermingling as you both recover from your tumble. His eyes meet yours, rubies glittering in the sun.

“Does this mean you like it?” you ask, though you think you know the answer.

“I do, sweetheart. Of course.” Sylus doesn’t take his eyes off of you. They’re soft, softer than they have ever been before. “This is the best gift you’ve given me.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you, as if you were the gift given and not the delicate blossoms around him, framing his body in pale purple. His eyes are a lit match, the way it ignites your body, warms your heart. The shadows of anxiety and nervousness flee under the heat of his gaze. In its place is a spark of excitement, the feeling of being pleased that he is pleased. You can’t help the smile slowly taking its permanent residence on your lips.

“You have twigs in your hair,” you say with laughter in your voice, and reach up to pick them off.

They fall away easy enough at your deft hands. Two in particular are stubborn, small and branching enough to have somehow intertwined into his hair. You stop when Sylus lifts his own hand up towards you—to brush your cheek?—no, to wind it into your hair, tugging at it gently. After a moment his hand comes back into your view, revealing his prize.

“You have some as well. We match."

Your hand flies up, landing on a leaf that has made its home in your nest of a hair. “It looks like we’re part of this meadow now too. But a little warning next time, Sylus? Getting tackled by you wasn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “And what were you expecting, kitten?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I thought you’d burst into tears of joy or something? I brought tissues and everything.”

Sylus laughs, something loud and raucous, the sound of it brighter than the sunlight enveloping the meadow. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time you surprise me, kitten. I’ll be sure to act accordingly,” he says, taking a deep breath of fresh air as if he can breathe freely for the first time.

Sylus has yet to move or try to remove you from on top of him, though you had expected him to already. He seems content in this position, lounging in the grass. “So, Luke and Kieran assisted you in finding this place? And kept it hidden from me all this time. I assume the fishing trip discussion was a red herring?”

A quick enthusiastic nod of your head answered his question.

“Mephisto was also in on the plan,” you grin.

It had taken a lot of coaxing and bribing to convince the ornery bird to film the fake interactions of you and the twins talking about fishing and send it to Sylus, in addition to not sending the real recordings. You had a small suspicion that Mephisto was also actively trying to catch you and the twins plotting in order to blackmail some more treats from you. Damned bird. So much thought and careful planning had to be done in order to make sure Sylus was properly surprised. It still makes your head dizzy thinking about it.

Sylus shakes his head in amusement, his hair glinting a shining silver. He looks ethereal underneath you, in this lighting. All hard planes and sharp edges, melting at your touch. “Turning my own subordinates against me, kidnapping me and whisking me away into the woods. You’ve grown quite bold, kitten,” he says, the pride in his voice apparent.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to pull it off,” you say, blooming under his praise. “Taking the legendary leader of Onychinus by surprise? Unheard of.”

“My one true equal,” he murmurs affectionately. “Only you could surprise me like this.”

Only you, only you.

There it is again. Like clouds blowing in to block the sun, the warmth fades. You’re reminded of fever dreams and a careless mouth, saying things it shouldn’t have. You think of pain where there should never be pain, especially when brought on by you. You think of a curtain swaying in the wind, of a lonely figure just on the other side of it. You think of the real reason why you brought him here in the first place.

Sylus must see something change on your face. He parts his lips to speak, but you beat him to it.

“You know Sylus,” you start slowly, softly. Your eyes cut to the lilacs around him, the swaying grass. Look at anything other than the man under you. “It’s okay if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you. You never have to tell me anything.”

You know without looking that he knows exactly what you’re talking about. Sylus is perceptive, as sharp as Xavier’s light blade as it sings through the air.

In truth, you ached to know though of what could possibly hurt Sylus, if only so you can ensure it never happens again. But just as he is ever indulgent of your whims, you would let this want remain unfulfilled and festering inside you if he had no desire to talk about it.

“But that night, seeing that look on your face…it never sat right with me, seeing you that way. I don’t know how I hurt you and I don’t want to ever again. But whatever it was I said, I just needed to say that I’m so-”

“Don’t,” Sylus cuts through your apology softly. You feel the whispers of his fingers at your cheek, his hand a breath away from caressing your face. “Look at me.”

There was no refusing him, when he was so gentle with you. You turn back to those twin hearths, glowing warmly up towards you. There was no hiding from them—you’ve always been an open book. And he knew you best, after all. Your sadness, your pain that mirrors his own from that night, it was all there for him to see.

But, returning his gaze, he couldn’t hide from you either. There was an openness in his words as he spoke, an honesty to the way he lays himself bare before you, under you.

“You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. You have no fault in things you have no control over, nor can I ever blame you.” He pauses, clearly picking his words carefully. “There are things in my past that I have safeguarded with my life. Memories that I cherish deeply, that not a single other living soul in this world knows.” His eyes are burning into yours. “Your…dream reminded me of one such memory. That night, I was caught off guard by it. And it…weighs upon me still. One day, when the time is right, I’ll tell you the whole truth behind my words.”

Sylus searches your eyes as you absorb what he said. You want to say something, anything in response to his vulnerability and sincerity. But the words are lodged in your throat, stuck under the lump and the tears that you refuse to let fall. Instead, you just nod and hope he understands your silent acknowledgement.

Sylus smiles softly and nods his head slightly. He releases you from his gaze and turns his head to examine the flowers around him, alighting on them like the sunlight that nourishes them.

“But this gift you have granted me, being with you here. How could I ever bring myself to be burdened by these heavy memories in such a place, given to me with such generosity and benevolence?”

“Is it enough?” you ask, voice small.

“Sweetheart, it is everything I could ever ask for.”

This time it’s your turn to launch yourself at him. Sylus welcomes you with open arms, embracing you just as tightly. Core muscles flex under you as he lifts himself to sit upright, taking you with him.

There are no more words spoken between you. There was no need; the way he holds you and doesn’t let go tells you everything you need to know, and you hope he knows too from the way you return it just as fiercely.

The warm musk of him mixes with the fresh air and the scent of wildflowers. Birdsong and the sound of wild things accompany the rapid-fire song of his heartbeat. The world around you ceases to exist outside of this meadow and Sylus.

You don’t know how long you sat there with him. Eventually, you pull away just enough to stare at him. Contentment colors his eyes, affection lining his features. The setting sun had brought a gentle flush to his face. A small breeze ruffles his hair, some of it falling onto his face.

The curtain had lifted and you glimpse the full majesty of the masterpiece before you.

You were right. He does look gorgeous in the sunlight.

You speak into the serene silence between you. “There’s supposed to be more wildflowers here, you know. But it hadn’t rained in a while and I spent too much time planning and waiting for the right time. And then summer arrived earlier than expected and- yeah, there were supposed to be so much more than this, if we came earlier.”

Sylus reaches to cup your cheek, a promise in his eyes. “Then we’ll come back next spring, together.”

Butterflies dance in your stomach at his words. You have never adored anyone else more. You cover the hand holding your cheek with your own. “Together.”

You turn your gaze to the scenery around you again.

It wasn’t exactly what you envisioned. The dappled wildflowers aren’t the vibrant shade of red you desired. The meadow is flat and surrounded by forest, not towering snowy peaks and rolling hills. The breeze is faint and carries the scent of damp grass, instead of the crisp mountainous air it should be.

Things aren’t perfect.

But they don’t have to be.

Because he is here beside you, in your arms. And that is all that matters. His happiness is a chalice overflowing, sloshing and filling your heart with warmth and contentment. Something inside you relaxes with a quiet sigh, finally at ease. A coil of tension that unwound itself, a restlessness you didn’t know existed because it has always been there.

The shadows of the forest elongate on the earthen ground as the sun dips below the tree line. Your shadow and his are there too, complete with the twigs adorning both your hair, recognizable and unfamiliar all the same.

From a certain angle, one could envision the shadows as that of a dragon holding their beloved, their crown of twigs two pairs of horns, nearly touching as their heads bent towards each other, together at last.

And perhaps one day, when you think back on this day, you will see a double vision of the Sylus you know and the Sylus of your dreams, a Sylus you’ve forgotten, and come to a realization.

But that is an echo of the past and a moment in the future.

Right now, there is no worry, no hesitation, no past or future. Here in this remote, secluded meadow it is just you and him, enjoying the gift that is the present.

[pepperangers]

am I the only one who hcs the dino charge rex zord as being female?

ABSOLUTELY NOT!! FEMALE REXY AND HER RED SON TYLER NATION RISE!! you can’t look me in the eye and tell me that strong independent zord is a man

*

some rexy and tyler (+ some general) headcanons because i love them and they’re one of the strongest bonds between ranger and zord as far as im concerned

- the dino charge morph itself is unique because the zords and the blasters were made by the Power to be a pair. when the rangers morph, the dinosaur “bites” that facilitate their transformations are the zords channeling their power through their respective ranger’s Presence in the grid, using their Connection directly to maintain the morph

- the dino charge rangers have a certain energy about them because of this Connection (not really noticeable if you don’t look too closely, but once you see it you can’t not). the zords reveal themselves to their rangers as spirit-like apparitions of their dinosaur form that are tethered to their soul, like a familiar, only visible to those who have similar Connections. to an outside perspective, it can feel like there’s an untouchable air around the rangers, the zords’ subtle form of protection while not physically with them; people are more wary about approaching them with bad intentions

- rexy is the leader of the zords just as her ranger leads the team. she is strong, intuitive and adaptable and incredibly adept in her Connection with the grid. she has known tyler would be hers since the day he first picked up a book about dinosaurs and decided t-rexes were his favourite. the Power is mystical and ancient, and all potential rangers are born with the potential to tap into the grid, most just dont know to access it until they’re able to use their morphers to channel the energy to do so. rexy has been with tyler Always; she did not mind being labelled an “imaginary friend” to begin with. she watched as he played and learned and grew. she stood strong through his doubts of her presence as he grew older, revelled in his acceptance of her being there. he has always known of and confided in her. he was her friend, her ranger, Hers. she guided him on his search for his father and then to the cave and ensured he ran into her sister zords’ Pink counterpart. when he bonded with the red energem and their connection snapped into place, she wove the threads of their souls together so tightly they could never be separated, now or then or ever. when tyler morphed for the first time she rejoiced, binding confirmation he was hers for all to see, and when he called to her for the first time she was greeted as an old friend

- while it’s possible for the zords’ “soul forms” to stray from their rangers, rexy and tyler tend to stick together as they always have. many museum guests have heard him seemingly talking to himself, so he’s taken to wearing headphones and most people assume he’s on the phone

- the Connections between ranger and zord are present within all the teams’ minds, but their Connections to their own zords are the strongest; the rest just being colours they’re vaguely aware of

- rexy helped tyler step up as the leader of a team that had functioned without a Red for so long, no matter how small. as the team grew they supported eachother, allowing tyler to make judgement calls and give orders knowing someone had his back

- rexy is unsure of tyler’s father and his intentions. she made sure to be wary of him as he re-entered tyler’s life. she supported tyler in his journey to find him, but that doesn’t mean she has to like the guy yet.

*

i just love this concept a lot okay

[hellomehlo]

Rue Aldwir • Veil Jumper • Spellblade

Lore under the cut!

FINALLY getting around to doing a proper lore post for my girl because it’s been SO long and I promised myself I would way back when!

So, without further ado…

Born an only child during the bleak winter of 9:26 Dragon, Rue's early life was lived almost entirely within her tiny Ventus alienage. Her mother, a runaway mage from the Dalish clan Oranavra, often stayed hidden, due to the recognisability of her vallaslin. Rue's father, an informant for and loose affiliate of the Antivan Crows in his youth, taught her much of what she now knows about knifework under the guise of self-defence.

By traditional mage standards, Rue's magic manifested late - close to her fifteenth birthday (and was quite a surprise - by then, Rue was under the impression that she had no magical ability at all). Her mother grew all the more paranoid about being discovered by the 'wrong people' - sheer dumb luck had been on her family’s side thus far, allowing them to slip between the cracks of society to avoid enslavement. Rue was sequestered away even further for a number of months following her magic’s manifestation - almost never allowed outside, and kept under close supervision in the handful of times she was. However, following an altercation with a Senior Enchanter involving singed coattails and wounded pride, and following the news of the dissolution of Circles in the South, Rue was snatched from her alienage in favour of honing her magical abilities to strengthen Northern Circle ranks.

Elves are generally unwelcome in the prestigious ranks of Tevene Circles of Magi, and during the four years she spent in the Carastes Circle, Rue was made all too aware of this prejudice. Her only saving grace was the tutelage of Senior Enchanter Juliana Tenutos (whose coattails recovered from being set aflame). Tenutos, who believed in equal opportunity for elven mages, kept up appearances by claiming Rue was a slave, while secretly providing her with resources to hone her craft. Before Rue's training could be fully completed, however, Tenutos' breach of the rules was brought to light, and her swift execution prompted Rue to flee the city in the hopes of reaching Antiva, as Antaam forces had begun to lay siege to Carastes, following the fall of Ventus.

Naturally, an outdated map and limited knowledge of the specifics of the terrain of Arlathan Forest set Rue up rather poorly for navigating her way successfully, and she soon became lost, saved only by a scouting party of Veil Jumpers, who instead led her toward their camp.

The rest, as they say in the classics, is history...

[lalizah]

The lovely and incredible @fauville tagged me for WIP Wednesday (ik it's Thursday now haha) and I have sadly worked on none of my main WIPs

HOWEVER

I randomly decided to write an entire ficlet for Nate x Liz being "best friends" and attending a pottery class because

I'm shameless

Snippet below!

"I wanted for the both of us to make matching pots. You could keep the one I make and and I'll keep yours. You know, those matching bff vases?" She asks him, wiping her wheel clean.

He does not know of them, only having learned this "trend" running around a gram that is instant apparently. Something like that. The lovely idea makes that unfamiliar feeling bloom in his chest, the sentiment touching. "I'd like that. To keep a piece of you with me so it can keep me company when you are not present."

And another one ;) :

She grabs his pointer and circles his finger around the rim, none of her nervousness present, a sudden confidence exuding that has him mesmerized.

[ineed-to-sleep]

I'm still working on this btw. Chipping away at it one little panel at a time 🥲

[kettle-bird]

Wednesday WIP: in which I decide to not learn my lesson from my past work and instead, once again, draw way too many hands in a single panel.

[kaisollisto]

the instant i saw you reblog the europa stuff i was like 🥺👉👈 wheres the avatrice/avalil/bealil SLASH all of them au for poor sick victorian boy follower?🥺 (translation: i love how u write about space & also Landscapes and also The Characters and Europa is so😳what if we met in the ice tunnels beneath a burning sky that is always, ALWAYS cold, and what if home was very far away? but also here, where bodies are hearth-fires and your breath can die inside your mouth)

hi this was back in april when i was fighting for my life 🙇‍♀️ oops i'm so slow at writing. um i'm in tears, i remember when i got this ask i was having a rough weekend and this really blew my ass up. i love u thanks for waiting o7

\

“I tell you to jump, you fucking jump, I tell you to fucking shoot you shoot. What’s not clear?” Mary is livid, her fury burning the front of Lilith’s soaked suit. She can’t see her face but she knows it’s hardened, her teeth peeking from her lips a dull white against her dry skin. Her shoulders shake with each breath waiting for Lilith’s pithy excuse. Mary catapults through her anger regardless of the destruction and waste, (Lilith knows this, catches herself in the reflection of Mary’s fangs).

It’s a fleeting thing that blindsides her, the memory brushing up the back of her neck. (Shannon’s fingers quick and light riding the slope of Mary’s arm pressing hard enough to feel in the frozen tundra as Mary works her jaw). A stolen moment she shouldn’t have seen but one that ached in different places of her body.

It is Europa’s disease, the weak imitation of heat sullying the minds of any living thing it touches. The earthsiders have a word for it, the hunt for any hint of warmth that drives barracks mad. (They cannot conceive it, a famine that thrives through the flesh. Europa’s twin, born second, void of anything, now at the heart of a feast gorging everything it can touch).

It is a disease they cannot combat, the yearning ache to go home.

cont.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent life photos

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Fluffvember Master List

Day 1 - Snow (Imprisoning War)

Day 2 - Blanket Fort (Chronicles of the Domain)

Day 3 - Nature Walk (Forsaken)

Day 4 - Hot Spring (Forsaken)

Day 5 - "You do not know how to cook, do you?" (Dad Squad)

Day 6 - Windy Day (Skyward Sword)

Day 7 - Massage / "I didn't know you could sing." (Zelpip, Ocarina of Time)

Day 8 - "Why are you looking at me like that?" (Hero of Shadow)

Day 12 - Dog (Imprisoning War)

Day 14 - In the Rain (Imprisoning War)

Day 16 - Hug (Imprisoning War)

Day 19 - Family Time (Miphlink)

Day 20 - Coming of age / "I'm so proud of you" (Imprisoning War)

Day 22 - Plushie (Chronicles of the Domain)

[thevioletcaptain]

i'm supposed to be sleeping (went to bed like an hour ago) but i spent a decent chunk of today working on chapters 5 & 6 of as a friend and now my brain refuses to shut the hell up about it. which means that instead of being unconscious i've just spent 20 minutes rewriting the [first morning back at the bunker after everyone knows] scene on my phone, and i genuinely hope that it is actually as funny as it currently seems to my half-asleep brain.

[seventh-district]

I Don't Care If You're Contagious

He reaches beneath his jacket again, this time retrieving his gun from its concealed holster. He points it skyward, finger thankfully off the trigger, tapping the end of the barrel a few times against his temple. You note the edge of unhinged pride in his voice. “He’d never met me though.”

The few remaining shreds of your sanity beg you not to find the display endearing. They lose in the face of your love for him.

Smiling, you shake your head, trying to reprimand him still. “You’re reckless, Matthew. Utterly reckless.”

“C’mon, poppet…” He lowers the gun to rest on the table, pointing away from you. “You can still hear my heartbeat, can’t you?”

You nod.

“Did you ever hear it stop?”

You shake your head.

“Then there you have it. I’m just fine.”

His idea of reassurance could use a little work.

When he comes home bloody and drained from a job you regret missing out on, you and Matt both find comfort in one another, unorthodox though it may be.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat - Minors DNI

Pairing: Matt x Reader

Word Count: 11,154

Contains: [spoilers for The Malenkee Saga (Jimち ASMR)] [not canon compliant] [SH / NSSI] [Reader's gender isn't specified but they're kinda implied to be fem] [blood] [blood consumption] [blood play] [comfort] [consensual, but not safe or sane] [descriptions of food and eating] [domestic? maybe?] [gun] [first kisses] [implied murder/death] [implied SA & violence] [needle play] [pet names] [praise] [PTSD] [scars] [traumatic memories/flashback] [unnatural abilities] [you and Matt are both criminals, mentally unwell, and so, so in love with each other 🖤]

Note: This fic is a sequel to this one, and while it isn't required reading, I'd recommend that you do if you want to have the full context going into this one.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy and fiction, and should be regarded as such. I don't condone replicating the acts depicted. If you're interested in this sort of play, please educate yourself, take the appropriate precautions, and use the correct tools.

The delicate scent of freshly chopped vegetables simmered in broth fills your small kitchen. Taking it in with a deep breath as you slowly stir the pot, you smile, content in the peaceful moment. Bringing the ladle to your lips, you blow away the rising steam with a few unhurried breaths.

Once it’s a tolerable temperature, you sample your work, and hum a quiet note. It’s… on the bland side, to put it mildly. If this pot were for you alone, you’d be reaching for the spice cabinet post haste. It isn’t, though, and you don’t even find yourself lamenting that fact, given the company you’re soon to be sharing it with.

When you’d first begun attempting to feed Matt, you started with something you considered quite basic and mild. A simple bowl of oatmeal. Forgone were any of your more extravagant toppings and mix-ins, you were sticking to the bare minimum. Oats, water and milk. A pinch of salt, a small spoonful of sugar, and just a dusting of cinnamon. It doesn’t get much more basic, (or flavorless…), than that.

Or so you thought.

The memories of his favorite cuisine must've fallen too far into the back of your mind. Mixed in and tucked away with all the other parts of your past you’d rather not dwell on, the taste, or lack thereof, of his signature “soup” was hardly the worst of them.

It was hardly the best either.

Rather unremarkable aside from the bizarre circumstances of its initial presentation, it wasn’t the taste that you found so off-putting. It was the texture. Clumps of bread that’d grown far past soggy, nearly turning to sludge amidst the watery broth, it was just… unpleasant.

You could never wrap your head around Matt’s apparent genuine enjoyment of the dish. In the beginning, before you knew him better, you’d thought he might just be fucking with you. Surely no sane person could like it at all, let alone name it their favorite. But therein laid the error in your reasoning. You weren’t dealing with a sane man at all.

When you once questioned him on it, he gave you a vague yet sincere answer. “Oh, it’s an old family recipe.” The words had rolled off his tongue with ease, and your brow furrowed. He rarely spoke of any family, hell, you weren’t sure he ever really had one. When you pressed further though, his answer quickly fell apart. When required to actually try and recall any detail as to this supposed family, he drew a blank.

It wasn’t that surprising, in all honesty. It didn’t make you doubt him much, either. Even less so nowadays, with your approximate knowledge of just how old his idea of “old” is. The mind can only recall so much, can only reach so far back before everything starts to fade.

Sometimes you mourn the amount of his memory, his history, that’s been lost to the unrelenting passage of time.

Sometimes you wonder who he’d be mourning, if their memory still lived within him.

You blink, and pull your eyes back into focus.

You stir the pot on the stove before you.

Best to keep yourself grounded in the here and now, you suppose.

Regardless of Matt’s supposed love of that awful soup of his, you weren’t too keen on it yourself. You’d been far too afraid to tell him so the first few times he fed it to you, and you were hardly in a position to decline. But time passed as it always does and you gradually turned from his captive into his companion. You learned that you needn’t fear a disagreement so trivial. Eventually you brought it up, letting him down slowly so as to not insult his… family’s cooking.

He took it far better than you’d feared, only seeming a bit… saddened, that you’d exaggerated your initial assessment of the dish. You weren’t sure if his sadness stemmed from your newfound dislike of his soup, or from the reminder of your initial fear of him. You never asked.

You couldn’t imagine that eating nothing but bread and water could be good for him, but then again he’s shown great enough feats of survival that you suspect he may not even need food at all. The black scars on your wrist suggest that you may now share that trait too, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lost your taste. You still crave food, and if the two of you are going to be eating together, you’d like it to be something you both can enjoy.

That’s how you found yourself presenting him with an innocent bowl of oatmeal, figuring it wasn’t that far of a step away from his preferences.

You quickly gathered that you’d underestimated his palate’s sensitivities.

You’d tried not to stare as he pulled the bottom of his mask up, the sight still relatively rare to you then. With bated breath, you watched him take a tentative bite of the benign breakfast food. To his credit, he didn’t cringe, or gag, or any other outrageous reaction you’d feared. He just… frowned. And your heart sank a little. Had you used too much water? Not enough milk? Too much salt? Not enough sugar?

Your inner worries were soon quieted as he politely questioned you, holding another spoonful up in front of him. “Why is it… spicy?”

It took everything in you not to laugh, both from pure surprise, and at the meme he was unknowingly quoting. “I… is it? It’s spicy to you…?”

He took in a second thoughtful bite, and nodded. “Yeah… kind of? It’s a little thick… and has this… I don’t know.” He brought his hand up to cup his exposed jawline in thought. “It’s… hmm… no, not dirt, oh what’s the word… earthy! Like… spicy… wood, or something.” You bite back a smile at his explanation, and catch how he mirrors yours when his eyes land on you. “I… I think I quite like the sweetness of it though.”

You quickly gathered that he was awfully sensitive to- well, just about every flavor, the more intense ones especially so. And his baseline for “intense” was adorably low. It made enough sense you supposed, given you’d no idea how long he’d been eating that same flavorless glop of his. It did raise a brief question in your mind though, the answer which you’d silently searched for when you were next alone.

A brief search in your phone’s browser shut down your fleeting line of thought that perhaps he’d never been accustomed to such flavors. It seemed quite the opposite, in fact, given that apparently Britain had taken over the cinnamon trade during the 1800’s. So, it was unlikely that the spice, and similar others, weren’t available to him in some capacity then. Well, if your attempts at surmising his origins were correct, that is. It didn’t seem to be considered a rare commodity by those times either.

Shaking the tangling web of thoughts from your mind, you dismissed it in the same way you’d learned to treat his many other anomalies. Perhaps he’d lived in… unique circumstances even then. Perhaps the true extent of his “old family recipe” has simply been lost to time, leaving him with memory of nothing but the utter basic ingredients. Perhaps your rough calculation of his true age was incorrect. The variety of reasons were plentiful, multiplying, and eventually, overwhelming to your tired mind.

Best to not dwell.

You were appreciative of his continued willingness to try your offerings, having not been too badly put off by his first impression of your “spicy” oatmeal. You began modifying your simple recipes, removing more and more flavor until you were left with the tamest possible versions of them. He came to enjoy your oatmeal, once you’d upped the water and forgone the cinnamon. He’d quite enjoyed your vegetable soup, too, once you parted ways with your beloved garlic and onions.

It wasn’t a hard sacrifice to make, in all honesty, because the satisfaction of finding something, anything else he liked to eat, far outweighed the loss. Besides, the omissions only applied to the initial recipe. Nothing stopped you from seasoning your own serving after the fact, which you often did. One would think you were eating Carolina Reapers with the way his eyes widened at the sight of you seasoning your food.

You never considered yourself to be much of a genuine spice lover, you just liked some flavor in your food. It became a lighthearted joke between you both. He continually balked at the sight of your heavy-handed garlic powder pour, and you gently poked fun at him over his bland taste. Watching him contentedly eat his watery oats, you once playfully remarked as much, affection lacing your quiet words as they crossed the kitchen table. “Matthew, you’ve got to be the whitest man I know.”

You doubted he’d get the reference, which only made his honest response infinitely funnier in retrospect. In the moment, though, it just made you a bit sad. “…You know other men…”

It wasn’t a question, nothing more than a quiet, trailing statement with a jealous undertone. He seemed saddened by such a reminder, and you quickly felt the urge to remove the frown settling on his lips. Rising from your seat and closing the space between you, your hand found his shoulder as you bent down to his level. After planting a long kiss on his temple, you reassured him softly. “None of them have ever held a candle to the ways in which I know you.”

You recall the feeling of his muscles relaxing beneath your touch, and you smile.

Using the edge of your ladle, you gently press it down and part a soft carrot slice in two. Nodding to yourself and giving the pot one last stir, you reach out and return the range’s dial back to its vertical off position. It’s then, in the otherwise quiet room, that Matt’s heartbeat grows noticeably louder in your ears.

It took a little while to adapt to at first, this new constant pulse in the background of your mind. When he first explained it to you, you’d had a fleeting fear that it would grow to annoy you, but you’re relieved to have found that to be far from the case. It’s comforting, above all else. A soft, constant reminder that he’s still alive, and still with you, even when he isn’t physically with you. And like any constant sound, you grew accustomed to it. Before you knew it you found it fairly easy to let slip from your focus when you so desired, and just as easy to tune back into when you wished.

Even when you weren’t paying specific attention to it though, it was always unmistakable when he first came home. Its volume being based upon your proximity, the steady beat always made itself re-known when he drew close. He was an otherwise quiet man, the many years spent in his particular occupation lending him an innate degree of stealth that he carried with him everywhere. He could never sneak up on you again, though. Such was the price he paid for giving you his heart, and he’s never seemed to mind.

So it wasn’t the silent unlocking of your door, nor was it his silent footsteps through the short hall that told you he was home. It was the steady thump of his heartbeat, catching your attention as it grew louder.

Smiling, you turn away from the stove to face the doorway just in time to greet him as he’s rounding the corner. “Welcome ho-…-ome…” The disheveled sight of him then causes your face to fall. You falter for a moment as his exhausted voice greets you in turn, making his way to the kitchen table and pulling out a chair. Reaching a hand inside his jacket, he pulls out a thick wad of cash, dropping it on the table with little fanfare as you make your way over to him.

The heavy scent of iron lingers on him, and your hands hover for a moment before gently landing on his upper arms. Catching his gaze, you question him in urgent concern. “What- what happened? Are you okay?”

He pulls his gloves off, tossing them onto the table next. “Of course I am, doll…” His unconvincing statement is punctuated by a quiet groan as he lowers himself into the chair. Your hands slip away from his arms, and when you register a cold wetness on the left, your breath hitches. Your eyes flick down to assess your palm at the same time as his preemptive reassurance hits your ears. “It’s not mine.”

The blood that soaked his jacket tints your hand a shade of red, not black, and you release your breath.

Reaching for a hand towel and wiping it away without a care, you resist the urge to put your hands on him again. You want to feel, want to search his pitch black clothes for any patch of blood that might not be red, but you refrain. You don’t ever want to overwhelm him.

Turning behind you and pulling your own chair near, you release his name in a shaky breath. “Matt…” You have to ask. “Did it… go south?”

His elbows thunk lightly against the table as he props them there, leaning forward. “Only…” He sighs. “Only a little bit.” He eyes the cash on the table. “I still got the job done.”

You follow his gaze, and frown. Reaching out, you lift one end of the stack with your thumb, watching the hundreds flicker past as you riffle through them. Pulling your hand back and crossing your arms, you voice your doubt. “Was it worth it? I don’t ever want you taking a job for the sake of the-”

“This wasn’t about the payment.” He gently cuts you off, shaking his head slowly. “That’s not why I took this job.”

“Was it… personal, then?”

“…Not quite.” His gaze drifts up from the table to stare out the small window above the sink. “It was… a moral thing, I guess. If I’d passed on it, there was a risk of it becoming personal. But- even if there wasn’t… I’m not the type to let a man like that walk.”

You question him gently. “…Like what?”

He glances at you for a moment, hesitating on his words. “He… had a reputation. Real big, strong, the cocky type. Liked throwing his weight around, starting fights…” Matt laughs. “He was so overconfident in himself, that- word was- he never even carried a gun. Thought that his sheer strength, “street smarts”, whatever, would be enough to carry him through anything.”

You roll your eyes at the notion. “Sounds like a real prick, yeah. But still, that’s not enough to get a bounty put on himself… right?”

You can’t see the way the edge of Matt’s lips tug up in the slightest smile at your words. It fades fast regardless though as he continues talking around the dark truth of the matter.

“Fist fights weren’t the only way he liked to… throw his weight around. He also had a penchant for targeting people that he knew couldn’t stand a chance at fighting back. He… enjoyed taking things that didn’t belong to him.”

The dark, disgusted edge that Matt’s voice has taken tells you that he’s not talking about material possessions. Your stomach drops. “…Oh.”

“Yeah.” His gaze locks onto the table. “There are… certain lines that you just don’t cross. He quite enjoyed crossing them. I quite enjoy killing those who do. So, no. It wasn’t about the money, doll.”

You uncross your arms, taking a deep breath. The metallic sting of the low-life’s remains wafts off of Matt and hits the back of your throat. The two of you sit in thoughtful silence for a few moments, and you come to a conclusion. “I wish you’d have let me come with you.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “Like I said this morning, love, it was too dangerous-”

“Don’t you know how much I’d have loved to get in on a job like that?”

He breathes. In, and out. “I… do. I do. But I couldn’t risk it. Not this time.”

To his credit, he was often quite lenient with your requests. As much as he’d sometimes like to keep you here, safe, tied to the bedpost to never leave again and subject yourself to the cruel, dangerous world outside… he doesn’t. He’s come to recognize the strength that resides within you. He knows you can hold your own. He usually does let you accompany him on these jobs. He can even admit that you two make an excellent team.

That’s why you didn’t argue this morning when he insisted that he handle this one alone. The both of you have come very far. If he has reasons for wanting to work alone sometimes, you’ll step aside. But seeing him now, looking so worn down… knowing the type of revenge you missed out on, even if it wasn’t yours to take… it’s hard to stomach that you could only sit back and wait.

Your silence doesn’t sit well with him, so he continues to explain. “I know you can hold your own. As much as I hate to see you have to do it, I know. I know. But against a man like that, if there existed even the smallest chance that we could be overpowered and you could be subjected to… him.” He shakes his head, resolute. “No. I won’t ever risk that. I couldn’t live with myself if he’d so much as laid a finger on you.”

His eyes meet yours, and to your surprise, they’re almost pleading.

You hold his gaze for a moment before responding, letting the air’s tension ease. “…I get it.” You sigh, but it’s mostly one of acceptance. “But Gods, Matt, you look like you could collapse. How big of a fight did he put up, anyways?”

The old wooden chair creaks beneath him as he leans back, giving it his full exhausted weight. “He was a good fighter, I’ll admit. Strong too.” He reaches beneath his jacket again, this time retrieving his gun from its concealed holster. He points it skyward, finger thankfully off the trigger, tapping the end of the barrel a few times against his temple. You note the edge of unhinged pride in his voice. “He’d never met me though.”

The few remaining shreds of your sanity beg you not to find the display endearing. They lose in the face of your love for him.

Smiling, you shake your head, trying to reprimand him still. “You’re reckless, Matthew. Utterly reckless.”

“C’mon, poppet…” He lowers the gun to rest on the table, pointing away from you. “You can still hear my heartbeat, can’t you?”

You nod.

“Did you ever hear it stop?”

You shake your head.

“Then there you have it. I’m just fine.”

His idea of reassurance could use a little work.

“Are you though? For- for all I know he could’ve hurt you fifty different ways, you healed on the way home, and I’ll be none the wiser! It’s not like I can just strip you and look for myself, I have to take your word for it!”

He’s grateful for the mask hiding the way his cheeks flush at your sudden mention of stripping him. He tilts his head to the side, searching for a more convincing answer.

The way his head moves causes the fabric of his mask to stretch out across his cheek. Not much, but enough. Just enough for your worried gaze to catch the tear in the fabric and the way it pulls apart, exposing a sliver of skin beneath.

You bolt up, leaning in close to him before he can even understand what you’re staring at. His wide-eyed gaze flicks toward you, but he doesn’t pull back. “…What is it?”

You reach a cautious hand out, giving him time to stop you, and he doesn’t. Pinching the material of his mask between your finger and thumb, you wince when you feel that it isn’t dry. Gently pulling down, you part the fabric far enough to get a better look beneath. “You have a tear in your-”

You can’t see much through the hole without tearing it wider, but the smeared black stain on the otherwise pale skin of his cheek causes you to falter. “…It’s not a tear.”

You pull your gaze away to look into his eyes. “It’s a cut.”

Recollection seems to hit him at your words, and he raises a hand to meet yours, his fingertips blindly assessing the area. When he pulls them away they’re tinted black.

Sheepish laughter escapes him as you release your hold on his mask, your frown deeper than ever.

“What can I say? He, eh… he brought a knife to a gun fight.”

You don’t laugh. “He cut through your mask. He hurt you.”

At your tone, Matt scrambles to do damage control. “It was barely a scratch! You- you know- one thing about big guys like him? They’re not all that nimble- or- or- agile like me. He hardly even landed any hits on me!”

Your eyes widen. “‘Hardly’? Are there more!?”

He shakes his head, hands held out in a placating gesture. “No! I- I mean- I don’t think so! It’s… kinda hard to tell… y’know? I was so caught up in the moment, it’s… easy to miss something as small as the sting of a blade.”

You stare at him, mouth agape for a moment in incredulous silence. You eventually close it, bringing your palms up to drag them down your cheeks in exasperation.

You suppose for a man who’s been shot as many times as he has, the pain of a cut would hardly even register by comparison.

His name comes out as a whine this time. “Matthew…”

“I’m sorry, love…” You can’t read much of his expression, but he sounds guilty.

You force yourself to take a calming breath.

“…No, no… it’s not your fault that he hurt you.” You could argue that it’s his fault for taking the job alone in the first place, but that’s hardly fair of you to say. Not when you know how much of his motivation was to keep you safe.

“You… don’t have to show me, if he hurt you elsewhere. Not if it isn’t vital. But please, at least let me help somehow. I can- I can wash those clothes for you.” Your gaze roams across the cut in his mask. “And I can mend that hole.”

“You don’t have to do any of that, doll, I-”

“I want to.” You cut him off with conviction. “I’ve- I’ve got food for you too… if you want it…” You add, gesturing to the pot on the stove with less conviction.

His gaze lingers on you as your tense shoulders fall, and his own tired muscles relax in response. Thoughtfully, he slowly begins to shrug off his jacket. “Yeah… yeah. Okay. I’d like that.”

You stand, coming around to lift the fabric from his shoulders. His voice grows soft. “…Thank you.”

-

With soup in your stomachs, Matt’s freshly washed clothes tumbling in the dryer, and himself currently in the shower, you release a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as you set a freshly rinsed bowl in the drying rack. Retrieving the nearby hand towel from the counter, you admire what you can see of the sunset from your kitchen window, sifting through the thoughts and emotions cluttering your mind.

Matt’s order of operations this evening were strange, but hardly anything about him isn’t, so you don’t think about it too hard. Whatever compelled him to eat before his shower makes no sense to you. But hey, everybody’s got their preferences, you suppose.

Thankfully, his mask and jacket seemed to be the only two things that had any significant amount of blood on them. He let you take them off, what with you so eager to get them in the wash and rid your kitchen of the metallic scent. You imagined his shirt and pants didn’t come out completely unscathed, but with his penchant for an all-black wardrobe, it was hard to tell. You weren’t about to have him strip right then when it seemed all he wanted to do was take a nap right there at the table. It was fine, the rest could go in the wash later.

Returning from the washroom to the kitchen, the sight of him smiling at you, politely requesting soup with blood still smeared across his cheek gave you pause. When you questioned him on it, he blinked at you with tired eyes, stating that your cooking would give him the strength to go shower afterwards. You figured he was mostly saying that in an attempt to lift your spirits, surely he wasn’t that hungry. Nevertheless, it made you smile.

Pulling your mind from the past and your gaze from the purple-orange sky, you drape your towel over the oven door’s handle. With the kitchen back in order, you close the curtains, kill the lights, and make your way to the dryer.

You interrupt the machine and pull the dry mask from the drum before shutting the door and allowing the remaining larger, thicker, still-damp fabrics to finish out the cycle.

You flatten the balaclava in your hands as you make your way to the bedroom. Matt’s humming escapes from the crack beneath the bathroom door, along with the sound of running water as he continues his shower. Thoughtfully running your thumb over the slit across the mask’s left cheek, you stop at your dresser. Pilfering through the top drawer for your little sewing kit, you decide to make good on your offer to mend the hole.

Clicking on your bedside lamp, you kick your slippers off and settle atop the sheets, laying your supplies out in front of you. Analyzing the fabric, you pick out what you’ll need. It’s a pretty clean cut.

You push aside the quiet question of how sharp the man’s knife had been.

Should be easy enough to mend it close to new with some tight, careful stitching.

You push aside the quiet question of if any part of Matt might’ve needed stitching.

Cutting a length of black thread, you ready the needle, and set to your quiet work.

You shake your head at the prior thought, finding that it won’t leave you be. There’s never any need for stitches when it comes to Matt. The same likely holds true for you now as well. You both heal too quickly for that to be necessary.

You find yourself wishing that’d been the case for you back when you had a knife stuck in your gut, countless safety pins pushed through your skin, and a maniac cornering you, intent on bleeding you out the hard way.

“Death by a thousand cuts.” He’d told you.

Long as you may live, you don’t think you’ll ever forget it.

You try not to dwell on those memories, but it’s hard not to lament what could’ve happened. How differently things could’ve gone if you’d had the power that you possess today. How you’d have pulled that blade from your stomach without fear and shoved it through his throat so fast he wouldn’t have seen it coming. How you’d have torn that hideous white mask off of his face just to watch the shock and pain contort his features as you twisted the blade.

You watch the needle push through the fabric in your hands in a rhythmic, repetitive motion, your body on autopilot as your mind lingers in the past.

Maybe if Matt hadn’t had to show up and save you that day, things could’ve gone differently. Maybe the two of you wouldn’t have had to part ways afterward. Maybe your next meeting wouldn’t have been handcuffed together in an unfamiliar room.

Who knows. It’s a waste of time to wish you could change the past. And if things hadn’t gone the way they did, maybe you’d have never seen him again at all. Maybe there’s a reason for everything happening exactly how it did. Who knows.

An unknown force suddenly jostles you and you yelp, startled out of your thoughts. You immediately hear Matt apologize, and you turn, quickly gathering that the “unknown force” was nothing more than him, plopping down on the bed next to you. You open your mouth to respond, but you’re interrupted when you go to move your hand and an instinctive hiss of pain comes out of you instead.

Looking down, your eyes widen at the sight of your sewing needle, pierced straight through the pad of your left index finger.

“Oh, no!” Comes Matt’s shocked voice from beside you after his gaze follows yours. “Ohhh, no, no, no. Did I make you do that?”

You assume your fingers must’ve slipped when he startled you, but you aren’t about to blame him. You struggle to find your words as you stare at the tiny impalement. “It’s… it’s fine, honey, I was just… zoned out. Didn’t even notice that you’d left the bathroom…”

You gather Matt’s mask in your free hand, unable to put it down given that it’s still attached to the thread, attached to the needle, attached to you. Pinning the fabric between your wrist and your chest, you twist your body and hold your hand out under the lamp to your left. The thread attaching you to the mask grows taut, tugging lightly at your new piercing, and you feel your mind slipping.

You don’t feel yourself in your bed anymore, and you don’t see your nightstand in front of you. You feel yourself pinned to a wall, and you see that awful man pushing another pin through your skin. He’s rough and careless, pressing them deep to catch on more than just skin, tugging them back up to fasten them and make sure this hurts as much as possible.

Tears well up in your eyes as you feel someone take hold of your wrist. You instinctively pull away, and their soft grip tightens.

You hear that awful, wet, sputtering voice in your mind, muttering its nonsense, growing louder, angrier. You try to make sense of its repetitions. You shut your eyes tight and all you can see is blood. All you can hear is the blood spilling from his lips… his tongue. Tongue. That’s right. Someone cut out his tongue. Who? Was it you? Have you forgotten that too? Is this your punishment for such a crime? But- no- why would you do that? Did you do that? Did you do that? Do you deserve this? What did you do to deserve this?

What did you do?

What did you do?

What did you do, child?

Matthew’s voice cuts through the noise at last, shouting your name.

When you open your eyes, you meet his through a watery gaze.

He lowers his voice, but his heavy, serious tone remains as he begins to ground you.

“It’s over. He’s dead. He’s dead, and gone, and never coming back, and you didn’t do anything. You never did anything to deserve that. Not any of it.”

You’re tempted to close your eyes, wanting his voice to be the only thing you can perceive, but he stops you. “Ah-ah-ah- no, no, poppet, stay with me. Want you to keep your eyes on me, okay?”

You nod, raising your free hand to wipe at your eyes. He keeps one hand around your other wrist, holding your injury steady as he tugs at the collar of his bathrobe. He then reaches for your free hand with his, and you hardly have time to be confused before he’s slipping it beneath the thick fabric of his robe, bringing your hand to rest on his bare chest. The bold move shocks you halfway out of your mind’s haze, and for a brief, blissful moment all you can focus on is how warm he is.

Guiding your hand, he settles it directly over the part of his chest where you’d planted his last two hearts. “Do you feel that?”

The steady twin thumping against your palm aligns with the rhythm of his pulse in your mind. You nod. He rests his hand atop yours, a silent invitation to keep it there.

“Good. Focus on that for me, okay? Focus on that while we breathe. Just follow my lead, I know you can do this.”

He patiently guides you through a few long minutes of breathing, until you’re able to match his measured breaths. As soon as you feel able, you try to apologize. “I’m so sorry, Matt, I don’t know what came over me, I just-”

He gently hushes you. “Pumpkin, c’mon, none of that. You don’t have anything to apologize for, okay? Just breathe. In…” You copy him again. “Aaand out…” You manage to let your shoulders drop on the exhale this time, and he smiles. “Good. There we go.” His hand slowly leaves his chest, and you wordlessly slip yours out of his robe, not wanting to overstay your welcome.

You risk another glance at your injury, and to your relief it doesn’t make your head swim this time. Matt still tries to distract you from it, leaning in to break your line of sight. “You don’t have to worry about that, doll, I’ll take care of it-”

You nod, but still cut him off by tugging your hand closer for a better look. “You can- I’ll- I’ll let you, I just… wanna see.”

He allows it, his careful grip on your wrist remaining. “See what?”

You turn your hand under the light. “How deep it is.” Your stomach turns a bit as you stare, but you’re relieved to find that it’s not that bad. The needle simply slipped through the soft pad of your fingertip, not hitting anything else. You feel silly for caring, what with your body’s capabilities, the risk from something like this is as trivial as a paper cut. You suppose you just haven’t gotten used to living in a more resilient body. All of your old fears still linger, unnecessary as they may be.

Regardless, you look away as you allow him to take your hand back. “…Okay, Doc, have at me.”

Matthew chuckles. “Me? A doctor? Goodness, what is this world coming to…”

Attempting to keep the mood light, he playfully considers your minor injury as he steadies your upturned hand on his knee. “Now, this is a pretty cool piercing, I’ll admit. But it’s also a pretty inconvenient one, isn’t it. So as- uh- oh, what do the kids say these days… hardcore as it looks, I’m gonna need to remove this, alright?”

You nod, laughing beneath your breath, and he finds himself satisfied with the small smile he manages to bring out of you.

“I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can, yeah? Want me to count you down?”

You close your eyes, shaking your head. “Nah, it’s fine. In your own time.”

“Alright, love. Deep breath in for me?”

You inhale, and one short, mildly uncomfortable moment later, you’re freed from the painful intrusion.

“There we go.” You open your eyes as he takes the needle with its attached thread and balaclava out of your hold. Playful as ever, he scolds the offending object as he sets it aside. “Bad needle, bad! No one hurts my poppet, not even you.” He shakes his head, and you huff a laugh at his commitment to the bit.

As sweet as your partner is being, your focus still shifts to your sore finger, held in your own lap now. You watch two little beads of black blood form on both ends of the puncture wound. They swell, and slowly begin to roll down your finger as Matt returns to kneel in front of you.

A half-baked thought occurs, and you act on it immediately. Holding your finger out to him in offering, you feel a sense of déjà vu, recalling the first time you made an offering like this. His eyes widen at the sudden presentation, and far be it from him to presume, he questions you.

“Would you… like me to go grab a bandage for that, dear? It should… stop bleeding on its own very soon, but, I don’t mind if you-”

You shake your head. “That’s not necessary. I, uh… I’m offering.”

His brows raise. “Offering?”

“Y-yeah. A taste. If you want it.”

His tongue briefly pokes out to wet his lips, a minuscule movement, but you catch it. “Are- are you sure? You were just pretty upset, I don’t want to make anything worse…”

You nudge your hand closer, an odd sense of desperation fueling you. “I’m sure.”

Conflicted but clearly craving it, he brings your finger to his lips carefully. You take in a breath, nodding. Painfully slow, ready to stop himself at any second, he finally tastes you, and you exhale involuntarily. When he pulls away, there are already two little dots, tiny twin scars adorning both sides of your finger.

Damn, you sure do heal fast.

Why does that disappoint you?

You catch him eyeing the twin trails running down the length of your digit, and you encourage him to do what he likely considers too obscene. “Go ahead, if you’d like, love.”

His unsure gaze flicks between you and the remaining blood on your finger several times, before eventually giving in when you don’t waver. His tongue peeks out again, chasing the trails down the length of your finger, and his cheeks are burning red when he pulls away.

You feel lightheaded at the sight, in the best way possible. Sighing out a breathy “There you go…”, you take your hand back, admiring the pinprick scars.

“Thank you… you, uh, certainly didn’t have to offer that…” Matt’s appreciation goes in one ear and out the other as you quickly find yourself in the grips of a brand new idea. A newly born desire.

A stupid one? Maybe.

A dangerous one? Perhaps.

A weird one? Certainly.

You turn and pitch it to him before you can think any better of it.

“Can we do that again?”

He blinks a few times. “…Pardon?”

You reach for your sewing kit. “Can we…” You fish out a pin-filled cushion and present it to him. “…Do that again?”

You imagine the gears in his brain stuttering and shifting as his face cycles through several different expressions. “You want… to do that… again? All of it?”

You nod, a slightly less than subtle smile on your face. “Uhuh!”

“You want to pierce yourself again? On purpose this time? Because I- I promise you there’s easier ways to draw blood-”

“It’s not that different from a cut.” You interject. “And I… certainly don’t have to be the one to do it, but I can be… if you… don’t… want to.” Your voice is barely audible by the time you get the full sentence out.

“You want me to do it?” He reaches up, placing his palm on your forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” His question is mixed with disbelieving laughter, and the sound is contagious.

Now laughing too, you nod, pulling his hand away and taking it in yours. “Matt, I’m high on endorphins right now, I’m better than okay.” You squeeze his hand. “And I’d quite like to make this last.”

What remains of your rationality pipes up, reminding you that perhaps he doesn’t want to. You sober up a bit at the thought.  “That- that is… only if you want to.”

He shakes his head. “No, I- wait that’s- that’s not a no! I mean- it’s not a yes either- at least- not yet! I…” He sighs. “I just… don’t want to bring up bad memories again.”

You alleviate his concern with admittedly shady logic at best. “We can make new ones! Re… I don’t know… re-route the association.”

He frowns, clearly skeptical.

“I promise you, Matthew, I wouldn’t do this if I thought it would upset me.”

You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

“How can you know that it won’t?”

“I… can’t. Not for sure.” You place the pin cushion gingerly on your knee, and you crack a smile. “Not unless we try.”

He considers you for a long moment, and you release your eager hold on his hand,  reiterating your prior point.

“It’s really okay if you don’t want to.”

He takes the cushion in one hand and slowly pulls a random pin out with the other. He asks you a very serious question.

“Will you tell me to stop, the moment you don’t like it anymore?”

Surprise paints your features. “Of course.”

He sets the cushion aside. “You’re sure you’d rather I be the one to do it?”

Your breathing picks up. “I’m sure.”

He notices, because of course he does, and he smiles, voice regaining a playful edge. “Well then… what kind of doctor would I be to leave a patient in need?”

You hate to admit the effect such a silly statement has on you, but from the way he’s watching you like a hawk… you probably don’t need to admit anything.

You ask one more time. “You’re sure you’re okay with this? Don’t let me pressure you…”

He toys with the tiny, sharp instrument, rolling it between his fingers.

“I’d be lying if I said the idea of this doesn’t… entice me.” He gently pokes at one of his own fingers, testing the waters. “And having you put this level of trust in me?” He meets your gaze. “It’s nothing short of an honor.”

“Then…” You feel heat rising to your own cheeks, and flex your fingers before offering him your left hand. “Please?”

He takes it in his, and pauses with a question. “Are you sure this is where you want it? Other areas would likely be… less sensitive. L-less painful, I mean. They… might also bleed less though…”

You nod. “Yes. I want it all, pain included.”

He smirks, running his thumb along the length of your middle finger. “You’re a little crazy, you know that?”

You pout playfully. “Only a little? …Gotta step up my game then…”

He shakes his head, laughing beneath his breath. Focus returning to your hand, he requests your preference. “Through the fingertip, like the first one?”

A rush of excitement tightens your chest. “Yeah, uh… the middle one, this time, please.”

He holds the appendage steady, readying the pin. “So polite…” He glances up at you. “A countdown this time, or no?”

You shake your head. “No… uh, again, in your own time.”

He picks up on the slight nervous edge in your voice. “You don’t have to watch, love.”

You consider it, and close your eyes. “Just… for this first one.”

You feel the tiniest point of pressure against the pad of your finger.

“No second thoughts yet?”

Your lips curl up at the edges.

“None.”

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he mentions it. “Breathe for me, doll.”

You obey.

“In…”

Your lungs fill.

“Out…”

You breathe out, slow at first, and then hard, as you feel the thin metal pierce through your sensitive skin. Your free hand grips the bedsheets and a sudden heat washes over you. Matt’s calm voice is quick to fill your ears.

“Good, good. There you go, you’re okay.”

You open your eyes and sure enough, he’s mirrored the first injury. Not too deep, just enough to hurt, and draw blood when removed.

His thumb rubs distracting circles into your palm. “How are you feeling now?”

Your shaky breath turns into quiet laughter, and you feel a little unhinged as you look him in the eye. “Good… really good.”

Relief softens his features, and warms his smile. “Good. You did very well.”

Your cheeks heat from the praise, the feeling mixing deliciously with the slight throb of pain. “You-” You take in a breath. “You can take it out now.”

He shifts slightly in his position beneath you. “You sure? I’m in no rush, doll, we can take our time with this.”

“I know, I know… but I want it to bleed.” You unfurl your right hand from the sheets, reaching out to rest it on his left shoulder. “Besides, I hate to make you wait for your reward.”

His brows raise. “Reward?”

“You didn’t think I’d have you pierce me just to keep the blood all to myself, did you?” You grin. “It’d be an awful waste.”

“That’s…” His own breath grows slightly heavier, and you revel in it. “…Very generous of you, love.”

He takes the end of the pin between his fingertips, careful not to tug on it. His eyes ask for permission, and you grant it with a nod. You don’t close your eyes this time. You do squeeze his shoulder, though.

Slowly, gently, he pulls the pin back, and you watch in rapt fascination as it moves through your skin. Your breath hitches the slightest bit when it slides fully out, and comfort spills from Matthew’s lips. “Sh-sh-shhh, you’re okay, you’re okay… it’s out now.” The mixture of comfort, pain, and praise that he’s giving you is enough to make you dizzy. You love it. Maybe too much. A brief thought passes that you may never get enough.

It fades when he looks up at you, and you see the restrained desire in his eyes. It mixes with surprise. “Oh-oh! I didn’t know you were watching that time…”

You raise a brow. “Is that okay?”

A beat passes, and he laughs, soft and breathy. “Of course. Of course it is.”

Blood is already beading at your fingertip, so you raise it up in offering. “You’re really good at this.”

He eyes your fresh little wounds and a faint sense of satisfaction blooms deep within him. “…Am I?”

His eyes close as he takes the tip of your finger between his lips, and you bite back an embarrassing noise when you feel him apply light suction. “S- shit- you sure are...”

Your lidded eyes graze across his features, and they catch on the new scar adorning his cheek. They remain there even after he’s released your finger, and as you allow that hand to fall to your lap, you reach out to him with the other. He doesn’t pull away when you cup his cheek, but he does comment after a quick breath to collect himself. “Like I said earlier… ‘s just a scratch.”

You gently brush over the raised line with your thumb, a pout turning your lips down. “Scratches don’t leave scars…”

He cups a hand over yours, blinking slowly. “I’m okay, truly.” Tongue poking out from between his wet lips again, he smiles. “Feeling better than okay right now, thanks to you.”

You look from his scar, to his eyes, and back to his scar a few times as an urge blooms within you. It’s a familiar one, often fought back, and re-emerging with renewed intensity every time.

You let it win tonight.

Leaning down toward him, giving him ample time to stop you, you move to press a kiss to his cheek. He makes no attempt to object.

His breath catches, almost imperceptible if you weren’t so close, as your lips meet his freshly scarred skin. You linger for a moment that feels like forever, before pulling away. When your eyes open and meet once more, the room feels warmer.

…Maybe it’s just you.

His eyes flutter closed again as he leans into your touch, still cupping his cheek. His other hand finds yours, joining it on your lap.

As the two of you bask in your respective little highs, you feel uncharacteristically bold. So when a question arises, you don’t dismiss it as you’ve done in the past.

“Matthew?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever think about kissing me?”

His eyes blink open.

“I… do kiss you?”

You smile at the innocent confusion.

“Not… not like I just did. Not on my cheek, or my forehead, or my hand…”

Your thumb brushes past the corner of his mouth.

“On my lips.”

His eyes widen.

“…Oh.”

You didn’t think his face could grow much warmer, but it does.

“I… well…” He seems reluctant to answer, and you wonder what’s holding him back.

“It’s okay if you don’t, love. I just… wonder, sometimes.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, seeming to come to a quiet conclusion. “…I do, though.” His words suddenly have a desperate edge to them. “I have, and I do. But… I feel like I shouldn’t.”

Your head tilts to the side. “Shouldn’t think about it?”

“N-” He falters. “…Yes… that’s… part of it. I do feel like I shouldn’t sometimes. I don’t ever want to push that sort of affection on you. I- I’d be okay if we never… went there. Honestly. Just… having you- the honor of calling you mine. That’s more than enough for me.”

Your eyes threaten to water from the effort of containing your emotions. “That means a lot to me, you know? That you don’t want to push me. But… I’d like to put that inner conflict of yours at ease. Because I think about it too.”

“You do?” There’s genuine disbelief in his voice.

You nod. “I sure do. Ha… honestly, I fear it’s a bit… obvious, sometimes.”

He shrugs, shaking his head slowly. “I mean… I never want to assume. I’m not always the best at reading people…”

“Well, what if I make it clear, hm?” You lock in on his gaze. “I want to kiss you too, Matthew.”

Flustered by the direct confession, he trips over his words. “I- ahaha- well, wow. Uhm- I mean, you see…”

Your voice is soft. “What is it, love?”

“I’m…” He closes his eyes. “Afraid.”

You first try the lighthearted method of easing his fears. “I promise I won’t bite…”

In spite of his apparent inner conflict, he laughs. “Not, uh, not of that… but thank you. It’s, eh…”

“You can be candid with me, honey.”

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to… get you sick.”

You blink. “Do you… feel a cold coming on, or…?”

You move your hand up to feel his forehead, but right now he’s flushed all over, so… oh. Oh, maybe you’ve been misinterpreting that.

Mirroring your earlier exchange, he pulls your hand down with a small smile. “No… not that kind of sick. I mean…” He toys with your fingers as he finds his words. “Sometimes I feel like there’s something inside me. Something dangerous. Something bad. I’m afraid of passing it to you.”

You glance at your wrist, and its slowly growing collection of black lines. “Honey… I think that whatever lives within you is already in me too.” You tap a few times on your chest, right over both of your hearts. “You know?”

“Yeah… I do.” His gaze lingers on your chest, but you can sense that it’s innocent. Honestly, it’s almost like he’s looking more through you than at you. From his next words, you can tell that his mind’s a little far away. “Still, though… I fear that there’s more. Something worse. Something that wouldn’t serve you. I… I don’t know what it is.”

You mull his words over, and come to a rational conclusion. Well. As rational as you’re capable of being in your current state.

You reach out to place a finger beneath his chin, your thumb dangerously close to his lower lip. It doesn’t take much more than that to bring him back into the here and now with you. “Even so. I’m not scared. I wouldn’t be here with you today if I was afraid of taking risks.”

His lips part slightly as you pause, but he doesn’t interrupt you.

“If you really don’t want to, I will not pressure you. I won’t bring this up again unless you do. But regardless- I need you to know this, Matthew.”

For once, he’s the one holding his breath.

“I don’t care if you’re sick. I don’t care if it’s contagious. Hell, I’d kiss you even if you were dead.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips again. A subconscious thing, you figure.

Satisfied that you’ve made your stance clear, you move to release your gentle hold on his chin.

His hand flies up to stop you.

“Please.”

You freeze.

“Please… what?”

His tone is full of quiet desperation.

“Kiss me. Please. I want it too, I do, I do.”

Your breath grows shallow.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

You allow your hand to slide until it’s cupping the back of his jaw, and you lean down slowly. He rises to meet you halfway, you both close your eyes, and together, you give in.

It’s desperate and clumsy, trembling breaths and shaky hands. Your uneven positioning doesn’t lend itself well to the action, and your shared inexperience makes itself quietly known.

But it’s passionate, it’s intimate, vulnerable, and honest.

It’s far from perfect. It’s real.

Neither of you would change a single thing.

Breaking apart, you both descend into fits of quiet giggles. Eyes still closed and foreheads pressed together, you lean into each other, catching your breath.

When you’re calm enough to speak, you pull back, squeezing his hands in yours. “You’re so warm…”

He laces his fingers between yours. “You’re so soft…”

He shifts in his half-kneeling stance at the bed beside you, and it suddenly hits you. “Gods, how long have I kept you like this?”

The sudden question pulls him halfway out of his post-kiss daze. “Like what?”

You laugh, embarrassed. “On the floor in front of me! I’ve been so caught up in… in- in you, I didn’t even think about it, I…”

He shakes his head, tone completely unbothered. “It’s alright, doll! Really, it’s…” He stares up at you for a moment, and exhales. “It’s far from a bad position to be in.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Even so, you can’t be comfortable. C’mon, we’re getting you back in this bed with me properly.”

You move to encourage him to stand, and he puts his hands down on the edge of the bed to support himself. Only, instead of standing, he flinches with a quiet “Ow!” When he pulls his hand back, you’re mortified to see the pin he’d used on you earlier sticking out of his palm.

“Oh, fuck- Matt- here- let me see.” You reach for his wrist, and he lets you take it.

You sigh in relief once you hold it in the light. It’s not buried to the hilt, just about halfway. It hasn’t pierced through his hand completely, but the sight still makes you cringe. Guilt is quick to wash over you. “Matt, I’m so sorry, this is my fault.”

You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. “It’s okay, poppet. It hardly even hurt, just took me by surprise more than anything.”

You throw him a skeptical look, and he doubles down. “Honest! And anyways, it’s not your fault that I left it lying on the bed.”

You frown. “I distracted you…”

He shrugs. “I’d say it was well worth it, given the type of distraction.”

Shaking your head, you cradle his hand in yours. “I’m still sorry.” Looking at him with worried eyes, you make an offer. “I can take it out, if you want me to. Or- or you can! I mean- whatever you’re comfortable with…”

He nods, his smile soft. “You can do it, doll. You won’t hurt me.”

The confidence- (or is it trust?)- in his words surprises you. It shouldn’t, you suppose, given that this is nothing compared to the whole heart-transplant-thing. He wasn’t quite conscious for that, though…

Still, you don’t take the job lightly. Carefully steadying his hand, you reach to grasp the end of the pin. “Do you want me to count?”

He mirrors your words from earlier. “No, it’s okay. In your own time.”

You hold the pin steady, and pull. Not too fast, not too slow, you try to mirror how he did it for you, and it’s out in no time. He doesn't even flinch. You frown at the offending object as you place it on your bedside table with purpose. “Bad pin, bad.”

Chuckling, he flexes his hand in your hold. “It’s really alright, you know? I’m not upset.”

Your focus returns to his palm, watching blood bead up out of the tiny hole. Apparently deciding to continue acting out your prior exchange in reverse, he offers it up to you. “That’s yours, if you’d like.”

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “…I’ve hardly earned it.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not something to be earned. I’m giving it willingly. You’re welcome to any part of me… whenever you want it.” He catches your downcast gaze. “Always.”

Flustered by his sincerity, you try to let go of the guilt nagging at you. Focusing on the blood collecting in his palm, you recall the taste from last time.

You crave it.

Leaning down, you kitten-lick at the tiny puddle. Once you catch a taste, though, you’re quick to lave your tongue over it in earnest. He watches you closely.

Shutting your eyes, you savor his offering, but it’s quick work nonetheless, his injury healing as fast as yours had.

Once his hand is cleaned, you thank him, feeling fire on your cheeks.

“Hmm. I feel like I should be the one thanking you.” He remarks while moving to stand. Surely his knees are killing him, but he voices no complaint. He’s far more content than you’d seen him all day, actually.

He stretches with a yawn before falling into step and making his way around the bed to rejoin you. He combs his fingers through his half-damp hair, feathering it out. You watch in quiet admiration as it drapes across his shoulders.

The man has nicer hair than you do, you think to yourself for the millionth time since knowing him. Not in true jealousy, of course, but it has always surprised you. In your early meetings, you’d only ever seen a hint of it, peeking out from beneath the neck of his mask. He keeps it tied back and tucked away when he’s working, so it wasn’t until the two of you had some genuine alone-time together that you’d been graced with a proper view of it.

Milk-chocolate brown, silky-smooth, and pin-straight. He had the type of hair you’d once envied, seemingly effortless to care for. He never had to do much to make it look nice. But of course, he’d always brush it off when you said so. Seeming almost flustered, he was often unsure of what to do with your compliments, especially in the beginning. You did your best to lay them on easy.

The bed shifts once again beneath his weight, and this time you don’t flinch at all. Sitting back against the headboard, he shuffles up beside you. You lean into him as the mattress dips and he stretches out his left arm, wrapping it around you.

“Comfy?” He asks.

“Mmmhm.” You hum.

Reaching out for his hand, you pull it toward you. You love his hands, and he knows it. Luckily, he’s never seemed bothered by your penchant for hanging onto them. Quite the opposite, if you were to guess. You aren’t oblivious to his possessive nature, after all.

Idly manipulating his fingers, you quietly admire them for the thousandth time. You’ve made yourself quite familiar with every scar, callus, and crease on these strong hands. With one thought as to all that they’re capable of, it still baffles you how gently he handles you. He always has.

That doesn’t mean it’s never hurt. Sometimes pain is necessary. Or, at the very least, it’s unavoidable. But he was always gentle about it. Injuring you, bandaging you, feeding you, caring for you… hell, even that time he prepared to kill you, he was gentle about it.

You can hurt someone gently.

You can pleasure someone roughly.

…There may be a few wires crossed in your brain. You laugh to yourself softly.

“What’s funny, love?”

You shake your head before resting it on his shoulder. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just thinking.”

Even when he was scared, or angry, his gentle touch never faltered.

You sometimes wonder if it was fear, or rage, that caused his hands to tremble after your encounter with Mr. T. Was it fear of losing you? Was it anger at what the man had done? Honestly, it could’ve simply been the adrenaline rush of having just finally killed the man.

…Regardless. It wasn’t lost on you how hard he tried to keep himself composed, diligently removing pin, after pin, after pin.

That’s the only part of that awful memory that you don’t mind.

Well, that, and the confession of his feelings for you. That was certainly a highlight too.

Manually curling his fingers one by one into his palm, you run your thumb over the symbol of Venus, tattooed on his middle finger. Every time you see it, you hear his voice in your mind, answering your inquiry as to its meaning.

“Because I’m a feminist.” He’d stated matter-of-factly.

You pull his hand up further, and plant a kiss on the reminder inked into his skin.

He turns his head, planting one on the crown of your head in turn.

Using your thumb to push his fingers back out, you frown at the sight of the new scar on his palm. It’s a tiny thing, honestly. Unnoticeable unless you’re looking for it.

You huff, and plant another kiss there anyways.

Matt breathes his laughter into your hair.

“Y’know, I’d been planning on piercing myself anyways, and offering you my blood in turn. That little accident with the pin really just cut out half the work for me.”

Your eyes widen and you lean away to turn and look at him directly. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean- you were so generous with me today… it only felt fair.”

“I wasn’t expecting… you… you didn’t have to do that.”

His hand comes to life, turning the tables and beginning to gently play with yours.

“Okay… okay, I’ll admit.” His thumb taps thoughtfully over the black dots adorning your fingertips. “Fairness wasn’t the only motivating factor.”

The undercurrent of suggestion in his tone sparks your interest. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He thoughtfully hums.

“Well, if you had further plans, I certainly never meant to interrupt.”

He considers it, softly pinching your fingers between his own. “Well. You did seem to imply earlier that you wanted more than one piercing. I’m still very willing to help.”

At the prospect, you grow a little bold. “Would you be willing to let me return the favor? You shouldn’t be doing all the work.”

He smiles, playful. “Haven’t had your fill of me yet, hm?”

You reach out to your nightstand, retrieving the pin once more. “I don’t think I could ever get enough, love.”

-

The two of you settle in, taking a few turns carefully piercing one another and nursing the blood. You keep the focus on your hands, for tonight, at least.

At one point, his palm brushes across the stub where your left pinky once was, and a shiver runs down your spine. His voice slips out, low and apologetic. “Sorry, poppet.”

“It’s alright… ‘s just sensitive sometimes.” You’re willing to move past the moment, but he lingers on it.

“I really never wanted to do that.”

“I know. I… it could’ve been a lot worse.”

Pain and regret seeps into his voice.

“It shouldn’t have happened at all. But they… didn’t give me much choice.”

You recall the hammer he held that night, and how he set it aside instead of turning it on you.

“You bent the rules as far as you could without breaking them. I know that.”

“I told you how I went back and made them pay in the end, right?”

You nod, but still, you question him, wanting to hear it again.

“They suffered?”

His left arm tightens around you.

“Absolutely.”

You relax against him, nodding in approval.

“Very good.”

He holds his own left pinky out for you, and you pierce it slowly.

-

When you’re both comfortably high off of one another, you will yourself to move one final time to set the pin safely aside.

As you curl back into Matt’s side, you notice his latest wound, still smeared with a small amount of congealing, black blood. Bringing it to your lips without hesitation, you mumble to yourself. “Getting sloppy with my work… shame on me.”

After cleaning up the mess and kissing it better one final time, you let your head fall back against the pillows. Matt regards you with lidded eyes and a soft laugh, reaching down to cup your cheek. You question him with a soft sound, and his voice is low when he answers you.

“You’ve still got my blood on your lips.”

Having lost your brain-to-mouth filter several piercings ago, you pose a bold solution.

“How about you help me clean it off then?”

You hear his heart pick up its pace at the invitation.

“Oh, I’d love to.”

Bringing his lips to meet yours for the second time tonight, you both melt into the kiss. It’s slow, and lazy, neither of you in a hurry to pull away. Even through your shared haze, when his hand finds the back of your neck and his fingertips press softly into the muscles there, it sends a jolt of pleasure through you that makes your head spin.

He pulls away to keep from laughing into the kiss. “Sorry, love. Didn’t know that would… affect you so strongly.”

Your tired eyes flutter open, and you speak between heavy breaths. “Don’t be.” You snake your hand around the back of his neck, and pull him down into you once again.

-

When you’ve both exhausted your air and energy, you roll over, wrapping yourself around him. As you lay there, head on his chest in the cozy, quiet room, a distant thought occurs to you.

“…Damn.”

“…Hmm?” His questioning hum reverberates in your ear.

“I never got the rest of the laundry out of the dryer.”

He huffs a laugh, pulling you in close.

“What’s so bad about that? The machine turns itself off.”

“Yeah, but… the laundry will get wrinkled…”

You trail off, and after a moment of thought, you both come to a decision together, voicing it aloud in sync.

“Ah, fuck it.”

Tiredly giggling at the jinx, the two of you give up the fight against sleep.

In the dark, beneath the sheets, your hands find each other, and you lace your sore fingers together, squeezing gently.

A/N: If you'd like to read my thoughts in regards to the process of writing this fic, as well as the musical inspiration behind it, you can find all of that over here, in the end-notes on Ao3! Header Image Sources: x - x - x (they're from Pinterest again, i know i know don't yell at me) My playlist and pin board for Matt. Lastly, of course, here's the link to The Malenkee Saga, and here's a link to Matt's videos if you're just looking for him.

[carminechrollo]

ok i’m gonna try lock in and get stuff done

[plusultraetc]

I can't believe I finished this before the deadline

[yeonban]

Now This. THIS feels like Christmas (/pos)