#or work with each other to opposite ends?

[zara-renata]

The Jog | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: You go for a jog, encounter some wanderers, get injured, Sylus helps make you better. You know, a typical Christmas oneshot.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, Second person POV, Sylus POV. Not part of the Sylus series, with a slightly more damaged (haha can you believe it) MC than in the series, with a relationship development that differs significantly from the Sylus series. This story contains: angst, canon typical violence, serious bodily injury, medical intervention, MC with self-destructive tendencies, grief, hurt/comfort both physical and emotional, a (hopefully more sensual than graphic) brief NSFW interlude towards the end, a happy ending.

It was supposed to be a simple job. An alert on your hunter watch. A location near where you’re jogging after work. You’re wearing insulated tights, short swords strapped to your back, an Association standard-issue pistol strapped to your hip. Not an average person’s jogging outfit, but you never know when you’ll be needed. And the weather’s probably not ideal in the average person’s opinion—a misting, gentle rain that creates halos around the streetlamps you pass on the gravel path through the long park along the riverfront on the outskirts of Linkon City. It’s dusk, now, but the rain is drowning the air, and it feels like night already. You love the wet hush, the sweeping shush of dead leaves in the winter wind, the spatter of puddles with each footfall. The poor weather means there are very few people out tonight, and you can let yourself relax in solitude. No one to worry about passing if they’re going too slow, or whether you should smile or just ignore anyone you encounter as you run past in the opposite direction—all the minute demands of being a human amongst other humans, trying to weigh kindness versus available energy, a hunter as a role model versus just a person trying to survive each day.

Just you, your footfalls, your breath. Running used to be meditative to you. One of the few times you could actually get your racing mind to be fully present, shutting out all the noise of worries constantly spinning in your brain like your motorcycle’s wheels— reviewing for exams, then training, the regulations of your job, the code of conduct for dealing with the public as a role model and a public servant. Your latest failed relationships. The embarrassing things you blurted during a meeting, or during obligatory after-work drinks with colleagues. While you ran, you could be mindful, when it was just you, your pumping heart, the joy in the strength of your legs, your even breath and healthy lungs. You could be present in your body, for once, instead of only living in your head. 

Running used to be meditative for you, until it wasn’t. It has been harder to find that calm headspace, every time you lace up your shoes and just go—like so many things in your life now, there is the Before, and there is the After… After Caleb. Because before, running was a joyful indulgence in the power of your body. And it was one of the few things you shared with him, through all the years in which your lives were intertwined, and then through the years in which your lives slowly unthreaded as you grew older and life took you in different directions. You would run with him as a reckless child, exploring parks around your grandmother’s house, playgrounds for tag and cops and robbers, hunter and wanderer. Later, you would run together after school during the off-seasons of track and field or cross country. It was one of the few times you both could fully relax, your footfalls mirroring each other, each of your competitive edges often pushing you further and further, harder and faster. The joy you felt sprinting as hard as you could at the end of a long run, only to collapse in the grass with your chests heaving, laughter spilling out of you like apples falling from a tree during the season of harvest. And you took it for granted—because the one constant in your life was Caleb, your running shoes, his teasing. Even when he was away more and more on flight missions, and you were busy at the Academy and then as a new Hunter, you both would do your best to carve time for each other in your schedules, And those times always included a run. Each time, you were secure in the knowledge that there would be a next time. You thought the laughter would be never ending. If you won that final sprint, you’d taunt him, flinging friendly insults about him getting soft in his job that kept him behind the yoke of the ships he piloted. If you lost, you’d accuse him of foul play as he used his longer legs to reach the designated finish line of that weird tree further up at the corner, doesn’t it kind of look like it has a face? Okay-ready-set-go, ooh you snooze you lose, it’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention and now I got a head start!

“Better work harder if you want to keep up, pipsqueak,” he’d say, reaching over to pat your sweat soaked hair, much to your annoyance. You’d swat his hand away and demand a rematch. He’d just laugh, and say “Next time. Next time, see if you can beat me.”

“Pfft, next time I might be too busy for your ass,” you’d grumble, taking it all for granted. The one constant in the blur of fighting wanderers and mind-numbing paperwork and the compulsive need to get out there and do it all over again, day after day.

That was Before. Now, After, you’d give anything to be able to grab his big hand and hold it to your messy hair. To be able to say, yes, next time. Next time, and the time after that. Until we’re old and gray. And you will carry the memories of what little I can remember of my childhood inside you, and I will carry your own youth in me, and we’ll laugh about the things only we know, about Gran’s cooking, about late nights giggling under a blanket, flashlight in hand and the latest graphic novel issue between you, way past bedtime. About sneaking the cookies Gran had made and told the two of you that you were allowed only one a day—then desperately brushing the crumbs from each other’s mouths and cheeks when you heard her footfalls approaching on the polished but worn wooden floorboards of the only home you can remember. About how quiet she’d sometimes get, as she contemplated you with a faraway look on her face. About how she’d suddenly hug you, out of nowhere, and whisper an apology in your hair, clutching a little too tight. You were too young to recognize guilt, at the time. You never knew what she was sorry for. Not while she was alive, anyway. How cruel, that so often life requires death for answers to ancient questions to rise to the surface—a tectonic shift to crack open the earth and reveal the bones buried below.

All of these memories that you now carry inside you, alone, in this After.

You breathe in. You breathe out. It’s full dark now. The miles are stretching out behind you now. You refuse to look at your watch, and let time pass over, through you. You could have been running for only half an hour, or for two hours. It doesn’t matter. Until you’re utterly exhausted, you won’t quit. You need to sleep.

The river flashes between the trees, blurred, shadowed trunks and the glittering water streaks like headlights on a rainy highway. The more the memories come, unrequested and unwelcome, the faster your footfalls become, as if you can outrun the images, the sounds, the scents. Caleb’s clean sweat. How he tells you to use shorter strides if it ever gets to be too much. Just slow down. You don’t have to stop. Just do as much as you can, allow yourself to catch your breath. But never, ever quit. Little steps, until you reach the end. You can do it. You can do it. He shortens his stride, looking ridiculous as the big body he has grown into moves forward with little bitty strides to allow you space to breathe, to regain your strength and be able to push him at the end in your traditional sprint against each other.

But now that he is gone, there is no end. There is no finish line. In this After, it’s only day after day, and you have to keep running, keep busy, keep meeting wanderer after wanderer, keep staring at your ceiling through your sleepless nights, only to get up and do it all over again. Because he’s gone, and you’re still here. No matter how much you shorten your stride, the small steps you take, you will never be able to rest. He told you that you can't quit. You can never, ever quit. You don’t want to think about the holidays coming up, the first since you lost your family. What will you do, as the snow begins to fall, and Caleb isn’t there waiting behind your Gran’s door, the fire already crackling, the presents under the tree?

Your thoughts drift to Sylus. Sylus, who came into your life like a wrecking ball after Caleb exited like… like a bomb. Sylus, who offered to disappear from your life altogether, if you accepted his bet of surviving the encounter with some business rival. The bet you refused to agree to, and in the refusal left the door open for him to walk through. And he has—he barreled through it, slammed it so hard against the wall that it fell off its hinges. You can’t shut your door on him if you tried, now. Sending you gifts. Showing up when you least expect it—out with colleagues, at the arcade, even on a few jogs. Saying such sweet, straightforward things, all in his teasing, playful, taunting manner. He has invited you to his base, into his world, leaving his own door open for you to walk through. But even though you have come to trust that he is currently interested in you, affectionate toward you, amused by you, you still can’t bring yourself to step over the threshold, from light into dark, from the safe, the mundane, into the intoxicating excitement that his life, his touch, offers you, with each brush of his fingers across your skin, holding your hand, his nose along your cheek as he hugs you goodnight. What happens when he gets bored? What happens when he decides you’ve seen too much, that you’re expendable? What happens when he disappears from your life as suddenly as Caleb did, because of the violence of his existence or because of his low threshold for boredom? You have stopped fighting him, when he sends gifts. When he invites you out to dinner. When he wraps his big arm around you during a film in the theater. When he lays you down gently on the bed, and gives such great pleasure to your body. But you are still waiting for his door to slam shut, to cut you in half in the process.

You haven’t been able to ask Sylus what his plans are for the holidays this year. Every time the thought crosses your mind, your heart hurts at the idea of him responding that he’ll have to be out of town, that he’ll be working as usual, that he never does anything special, so why should he start this year? You’ll be fine. You’ll set up a small tree in your apartment, make a toast to your dead in the soft glow of strings of multicolored lights. Go to work the next day, as usual.

It was supposed to be a simple job. You’re running too fast now, the adrenaline coursing through you as you are chased by memories that you want to erase, memories you’re afraid to forget, when your hunter’s watch, which is measuring your distance and your pulse and your oxygen levels, suddenly trills. A shift in metaflux near your location, a possible wanderer along the river’s edge.

You gulp a big breath, and urge your legs faster, your stride longer.

There’s no one around, thankfully, because the night is dark and rainy, the air cold, only you and your lonely memories and thoughts willing to brave the poor weather. Three wanderers, panther-like, with sharp scorpion tails, immediately hostile. You have to eliminate them, even as you admire their savage beauty. You catch the first one by surprise, your sneakered feet muffled on the wet grass, grabbing it by the tail right under the vicious stinger, slicing through meat to remove the threat. It twists, bucks, but you’re already leaping on it, straddling it like a bucking horse, and you drive your short sword into the side of its skull, right at its tender temple, killing it almost instantly.

The other two turn, tails whipping, and charge at the same time. You ride the falling body of the first one you killed to the ground, use the momentum to sprint between and past them, their tails missing you by inches, but your path between them has one stinging the other, and the accidental victim lets out a scream that hurts your heart with how much pain the poison must be causing it. They can’t help their nature. But you have to live, because Caleb is dead. If you let them kill you, they will kill someone innocent, someone whose existence is worthy, and useful, and then you will have failed to make up for all of your shortcomings. You have to earn your death, in the end, and you feel like what you owe the universe for living while Caleb died, what you owe the universe for still being alive when your parents died or didn’t want you, with your limping heart, still isn’t paid. You have to live, because you don’t deserve death, yet.

The stung wanderer collapses, mouth foaming, and twitches in the wet grass, now churned and slick with mud from your tussle with the first one, with the heavy footfalls of the other two. Now it’s just the one left. A fair fight. You circle each other, the rain misting along its scales, glittering in the light reflected from the river, the haloed streetlamps on the distant path. It moves like the panther it resembles, beautiful, deadly, a low rumbling drifting through the quiet evening, its tail whipping. You wait, slightly crouched, ready to dodge when it inevitably loses patience and charges at you. You’re patient. You have nowhere else to be, no one waiting for you, no one to care whether you make it home or not in the end. You wait, swords drawn, chest heaving from your jog, from the adrenaline, your ears ringing from the tinnitus but still attuned to every shift of the magnificent creature before you that you’re going to have to slaughter.

It finally loses patience, snorting once through flaring nostrils, crouching low, powerful haunches rippling, its tail curled over its back, ready to strike at the same time that it launches itself at you.

You can survive being swiped by claws, being ripped by fangs. You will not survive the poison in its tail. You force yourself to wait until the second millisecond, until it’s already in the air, before ducking and rolling toward its form flying toward you, using the slick mud to slide under it—you skid, scramble, rise behind it as its tail strikes the wet, soft earth instead of your fragile body. You slip in the mud but manage to grab it by its tail, just as you did the first one, to grab it by the tail and slice off the poison bulb attached to the stinger. As you slice, the wanderer screams like its companion, whips its body around, and swipes its vicious claws down your side, not too deep to catch on your ribs, but deep enough to flay you open, for the blood to flow.

You’re so high on adrenaline that the pain isn’t immediate. There is only you, the still living wanderer, your life balanced on the edge of your swords, your blood splattering over the muddy ground. You twist, drive both swords into the beast’s vulnerable flank, where its leg connects to its torso. You twist them, doing as much damage as possible, slicing through major arteries, rendering its leg on this side useless. It screams again, your heart squeezes. You’re sorry. You’re so fucking sorry that even in this, you have to live when this creature, doing what its nature tells it to do, has to suffer and die under your bloody hands. The wanderer half-collapses, but still tries to bite you with its gaping jaw, its glistening fangs. You dodge backwards, just out of reach, and then shove one of your swords into its maw, up, up, through the soft palate of its mouth, directly into its brain.

It collapses against you, head still pinned on your sword. You fall backwards underneath it, landing on your ass in the squelching mud. There is only the sound of your panting breath, the softly falling rain. You curl over it, rest your cheek on top of its magnificent head, regaining your breath, honoring it and the companions you were forced to exterminate. 

Passing out from the blood loss is like falling asleep, before Caleb died. A pleasant feeling of exhaustion, of having done your best to earn your rest, and then slipping under, the peace of the deep, deep black.

Sylus is exhausted. Meeting after meeting, shipment inspections, having to explode one supplier to teach other fucks a lesson for trying to pass off counterfeit protocores Sylus needs for modifying a shipping container of Hightowers. He’s finally done, after working through his ‘night’ to secure alternatives to the fake protocores so that other contracts could be fulfilled on time. Sylus always keeps his word, after all. He’s exhausted, and now it’s his version of dawn, but he’s not willing to go to sleep until he checks in with his beloved. He’s in the middle of the N109 Zone, ready to return to base, but he’s impatient and pulls up Mephisto’s app on his phone before settling the helmet on his head and getting on the road.

Mephisto is in your bedroom. Your room is empty, and the windows are shut tight. There’s just your verdant houseplants spilling out of their pots, the plushies tumbled on the floor, the city’s lights filtering through the windowpanes exposed by your open curtains. 

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. He has scolded you about this before—sometimes you forget that Mephisto has been programmed not to cause any damage to your place, so if you leave without letting him out the window or the door, he’s stuck. And if he’s stuck, he can’t serve his purpose, which is to keep an eye on you. 

“I survived long before I had you or Mephisto to stalk me. I don’t need him to follow me everywhere I go, running down his battery so that when you actually need him, he won’t be unavailable.” You had scoffed, completely missing the point.

As far as Sylus was concerned, Mephisto’s sole purpose was to be of use to you when Sylus is unable to be there in person to be of use to you. What part of Don’t be shy when using me did you still not understand? “Have you considered that I need him to follow you everywhere you go? That I specifically upgraded his protocore so that his battery can survive a thousand trips a day between Linkon City and the N109 Zone?”

You had just patted his chest indulgently, with a strange, sad little smile on your face that he didn’t like. He opened his mouth to continue, to make sure you understood—it was important to him for you to understand this, but you had moved your hand from his chest to his throat, running your fingertips along the tender skin at his clavicle, palming the side of his neck. He couldn’t help himself—he leaned into your touch, lost his train of thought. Your other hand joined your efforts to distract him, to soothe him, to make him forget what he was just talking about, and then you were cupping his cheeks, smoothing your thumbs under his eyes. It felt so good, to be touched like this by you. For your hands to be on him, for you to be looking at him with such quiet affection. He couldn’t help himself—he leaned down and kissed you, the conversation submerged in the feeling of being treasured by you, of you touching him like he was the fragile one, like he was the precious one—submerged, but not forgotten, because you were the precious one, the one who could be hurt, who he wanted to kiss like this, softly, meeting your lips with his, over and over, gentle presses, nudging your nose with his, until you slid your hands from his cheeks into his hair, kissed him a little harder, with purpose, and he slipped his tongue between your lips like he knew you wanted, and you sucked, sucked, sucked.

He let the conversation go. Later, while you were sleeping, the silken sheets he had replaced your own crappy cotton ones with draped over your hip as you lay on your side, facing away from him, he ran his finger thoughtfully down your spine, admiring its curve in the moonlight through your bedroom window, lower, lower, until he slipped that finger between your legs and pressed back into you, where you were still soft and wet from his earlier efforts. He thought about that strange sad smile, your refusal to let him fully look out for you. He thought about how he always came to you, and you had never once taken him up on his invitation for you to come to his base. To make use of him whenever you pleased. You would accept him when he came to you, ‘ran into’ you, kissed you, but you never initiated. It was like you were still afraid to accept everything he was offering you as unconditional truth, irrevocable once offered. You shifted in your sleep, made a pleasured noise in your throat as he slipped another finger inside you, as he scooted closer behind, spooning you, filling you, as he let his mind wander back to that terrible smile of yours. 

He hated that smile. A smile that isn’t a smile—a hollow mask, containing none of the joy you deserve to feel, all the time. A smile that says that you don’t believe that anyone will care if you don’t come home, now that your family is gone. A smile that says that you can’t conceive of a world in which Sylus’s entire existence revolves around you, your genuine smile, and his utility to you. That if anything were to happen to you, he’d burn down the world and fall on your sword after he had ensured that no one else survived your death. 

Even though you let him in. Even though you let him touch you, you still can’t seem to understand the depth of his devotion to you. He’s been forced to live so long without you. He’s not going to endure that hell again now that he's found you.

Now, he pulls up the app that tracks your hunter watch. You’re along the river, moving faster than a walking pace, but not fast enough to be on your motorcycle. You’re… going for an evening jog? What the hell are you doing, running by yourself after a long, exhausting day in the dark? No matter how strong you are, no matter how skilled a warrior, you should take at least the most basic of precautions and let him know where you’re going if you’re going to behave in such a reckless manner. You’re just one person, against a sea of cruel humanity, against the ever present threat of wanderers.

He wants to pull you into his arms and squeeze you, to press into your skin his worry, his care, his love, to squeeze you so hard that you finally get it through your ridiculous, beautiful, anxious, clever brain that even if you don’t have a care for your own safety, your own value to everyone in your life, but most of all to him, he cares, and if you get hurt, so does he.

This won’t do at all. Sylus is exhausted after being awake for twenty-four hours, but he will always, always have time and energy to spare for you. If you want to go jogging at night so badly, he’ll fucking join you.

The winter night is cold, the gentle rain almost sleeting, billowing curtains turning the streetlamps into something soft, muted stars that Sylus’s sensitive eyes can tolerate. He enjoys the dark, the rain, the cold, as he steps out of the tank parallel to where it looks like you’ve paused to take in a view of the river. Luckily this park, though long enough to enable running enthusiasts a long, uninterrupted stretch of path to run, is narrow, so Sylus could park relatively close to where you’ve stopped and jog to you easily in a few minutes. He doesn’t need to stretch, or warm up his muscles. His body is primed, at all times, for physical action. It’s a perk of the monster within. He shuts the tank’s door and jogs to where his phone indicates you are.

Before he sees you, he can smell it. Blood. Yours. A lot of it. His heart stops beating, his mouth goes dry. On instinct, he presses Luke and Kieran’s contact in his phone. He doesn’t remember everything he says or how he says it. He gives your location, orders them to bring the bags of blood he keeps at the base, the bags with your blood type in them, just as a precaution, the bags you don’t know about, along with all of the other contingency plans has in place that you don’t know about in order to prevent his worst nightmares from coming true—of you dying before him, this time. Of him being forced to live without you, again, as he has through lifetimes already, where he never even found you. He has you now, in this life. You let him touch you, you touch him in return. This time, no matter what fate, or destiny, or any gods have to say about it, you’re both going to live. Together. He has finally found you, and he’s not going to let you fucking die on him. When he’s done with the call, he dissipates into red and black mist.

He re-materializes a few feet away from you. There you are. Two huge wanderer corpses in a muddy clearing where a vicious fight clearly took place, and you, cradling the third wanderer’s head in your lap, slumped over its impressive form. The rain falls softly over you both. Your hair is soaked through, tendrils winding down your cheek, droplets falling from the ends like dew falling from a petal. One of your lovely arms curves around the wanderer’s head, almost as if you’re hugging it, while the other is limp at your side, resting in the bloody mud, your palm relaxed and open to the falling rain. 

You look dead.

You look dead, but Sylus can smell you, your life, your sluggish heart, he can hear your faint breath. You look dead, but you’re still alive.

Although you’re alive, Sylus feels like he’s going to die. He’s died before. Many times. He dies every time he receives a wound that would be fatal to anyone else. It hurts, every single time, because Sylus isn’t the type of man who dies peacefully, in his sleep, at the end of a long, placid life. Each death is violent, frightening, and deeply, deeply painful. His first death, the most painful at all, simply because he knew he was leaving you behind, leaving you alone. The most painful, and yet the least. He could tolerate the sword through his chest, knowing that you would be free from his curse, that you were already on your way to growing your own horns, your own tail, weapons against a world that could not stand against you. It hurt, but he was at peace with his decision to die for you, that first time.

Sylus knows very well what it feels like when he’s going to die. But he doesn’t remember feeling the kind of fear he feels now. A terror that he can’t scream through, because his throat won’t work. He can’t make any sound at all, as he stands frozen for a heartbeat at the entrance to the clearing, only a few feet from you, as his eyes are forced to look at your slumped form, the deep gashes along your side, partially hidden by your arm as it hangs limply, lifelessly.

You look dead.

“No.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. No. No. No. No.

He has not come this far with you, he has not started all over with you again, from absolute scratch, from your blank memory, fear and hate written all over your face, spilling out of you, so thick her could taste it over the taste of you, your scent, the scent he had been craving for lifetimes, when he found you again—he has not painfully, slowly, rebuilt your trust in him, lured you in like the feral kitten you are, leaving crumbs, treats, tricks, toys, feathers, patiently coming to you and leaving again, instead of doing what he wanted and dragging you with him to his lair, smothering you, shaking you until you remembered his face, his heart, his love. He has not gotten you to the point that you let him touch you, run his fingers along your skin, and you do the same. That you look at him, eyes soft, with affection, with laughter on your tongue, even if you still don’t quite understand the depth of his want for you, his servitude, how utterly you own him, all of him, and always have. He has not come this far with you, only for you to die before he does, from something so mundane, so pedestrian and anti-climactic as a wanderer attack—from just doing your job, and one day, you just don’t come home to him.  He refuses to accept this. This is not the death you deserve. You deserve a death at sunset, entire armies turned on each other, blood like rivers across a ravaged plain, a death by Sylus’s side, as you both fight and maim and kill, the flesh of your enemies between your teeth, each of you crazed with bloodlust for your foes and lust for each other.

Or better yet. You deserve a death at sunset, in Sylus’s arms, when you’re old and gray, and you’re simply a little too tired to keep going. And Sylus will hold you in his arms, and he will press his forehead against yours, your skin paper thin and wrinkled, still perfect, still beautiful, your hair wisps of cotton around your head, and as you close your eyes for the final time, Sylus will close his, and your hearts will stop beating at the same time. A peaceful death, after a long, simple, happy life together, with flower crowns exchanged on anniversaries, your friends around the table, the wine generous, your hand in Sylus’s through all the long years that will never be long enough for him.

You’re not going to die here, under the soft, cold rain, from blood loss after a victorious battle in the dark.

All of these thoughts swirling through Sylus’s nimble mind take only a heartbeat to complete, to bring him to his resolution that he’s not going to let you die here, whether you like it or not. He kneels in the mud next to you, covers you in his leather jacket, slips your phone from your pocket and calls your doctor, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder. As the phone rings, he gently, so, so gently, slips his arms behind your back and under your knees, lifts you in his arms. Your blood is still flowing, and it seeps into the tight athletic tank he had put on in anticipation of jogging with you. He turns, running shoes squelching in the mud, and begins walking back to the tank.

“It’s never good when you’re calling me this late,” comes the crisp, even tone of your primary care physician’s voice. But Sylus can hear the slight smile in his tone, even if you fail to hear it every time.

“You’re right, it’s not good. If you want to see your patient alive again, then you need to come to this location,” Sylus bites into the phone, rattling off the closest address, explaining how to find your and Sylus’s tank.

“If this is a joke, it’s not funny,” Zayne answers after a short silence.

“This isn’t a joke. Wanderer attack, too much blood loss. I already have the right blood type being brought as we speak, but you need to get here, now, for a transfusion.”

“You need to bring them to the hospital—they need proper medical facilities and treatment if they’re to have any chance to survive,” Zayne argues, his distress starting to bleed through his even tone.

“What they need is for you to stop fucking arguing with me, and do as a I say. If you care about them at all, trust that I care more, and I’ll explain when you arrive.” Sylus doesn’t even bother to hide his own agony. He needs your doctor to stabilize you, because you need to be conscious for Sylus to save your life, but Sylus doesn’t have the expertise of a medical professional to get you to the point of surviving long enough to wake up. “Now, are you going to stop wasting time, or not?”

“You have no idea how much I care,” Zayne retorts icily, and ends the call.

Sylus takes his answer as acquiescence to what probably seems like insanity to your doctor.

Sylus walks through the rain, crosses the running path, the expanse of grass and trees, until he’s back on the quiet Linkon City street where he parked the tank. His evol opens the back passenger door and he maneuvers you inside onto the middle bench seat. He strips his now bloody shirt and ties it around your torso, tightening it, trying to stem the flow of your bright, precious blood. He grabs his athletic hoodie from where it was tied around his waist that he brought in case you got cold and hadn’t properly geared up and repeats the motion, trying to create a tourniquet as he waits for Luke and Kieran to arrive, as he waits for Zayne to arrive. He pulls you back into his lap, torso elevated, presses his palms to your wounds through the fabric, orders the SUV to crank the heating to full blast. He busies himself with phone calls, arranging for medical staff to be waiting at the base.

Finally, after what seems like multiple lifetimes—he would fucking know what that feels like—the twins come screeching to a stop in front of the tank at the same time that Zayne’s low-slung, understated but very expensive sedan pulls up behind it.

Zayne drags out a large medical bag from the passenger side of his car as the twins pile into the front seats of the tank, Kieran clutching a medical grade cooler with the blood in it. Sylus’s evol throws open the tank’s sliding back passenger door, and your austere doctor manages to fold himself inside the cramped space.

“I need more room if I’m to do this. Move,” he orders in quiet disdain.

Sylus doesn’t argue. This isn’t a dick-measuring contest, this is your life or death. As gently as possible, he slides out from under you and lays you onto the long bench seat. He teleports to the third row of seats at the back of the vehicle.

Zayne doesn’t even flinch, just flicks his eyes to Sylus’s re-materialized form, from his face to his bare chest, and then turns his attention back to his medical bag without comment. He gets to work, unwinding the makeshift bandages of Sylus’s athleticwear, cleaning your wounds. He sutures the open gashes, stemming the blood flow. After it appears that your bleeding is somewhat under control, Sylus and the twins watch in tense silence as he orders Luke to hang the bag of blood from a hook on the oh shit handle above the passenger door after he has placed an IV line in the tender skin of your inner elbow and connected the tubing.

After he’s done, and the blood is sliding from the bag into your arm, he sits back against the tank’s door, arms crossed.

“Explain why you refuse to take them to a hospital.”

Sylus can’t take his eyes off you as he answers. “While I’m sure you would do a fine job of finishing stitching them up and preventing infection, I can heal them completely. I just need them to resonate with me.”

Zayne’s voice grows sharper. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Skye.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Sylus finally tears his eyes away from you, lying there, blood drained from your beautiful face, deep bruises under your eyes, hair still soaked and matted from the rain and mud. His heart, bleeding and broken.

He looks into Zayne’s pretty hazel eyes. “That’s all I can give you.”

Zayne stares in return, looking for something that Sylus can’t give. Sylus isn’t sorry for the fact that he carries half of your soul, and that you carry half of his. That in this universe, you belong to him, and not to anyone else. But he knows what it’s like, to live lifetimes without you. To look, and never find you. He’s never been in the position of finding you, only to find you bound to another. He doesn’t know what he’d do, if such a thing were to ever happen to him. He likely would not be able to look so calmly into the eyes of the person who had your heart, as Zayne is doing now. After tonight, Zayne has Sylus’s gratitude, and also his respect.

“What I can give you is a promise that you will see our hunter again, healthy and whole, because you helped tonight without asking too many questions.”

Zayne snorts softly through his nostrils. “You didn’t leave me much choice, did you?”

Sylus shrugs. “Even so. You could have stood on ceremony, insisted on going by the book, and likely killed your childhood friend.”

“No, your insistence on doing something incredibly reckless and demanding that I come to you, instead of bringing them to me at the hospital, would have killed them.”

Sylus lifts an eyebrow, enjoying the subtle spark underneath your doctor’s icy exterior. He has a backbone, and Sylus likes that. “Oh, I still would have brought them to the hospital. You just would have had to explain to your board how your heroic hunter patient disappeared on your watch after the blood transfusion without anyone seeing them leave. Because I can guarantee you that the first thing kitten would demand after waking up would be to get the fuck out of there.”

Zayne’s lips part slightly, apparently the good doctor’s version of gaping in surprise. “Kitten?” he asks, bewildered, until he sighs, looks incredibly tired for a moment, and then says, “Never mind. I would rather not know.”

He pulls a prescription pad out of his white lab coat and scribbles on it with a pen. A pen that has a cute little seal on the cap. Sylus has the strangest feeling that he knows where your fucking doctor got such a pen. He makes a mental note to remedy this injustice when you wake up later and are feeling better. “These are the antibiotics they’ll need for the next week, even if you’re convinced that your evol can fully heal them through the resonance. I’m assuming that wherever you’re taking them will have medical expertise on staff?” he asks, ripping the prescription off the pad in one decisive stroke and holding it out between his index and middle finger to Sylus.

Sylus takes the paper, letting his fingers brush against your doctor’s, just to vex him. He does not disappoint as he scowls and jerks his hand back, shoving it into his pocket of his labcoat. “If anything happens…” Zayne’s voice trails off as he returns his gaze to your still form. “Call me. I’ll come, no matter the time, no matter the place.”

Sylus can hear the plea in his words formulated as an order. He is glad you have people in your life who care for you. He makes a note to arrange more opportunities for you to play with your doctor, so you will come to realize that Zayne cares for you as well, as more than just your primary care physician. Another person in the threads of your life, woven together to form the safety net you don’t even realize you have, even without Sylus. Not that you ever have to worry about being without Sylus, ever again. But Sylus has read that it’s apparently healthy for people to have more than one anchor, more than one source of comfort. Friends. People who love you and who take joy in your presence in their life. He wants to give you that. He wants to give you everything. You belong to him, but he can’t begrudge others for wanting to bask in your light—he’ll allow it, as a side effect of you having a healthy, rich, full life. And it doesn’t hurt that it looks like the doctor will be hilarious to torment.

“Deal,” Sylus says. Zayne breathes again, a sharp exhale through his nose, and then extricates himself, along with his medical bag, from the tank, shutting the door decisively behind him.

“Whoa, boss is learning how to play well with others,” Luke says, probably wide-eyed underneath his mask.

“The hunter truly is a miracle worker,” Kieran agrees, sounding pleased.

“Enough. Kieran, drive us back to base. Luke, follow us in the other vehicle.”

They nod, understanding that now is not the time for silly banter, that underneath their boss’s calm exterior is a very worried, frightened man.

As Luke clambers out of the tank and Kieran settles himself into the driver’s seat, Sylus makes his way from the backseat to where you’re lying and lifts you gingerly, settles himself onto the seat, and gently lays your shoulders and head back onto his lap. His eyes do not leave your face, his hands do not leave your hair for the entire duration back home. On the way, he soothes himself with memories of your face, blooming with color, health, your eyes bright, the teasing curve of your lips after saying something mean to him. He soothes himself with plans upon plans about how to finally convince you that you have someone waiting for you now, someone who will not recover if you don’t come home. That you’ve always had people waiting for you, worrying for you, loving you, even without Caleb and your grandmother in your life.

Before Sylus came into your life, waking up was always something you did reluctantly, a slow drag from the peaceful dark to the painful light, something to fear, something to resist, heart pounding with the shrill noise of your alarm in your ears, jerking from a calm numbed sea into the chaotic storm of emotions, of wakefulness, of being back in your body where everything hurt.

Now, something inside you whispers that it’s safe, even as you know the pain is coming. That beyond the pain, the first gasp of breath as your face breaches the tranquilizing ocean of unconsciousness, waiting on the other side is a pair of warm ruby eyes, big hands, soft despite their callouses, a heartbeat that should be a little too fast to be calming, yet soothes you all the same. That waking up has a purpose, beyond your penance, your self-imposed sentence of surviving despite everything, in order to earn your rest when something finally, mercifully kills you. Now, there’s something to wake up for besides guilt, even though you fear it will be snatched away without warning.

You open your eyes slowly. Your body feels heavy, but for once you’re not in pain, as if from the neck down you’re still in the ocean of sleep. You blink, eyes focusing on the ornate crown molding of Sylus’s dark bedroom ceiling. You haven’t been in this room since you searched his beautiful body for the brooch, right before the auction. But you’d recognize his ceiling anywhere. You turn your head on the soft, silk-covered pillow, and just as you knew you would, you’re met with the warm glow of Sylus’s eyes. You wonder how you got here. You’ve never before taken him up on his countless invitations to visit him at his home.

He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches over and palms your cheek, fingertips sliding over your ear, thumb stroking under your eye.

“Hi,” you say, smiling at him. Because you always smile at him, no matter how you’re feeling. You smile at him when you’re happy, when he has said something hilarious, or sweet. You smile at him when he surprises you, when he teases you, no matter how hard you try to keep a straight face, to scowl at him in mock anger for his mischievousness, his intentionally trying to get a rise out of you. You smile at him when your heart is hurting, because no matter how in pain you might be from grief, from worry, from missing him when he’s right there, you care for him so much already, and you can’t help but smile when he turns to look at you.

“Don’t smile at me like that,” he says, dark silver eyebrows drawing together. “I hate that smile.”

You stare at him, feeling the joy of seeing him drain from you like he’s just shoved a knife in your stomach. He hasn’t said something so cruel to you since your first few days of knowing each other.

You swallow. 

It has finally happened. He’s finally sick of you. Whatever pedestal he has had you on this whole time has finally toppled.

“Okay,” you whisper, giving him what he wants. Because what else can you do? You stop smiling. You turn your head away from him again, from his beautiful, wine-glow eyes, his soft silver hair falling over his forehead, and stare at his ceiling. You’re thankful for the strange numbness in your body. It makes it easier to breathe. To tolerate the pain washing through you. You gather your resolve. All you have to do is roll over, sit up. Put both feet on the floor. Get dressed, in your own clothes. You hope you didn’t arrive in any of the clothes he has bought for you over the past few months since he started playing the game of keeping you. The game he apparently never had any intention of finishing.

You try to do what you just imagined, but your body doesn’t listen. You just lie there, like the useless sack of shit you often feel like.

“Fuck,” he says, strangely. He must really, really want you gone.

You laugh a little breathlessly, because what else can you do? “Sorry, I’ll leave as soon as I can. I must have had too much to drink.” Because what else could explain this paralysis? Why else can’t you remember how you got here in his bed again? The last thing you remember is lacing up your running shoes for a run after work.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, tone dark. Which doesn’t make any sense at all. 

Oh.  

He’s not only bored with you, but he’s finally decided to kill you. You had wondered, at the beginning, what it would take for him to finally get bored. What he would do, when he was ready to cut his losses. If he would feel compelled to get rid of the now useless witness to so many of his secrets. But you had trusted him enough to keep accepting him when he came to you, when he told you how much he cared for you. When he had told you he wanted you, and that wouldn’t change. You must have let yourself believe him, based on how deeply hurt you feel now. This shouldn’t be a surprise to you, after all. This is why you never took him up on his invitation to come deeper into his world. 

You always have been so fucking gullible.

You suppose that you deserve what’s coming, the fool that you are.

It’s a relief, really. Maybe now you can see Caleb again. See Gran again. Maybe if your parents are dead, you’ll finally get to meet them.

Or, if the universe is actually kind, maybe dead is just dead, and at least you won’t have to hurt anymore.

Part of you thinks that you’re a fucking coward for taking the easy way out. For giving up without a struggle. You thought you could survive anything. That you needed to survive everything, to finally earn your death. But losing Sylus’s affection must have been the last straw for you, because you’re so fucking tired. You could fight an endless amount of wanderers, and still keep dragging yourself back out to do it all over again. But after having Sylus, and then losing him… turns out, that’s the one thing you can’t survive.

“I know it doesn’t mean shit, but I want you to know that I love you. It felt really good, being your toy for a while,” you say.

“Toy?” Sylus asks, voice strained. 

You wonder how he’ll do it. “Just, if you ever cared about me at all, make it quick.” You close your eyes. It’s so strange. You could fall asleep again. You’re so, so tired. You suppose, in a way, you’re lucky. Not everyone gets to die by the hand of someone they love. Who they’d die for anyway. It’s better than bleeding out alone after fucking up against a wanderer.

You feel his fingers on your neck. How poetic. How we met is how we’ll end. Sylus has always been strangely poetic.

“Will you resonate with me?” he asks through the waves that you’re letting yourself sink back into.

Why is he bothering to ask? He could just try to force it, like the first time. It would probably work, since he succeeded in making you love him. You wonder why he wants it now. You’ve only ever resonated during fights. Gun battles. Being caught by surprise by wanderers between Linkon City and the N109 Zone. He’s never asked you for it, outside of the context of violence. But then again, maybe putting you down is just another quick little conflict. If his evol is strengthened with yours, so much the easier to snap your neck. He’s such a big man though. He could do it so easily, even without his evol. Does it really matter why he wants to resonate with you now though? You would give him anything, for any reason, the fool that you are.

“One for the road, huh?” you ask. 

His fingers tighten on your neck. He wants to strangle you so badly, it’s almost funny.

You lift your hand, and it feels like a 16 kilo kettlebell. You sigh as you rest it over the back of his hand, resting at your throat. 

“You can have whatever you want, Sylus Qin.” 

“And so can you, my beloved,” he says, and he sounds so sincere that you’re reminded why you believed his lies in the first place. Anyone, not just your idiotic, desperate, lonely, gullible self would have believed the sweet words coming from his beautiful mouth. Cold comfort, but comfort all the same.

He lifts your hand, turns it, threads his fingers through yours. You summon the very last bit of energy you have, all of the love you carry for him, and let your evol flow through you and into him.

It’s the weightlessness of sleep, of falling, of flying. Floating in a vast ocean of stars, the night sky as it actually is without light pollution, so bright that the word ‘night’ loses all meaning. As your gold waves flow into him, his scarlet and ink tendrils flow into you. Power, strength, the exhilaration of wild, unchecked energy, possibility, coiled to explode into action at the slightest twitch of your fingers or his.

The boundaries between you, between him, your minds, your bodies, thin, dissolve. The resonance has never been like this, before. Every time before, you could sense where he was on the battlefield, anticipate his movements. You could work in sync, powering his punches, increasing the speed at which he gathers energy, charging the storm that would unleash and ravage the hostiles arrayed against you. But you were still you. He was still him. Now, his heart beats in your chest. When he swallows painfully, you feel it in your throat. You are big, strong, powerful, and exhausted.

With your eyes closed, you see him. With his mouth closed, he speaks.

When you smile like that, you look so sad, I can’t bear it, he says. His arms gently curl around you, pull you into his chest. Relief floods through you, holding the person you cherish most in the universe in your arms again. And unlike the past two days, they’re awake.

Your mind is overwhelmed, the disparity between what you thought he was feeling just moments ago and feeling his actual emotions now large enough to make you feel insane. You breathe through the disorientation, focus on the words that just flowed through your mind.

Smile like what?

He doesn’t answer immediately. You just see yourself, like looking in a mirror, but from a greater height. You see your upturned face, your lips curved in the idea of a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Like a sketch by a skilled artist with their eyes closed. It’s a smile, but it’s wrong. Sylus, the intuitive creature that he is, can sense the disparity, the disconnect, between your smile and your heart. But he doesn’t understand that underneath the sadness, you are actually happy to be looking at his face, to be the object of his focus, to be able to hold him and laugh with him. That even if your heart is hurting, his mere presence can still bring a smile to your face. He said he hated your smile not because he is finally bored with you, but because the heartbreak in your smile broke his own heart.

He finally answers you with words. Like you did when you woke up. You smiled even though I know you’re exhausted. When your body has been through hell. You smiled even after almost dying two days ago.

You open your eyes, turn your head on the silk pillow to look at him. I almost died?

Sylus scoots even closer, and you realize that he’s holding his body away from your torso, even as he rests his head on the same pillow as you, runs his nose along your cheek. I found you bleeding out after killing three wanderers by yourself. You had already run eight miles before your hunter watch alerted you to their presence.

You stare at him. Notice the deep, dark circles under his eyes for the first time. The exhaustion drawing his mouth tight. Through the resonance, impressions of sour terror, heart-palpitation-inducing anxiety, clenched-teeth determination, refusal to sleep blur together. Sylus hasn’t slept since he found you. He has been lying here by your side, watching your face as you slept, for the past two days. You get the impression that he was already exhausted before he even found you.

But why?

How do you expect me to sleep, when I’m not sure if my beloved is ever going to open their eyes again?

You’re reeling. You just thought he was done with you, that he was about to end you. Your beloved?

You feel a pulse of disbelief, incomprehension, dawning understanding, and heartbreak, as all of the tangled feelings you just went through flow through the resonance from you to him. He had no idea that you have been fearing the end like this, somewhere deep inside yourself, all along. This fear, based on how you began. Based on all that you know about him, the way he lives his life, conducts his business. How easily bored he becomes playing simple games, listening to other people talk. Fear based on your own view of yourself, what you perceive as the value you have to offer other people in your life. He knew you were reluctant to come to him, yes, but he thought such reluctance was rooted in him being a criminal and you a deepspace hunter, that you didn’t quite understand how much he cares for you, and that in time, he’d be able to prove to you just how much he cares through his actions alone. Through his consistency in showing you his love. 

His hatred of your sad smile compounds, grows, as he realizes the depth of the hole inside you.

Now that he can see everything, you’re so scared. You don’t want him to see, to finally realize how disposable you are, even to yourself. Your parents, Caleb and your gran leaving you behind, the association once your heart finally gives out. How you’re only surviving until you receive a sign from the universe that you’ve finally earned the peace that you believe only death can offer you.

But instead of withdrawing, instead of dawning disgust in his heart, your heart, you feel determination rise in you, in him. A firm rejection of everything he just felt from you. An efficient, resounding no. If you don’t fucking believe it yet, he’ll just work harder until you do. He’s been too cautious. He’s been so busy trying to give you time, trying to lure you in like a scared kitten, that he has inadvertently let you believe that you’re ultimately disposable to him, when you’re the one thing he can’t bear to live without. No. No. No.

But why? You can’t help but feel, ask. Why you? When the world is so vast, full of people who are so much more interesting, competent, true equals to the man now running his fingers so gently along your cheek, staring into your eyes, sending wave upon wave of wordless, overpowering love through you.

Along with the warmth, the affection, the gentle amusement, the lust, the endless fascination that Sylus is sending along through your connection to him, you start seeing visions of your own laughing face, your lips curved in a scowl or a mischievous smirk, the few times he’s managed to instigate a big belly laugh out of you, squeals of delight at the claw machine, your competitive smugness following a motorcycle race that ended in a tie, and afterwards your lips bathed in moonlight as the both of you lay in a field of flowers, staring up at the night stars on the side of the road. Your mouth, as a metaphor for every reason he loves you so much. Your thoughtful frowns, betraying your clever mind, your bloodthirsty snarls, revealing your righteous fury when engaging in battle, your grin, telegraphing your dark sense of humor, your ability to laugh in the face of the horrors of humanity, existence, the constant plague of hostile wanderers. Your mouth, slightly open, panting, little noises of pleasure escaping your lips as Sylus makes you feel good with his body, as you make him feel like a king with every satisfied whimper out of your mouth.

You had no idea. All this time, you had no idea the depth of his feelings for you. When he is away on business, how his thoughts return to you, over and over again. When he is here at his home, how he intricately plans the ‘happenstance’ encounters with you. His joining you on jogs, because he’s so afraid something may happen to you when you’re exhausted and alone.

Do you understand yet? He’s pressing his forehead to yours, still being careful of your torso, breathing you in.

You feel his heart, and he feels yours, and you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, as the connection loops through you, a closed circuit, infinity entwined. You understand that when you’re in pain, so is he. That by doubting his sincerity, his love for you, your own self worth, you’re hurting him too.

I’m sorry, is all you can think. You didn’t know, before. You may never have believed him, if he hadn’t opened himself to you like this, through your resonance. 

He silently rejects your apology. Relief unfurls through you, as he realizes that you’re finally understanding. That now you and he can finally begin.

But now you’re curious about what led you to being here, resonating with him, in his bed.

If I was hurt so badly, why don’t I feel any pain?

There is the feeling of a sigh, of tension released. Like he’s finally breathing after being underwater the entire time you were unconscious, and then worried that he was done with you. The painkillers that I’ve had the doctor pumping into you via the IV since I got you back to base. They’re pretty strong.

You smile. Thank you.

His face grows serious, his red eyes troubled again. Don’t thank me yet. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up, so that you could resonate with me. I need to heal you.

Heal me? You look down at yourself. The bandages wrapped tightly around your torso, the IV in your arm. Don’t I just need time to heal? You can dump me at Akso and Zayne can—

No. Sylus is scowling, full lips turned down like he smells something unpleasant. I can heal you better than your accomplished doctor. Under his thoughts snakes a winding thread of possessiveness, of pride that he can’t quite contain, even under these circumstances.

You’re bizarrely pleased with his jealousy, unfounded as it is. He’s the only person you’ve been able to see, from the moment you looked up into his disdainful face for the first time. Then why shouldn’t I thank you for it, if you can do that?

He brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckles. It’s going to hurt, my love.

You snort softly. I’m used to pain. You turn your head, feel brave enough to kiss his knuckles.

He licks his lips, briefly, uncharacteristically nervous. Not like this.

And when you’re done?

You’ll never forget the pain, but you’ll be fully healed. As if you were never injured at all.

You watch his face thoughtfully, thinking about all the times he has been injured since you’ve known him. And all the times the wounds have closed up right before your eyes. His stone-cold face, as blood turns to ash, as flesh is re-knit.

Is there any way you can heal me now, without feeling the pain yourself?

He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite believe you’ve just asked that. Still only worried about me, when you’re the one who almost died. He's incredulous.

I don’t like it when you’re in pain. You’d suffer a million injuries, to spare him one.

The feeling that fills you is his heart, mirroring yours. He takes the injuries every time, to spare you getting hurt.

When you hurt, I hurt. As I heal you, we’ll hurt together. When it’s over, we’ll be relieved, together. That’s what I’ve been offering, all along. Will you say yes?

You search his eyes, and you want to drink them like the sun-filtered wine they resemble.

Only if you promise me that you will stop taking hits meant for me. That if I’m not fast enough to get out of the way, we’ll heal together, but you won’t hurt twice because of me.

He laughs, low, breathless. He can’t believe you’re trying to bargain on his behalf in the state you’re in. I can’t promise that. Especially after the past few days. I can heal. You almost died. You don’t understand that terror.

But a part of you, deep inside you, does understand that terror. You don’t know how, but the thought of losing him makes you want to rip off your own skin, tear out your own lungs, set the world on fire. You scowl at him. He just leans down, licks your lower lip. I like it when you look at me so meanly. You deserve to be a little meaner, sweetheart.

Not towards you. 

Especially towards me. I can take it. If it’s from you, I can take anything.

But that won’t do, not at all, not for you, not for what you want to give him, especially now that you know how much he cares for you in return. Sylus.

Yes, beloved?

That’s not the kind of love I want to give you.

I don’t know any other kind, darling.

Then I’ll allow you to heal me, if you allow me to teach you that love isn’t something you should have to endure. It shouldn’t hurt more than it heals.

There you are. His smile is soft, dark, welcoming like night after a long day. My sweet, master negotiator. That’s a deal I can accept.

Then heal me. Quickly.

My demanding kitten, he thinks, his affection, admiration, gentle amusement warming your exhausted heart.

He gives you what you ask for, As I will always try to do, as he clutches your cheeks in his big palms, rests his forehead against yours. The pleasant numbness is slowly burned away by an inexorable, excruciating heat along your ribs. It is like having your flesh threaded, jerked, drawn together with a blunt needle, rough twine. You can feel your sundered cells re-merging, the scuffed bones filling in, veins, arteries tugged, braided, pulled tight. The pain is much worse than any injury you’ve ever suffered, including broken bones, a bullet through your muscles, your broken body thrown to the ground in the shockwave from the bomb that killed Caleb and your grandmother.

Through it all, Sylus grits his teeth, holds you, absorbs your pain. Your ribs, his ribs, your flesh, his flesh, fused, whole.

The physical pain fades, but not its memory.

You start to cry.

A feeling of alarm ricochets between him and you. What’s wrong?

I hate that you feel this, every time. I’ve dug bullets out of you, just for you to have to go through this. Every time. You have to be more careful, from now on. I can’t bear you hurting like this, now that I know what it’s like for you.

Now that your wounds are healed, your body whole, Sylus throws his arms around you and pulls you close, crushing you to his chest. I’ll be more careful, if you never doubt again that I feel the same for you.  When you come home from a mission exhausted and bleeding, I feel the same way as you do now, imagining the times I’ve been hurt. You have a reason to come home, even with Caleb and your grandmother gone. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t go and get hurt, when I’m not there to heal you again.

You laugh through your tears, so relieved that you’re no longer in pain. That you can move freely, the numbing effects of the pain medication seemingly gone along with the physical trauma on your body. Who’s the sweet master negotiator now?

You feel your own relief absorbed, rebounding, returned to you in an echo. Relief that he really could share his own healing abilities with you through his evol and your resonance. Relief that he won’t have to call your doctor again. That you are going to be fine, now. That you finally understand how much he cares for you, now. The relief morphs into something else. Something hungrier, more demanding.

He rolls you, settling his big body over yours. His agile, calloused hands yank at the bloodstained bandages wrapped around your torso. He leans down, licks the tears at the corner of each of your eyes, salt on your tongue, on his. He kisses your temple. Your forehead. Your nose. Your lips. Licks you, until you open your mouth, and he’s kissing  you so hard, just shy of rough. Tasting your tongue, the slick softness of your inner cheeks, his entire being radiating a question, May I? May I? And a demand, Let me, let me. I was so frightened, holding your chilled body in my arms, your hot blood soaking through my shirt.

You send your wordless Yes, yes, of course, yes through the resonance. He lifts a hand, snaps his big fingers, a gunshot in the quiet room. The IV in your arm dissolves into scarlet and black ash, drifts into nothing. He leans down, laps at the blood trickling from where the needle was just embedded with his tongue. You taste iron as he tastes iron, and you shudder. He has succeeded in yanking your bandages from your body, and you lie underneath him, chest exposed. He moves from your inner elbow to your ribs, where you were just gravely injured, and licks long swipes across the muscles of your side, across the bone underneath. A beast, nursing a mate’s wound the best way he knows how.

His hunger, his desperation to feel your body against his body, to feel good after so much physical pain, fills you. You reach for his evol, pull it into yourself, snap your fingers, and rejoice when his soft shirt and sleep pants, his underwear, dissolve into colorful ash. He hovers naked above you, a look of surprise on his beautiful face. Perks of the resonance, you smirk. He grins, and it’s lethal to your heart—his canines sharp, his dick hard. He snaps his own fingers again, and you’re suddenly naked as well. You laugh, delighted. You grab his cock and pump it, and he groans, twisting, repositioning himself a little clumsily in the tangled bedsheets so that his cock is now hovering over your mouth and he’s trailing open mouthed kisses along your upper thigh, up to where you legs meet, before sinking his mouth over your most sensitive parts.

You gasp, bucking up into his mouth, wanting more of his tongue, his lips, his saliva dripping onto, into you. He feels your pleasure in his own body, and accidentally bucks himself against your lips. Before he can feel sorry, or regret, you tighten your hold around his big dick and open your own mouth, tonguing his soft skin, inhaling the scent of him. You stuff your mouth with him, your jaw wide open. Through the resonance, the closed circuit fires, sparks. You can’t tell where you end, where he begins, the pushing, the pulling, the taste of him, of you, the saliva dripping out of both of your mouths as you feast on each other, as you choke a little on the size of him, as he swallows, again and again, everything he is sucking from you, the wet sounds of your shared pleasure loud in the room.

When you finally come, he follows, and you swallow as best as you can. Salt, warmth, and musk. He rolls to his side, his still-hard dick leaving your lips with a wet pop, and he uses his evol to lift you—you yelp as he spins you, drops you next to him. You roll, throw your arm around him, and kiss him. He kisses you back, tongue sliding back into your mouth, and you taste yourself, and he tastes himself, through the resonance, through your messy, wet mouths combined.

Sylus. His name is a sigh, a talisman, a comfort, a treat in your mind, on your tongue.

You feel the pleasure course through him, hearing his name in your mind. He answers in kind. Beloved. 

Sylus. You repeat, just to feel the spike in his enjoyment again.

He shudders a little. Never stop saying my name.

That’s an easy demand to indulge from your sweet lover, as far as you’re concerned. Okay, Sylus. You smile against his lips. He snakes an arm around you, pulls you tighter.

You enjoy each other quietly, as you each regain your breath, as you revel in the feeling of being whole, unharmed, finally understanding where the other is coming from, the depths of your mutual devotion.

I want to fuck you again, but it's already taken you longer than I expected to wake up. We’re going to be late.

You pull back a little, look at him questioningly.

I arranged a Christmas party at your place. Well, he thinks, gemstone eyes sparkling in mirth. Your boyfriend Skye arranged a Christmas party at your place. I was afraid I was going to have to cancel, and I can if you’re not up for it. But your friends will miss you.

You gape at him. My friends?

Tara, Nero, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, the twins—who are Skye’s younger cousins. Through the resonance, you receive an image of your apartment, half the small living room taken up with the biggest Christmas tree the twins could stuff in there, decorated with big gold glass ball ornaments, as well as a hilarious assortment of mismatched crow ornaments. Fairy lights strung over your windows. Pine-scented garlands hanging over the sides of your kitchen island. Big, pretty red and black wrapped presents under the tree, each with one of your friends’ names on them.

You stare into your boyfriend’s smiling, lovely eyes. But why?

Did you think I couldn’t tell how sad the idea of the first Christmas without your family was making you? He tsks, a low disgruntled sound in his throat. I’m insulted.

You hug his big body tighter against your own. You did all that for me?

This is nothing, compared to everything I am willing to do for you, darling.

You bury your head in his big, pillowy chest. Breathe in the scent of him, run your hands through the soft silver hair along his skin. He shudders. Keep doing that and I’ll definitely make us late, kitten.

You laugh, filled with such warmth. You can’t believe how wrong you were, about him, about how much you mean to him. You make the decision to live for more than just the day you can die. To live, instead of just survive. This is Sylus’s Christmas gift to you. You send the thought through the connection to him, and he palms the back of your head, gently presses your face deeper into his chest.

And what do you want for Christmas, Sylus?

You don’t know what you expect to hear as a response. Something expensive, or outrageous. Your soul, which you’re pretty sure he already has at this point.

I already have your soul. Now I just want your company. And... you receive the image of a set of pens with little cute crow figurines on the caps. You look at him in confusion. I want my own pens from my sweet little hunter. It’s only fair, since I’m the one who healed you.

You have no idea what he’s talking about. He already has your soul? Now he just wants pens because he healed you? He huffs a little, feeling your confusion. Don’t overthink it. But that’s what I want.

You decide to let it go. Like Sylus, you’re willing to give him so, so much more. But if goofy, cute pens are what he wants, you’re happy to find some for him, or have them custom made if necessary. A pulse of smug satisfaction fills you through the connection, as if Sylus just won a competition that only he knows is happening.

You drift in peaceful, satisfied silence with him. You think about how you felt when you woke up, versus how you feel now. Settled. Completely reassured. Hopeful, even. You want him to know that you're grateful, for not giving up. For insisting that you resonate with him. For showing you his true feelings when he saw how much pain you were in. Thank you.

He just hugs you, radiating contentment. There is no thanks between you and me. When you’re happy, I’m happy.

Fine, no thanks to you, you tease. You listen to his heartbeat. Think about the Christmas tree, and your friends, waiting for you, arranged by Sylus and the twins. Then Merry Christmas, Sylus.

This, he accepts. The first of many, he responds.

It was supposed to be a simple job. It was supposed to be a simple jog. There was a Before, and an After—Caleb, your gran. Small steps, each one more exhausting than the last, but you couldn't quit. You couldn't ever give up, even though there wasn't a finish line in sight, without the guideposts of your family guiding you home, without anyone waiting if you ever made it back to something resembling home ever again.

But the job almost killed you. The jog ended in Sylus opening himself to you completely, healing you in more ways than one. Now, there is a Before, and an After. Not replacing, but parallel to the Before and After of your family. Before Sylus, After Sylus. The small steps suddenly don't seem so exhausting, anymore. Maybe it's not surviving till the welcome end, but trying to live while you're alive. Maybe you have to create a new home, when one is lost to you. You nuzzle into Sylus's chest, ask a question.

The answer is so sure. So matter-of-fact. So Sylus. Of course I'll shorten my stride for you, beloved. Until you feel strong enough not only to sprint, but to fly again.

[wandering-pirate]

Mouthwashing Characters Headcanons

The Crew's Love Language ft. You

Captain Curly

Words of Affirmation

The captain is well-known for having his vocabulary overflowing with encouraging and uplifting words, a stellar reputation for giving good pep talks

Deep inside, he always loved hearing words of praise from the people he cared about the most. He always valued the affirmations from them, a foolproof method to make him smile and feel loved

For him, words are like fire, and people can either use them to warm someone up or burn a whole damn city

He never raises his voice at you when it comes to negative emotions, never when he's angry, frustrated, or panicked

He, however, is so enthusiastic when congratulating you or when he's excited about the topic you're both talking about

Your heart (and belly) can't help but feel very warm with the way he uses his words with his deep tone. If a kid asked you how a space superhero would sound, you'd bring Curly forward

With his effort to stay optimistic, you always make sure to tell him an encouraging word or sweet strands of praise whenever you see him and after he does something

"Captain, remember to stay hydrated, you're doing great, sir."

"You always know how to put the crew at ease, Cap. Appreciate it"

"You're so reliable, gosh, thank you!"

Every praise and affirmation you throw his way makes him blush and stutter, a polar opposite to his status

You make it a duty to compliment him sincerely. The hunk of a man ends up having a red face every time he receives your sweet words to the point that the crew teases him for it

"Cap, what's red and stutters?"

"I swear, Jimm--"

"Oh, oh! I know!"

"Come on, Daisuke, not you to--"

"You, after talkin' to Y/N."

The captain, co-pilot, and intern stared at Swansea’s retreating back after he butted into a conversation that the mechanic would find ridiculous even being a part of

You also made sure to never—I MEAN NEVER—use words against him, especially with secrets or information that he exclusively told you about (probably the reason why you and Jimmy ended the Captain's birthday party with knives at each other's throats)

Mechanic Swansea

Acts of Service

The old man was raised in a household where serving your family is the ultimate display of love

His father scoffed after reaching the last part of young Swansea's greeting in the Christmas card he gave him:

"I love you? Boy, you can't even make a decent cut on that firewood from a while ago"

"I love you's" are just empty words for him. When you really want to reach into his head and hammer some sense of what you feel about him, you gotta show it

However, unlike his father, he doesn't need a grand display of actions to know and notice. He actually prefers the little things you do:

Remembering his coffee preference and making it every morning

Giving him a massage in the area his hands seem to knead frequently

Putting his socks on before work

Giving him a pedicure (after leveraging that he'd eat you in bed for the whole night)

He also holds himself up to the same standard, always doing chores around the house whenever you're busy:

No stocks of pads and tampons? He'll make sure he gets the right brand you always get

Your favorite furniture that you inherited needs varnishin'? He's on it.

Your daughter's birthday is coming up, but you're too ill to make the cake? He ain't a baker, but he'd be damned if he won't at least try

"Daddd, is this... is this meat... on my birthday cake?"

"S'called 'cake of love' for a reason, darlin'. You don't question its ingredients. It's made of love"

What makes your heart flutter is not having to tell him all the things that need to be done. He knows what's lacking and what you need

When there are times you have to vocalize your concerns, he'll simply nod, and after a moment, it's done

Co-pilot Jimmy

Physical Touch

*Sighs* Need I say more?

Jimmy is the type who’s not comfortable with PDA, but he can't seem to keep his hands off of you when he feels threatened, (especially when Curly is having a casual conversation with you)

You can't blame the guy; he doesn't even understand how you fell for him somehow, but he's not complaining, and he most definitely will not let you go (possessive boi is a touchy boi)

His touches are not always sensual, and it actually surprises you how gentle he is when holding you

Whenever you're busy, he'd pass by to squeeze your waist or brush a touch on your lower back

When you're both around each other but are doing different tasks, he'd make sure to have a part of you touching him:

A hand on the thigh

A leg over your thighs

His head on your chest or shoulder or thighs (the boy's got magnets on your thighs, what can I say?)

And his personal favorite: having you sit between his legs with your back pressed against his chest.

One time, a frustrated Curly called you. It's been a week since Jimmy left for his job-training, and you weren't aware that someone was also getting through a torturous week like you and Jimmy

The captain was at the other end of his friend's damp mood

"I don't know what you do to him, Y/N. He's a completely different person when he's with you"

"Hmm, how bout massaging his hand, cap. It improves his mood, and it always works"

"..."

"Hello? Curly?"

"...Y/N, are you trying to get me killed? It works because you're the one doing it!"

Intern Daisuke

Quality Time and Giving Gifts

The boy loves spending time with you. He doesn't need to plan for what to do during those times you'd be together because he always finds ways to make you enjoy it so much that you have to keep a wristwatch to check how much time has passed

He's known to be a yapper but not the type of yapper that tires you

The man has a lot of questions for you to the point that you're concerned that he knows more information about yourself than you

Pointing out things he notices you do, like looking slightly at the right when you're lying or knowing how many moles are in your face and neck

It doesn't creep you out though, you picked up that he's very observant when he's interested and that flatters you that he take mental notes of these small things just by being around him

Whenever he knows that you won't be seeing him for a while, he makes sure that you know what he'll be doing and where he'll go

Basically the main reason when the crew - especially Swansea - would look for him, they'll go straight to you

"Hey kid, where's that boy again?"

"Toilet, Swansea. He said it's a raging diarr--"

"Yeah yeah, toilet's fine. geez."

Daisuke also buys you trinkets he finds that remind him of you—from crocheted baby mushrooms to obscure plastic eyeball keychains

"I understood the frog keychain last week, but... a turd plushie?"

"Cause I feel shitty when we're apart"

"Valid"

His gifts are very specific and you even cried one time in a store trying to outgift him, spoiler, you can't. He never makes you feel bad about it, he always claimed that he takes pride at being the Leslie Knope of the real world (iykyk)

Nurse Anya

Quality Time

She strongly believes that spending time with someone is the core of a relationship

She definitely isn’t the person to be clingy - nope, she's a queen with self-worth. If you don't want to spend time with her, don't expect her to chase you

The more you spend time with her, though, the more she opens up. For her, trust is something earned over time, and you made the effort to build that trust brick by brick

After falling for her harder, your trips to the medbay became more frequent with "accidental injuries"

"Hey, miss Anya."

"Hey y/n, kindly be careful. Don’t want you to have your 4th visit this week."

"Heh, what can I say? I hate breaking the streak. Gotta keep you on your toes."

"Y/N, it’s still Wednesday."

"Good time to give you your once-a-week training, right?"

Once she’s comfortable with you, her affection shows in the little things:

Putting your vitamins and supplements on accessible places because she knows you forget taking them

Giving you random psychology tests after finding our that you loved them

Or being comfortable enough to nap on your shoulders (you earned that trust on the hundred and tenth day)

You don't even have to talk while being together; as long as both of you are around each other, her shoulders relax, and her face is at peace

[aesthetically-dying101]

Not you.

A/N: yeah so atp this is basically a nanami account idk man, ive been mulling over this idea and just.. couldn't not write it.

warnings: she/her usage, mostly fluff and all, rival to lovers? kinda. Things aren't what they seem. i used a bunch of jargon, but idk what the hell it means so... usage of one or two of Y/N

Nanami Kento was a figure who commanded respect the moment he stepped into any room. As the head of the Financial Department, his reputation preceded him. A man of few words, Nanami always carried himself with a certain gravitas, his sharp suit and perfectly styled hair giving off an air of authority.

He was stoic, often leaving the office before anyone had a chance to catch up with him, and in all the time that anyone had worked with him, Nanami had never once mentioned his personal life.

There were rumors, of course—whispers about his wife, about how he was always so distant and so professional. The office was filled with speculation.

Who was she? What was she like? Why did he never speak of her? The only thing anyone knew for certain was that Nanami Kento had no patience for distractions, and his world revolved entirely around his work.

And then there was you—the head of the Operations Department, responsible for overseeing the company’s logistics, product development, and strategic planning.

Your department was vital to the company’s success, just as Nanami’s was, and your work ethic was practically legendary. You were efficient, meticulous and well-put-together—your image just as carefully crafted as Nanami’s.

But unlike Nanami, you didn’t just command respect, you earned it through your quiet authority, your quick intellect, and your ability to get things done.

You rarely discussed your personal life either, but that wasn’t for the same reasons. The office gossips had often speculated about your marriage, or rather, the lack of concrete information about it. You spoke of your husband in passing—always vague, always careful. When asked about him, you would smile softly and say, “He’s a wonderful cook,” or, “He's the best thing that happened to me,” but you never mentioned his name.

To the other employees, you and Nanami were like opposite ends of a magnet—both incredibly powerful in your respective positions but always repelling each other in public.

It was simple, you hated each other.

Allegedly.

*-*

The conference room was filled with the soft hum of hushed conversations as the remaining members of the board filtered in, the meeting about to begin.

The room, with its glass walls and sleek wooden table, seemed to swallow the light, the air thick with unspoken energy. The usual quiet before a presentation had taken on a different tone today—a sort of heavy, expectant stillness.

Everyone knew what this meeting would be like. The air was thick with anticipation, the feeling of two titans preparing to clash.

At the head of the table, Nanami sat with his usual impassive expression. His eyes, sharp and cold as always, scanned over the presentation materials before him, making quick, methodical notes in the margins of his tablet. His hands, large and steady, moved with precision, his posture impeccable. Despite his composed demeanor, there was a slight edge to his usual stoic appearance—his jaw set tighter than usual, his gaze flickering over the documents in front of him but never staying too long in one place.

Across the table, you did the same. Your posture was straight, your fingers tapping lightly against your own tablet- though your eyes remained focused on Nanami as if assessing him.

The subtle tension between the two of you could be felt by anyone in the room who dared to glance between the two of you. You had worked with Nanami for long enough to know how he functioned, but still, there was something about this moment that made you feel the familiar bite of competitive energy.

This wasn’t just business. It was more than that. This was your rivalry—your game.

“You two ready?” The CEO’s voice broke the silence, and everyone turned their attention to him, but all eyes remained glued to you and Nanami.

A brief, almost imperceptible glance passed between you and Nanami before you both nodded.

Nanami spoke first.

“I’ll start with the financial outlook,” he said, his deep voice calm and unwavering. His tone was confident, measured—his usual professional self. No one could ever accuse him of overacting or raising his voice unnecessarily.

That was his strength. Efficiency, precision.

You watched him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you mentally prepared yourself. You knew exactly what he was going to do—reel off the statistics and the metrics, the numbers that made sense but lacked the full scope of the opportunity you were about to present. You weren't going to let him walk away with this meeting.

You wouldn’t let him win.

Not today.

“Based on the projections, our current approach remains sustainable,” Nanami continued, pointing at his presentation slides, his finger steady. “We will continue with conservative growth, minimizing risks while maximizing short-term profitability.”

The numbers slid onto the screen with ease, each one perfectly in place, each calculation undeniably sound. You couldn’t help but appreciate his work. His plans were always tight, methodical—there was never a flaw. But there was also no room for expansion, no room for daring leaps.

That’s where you came in.

With a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, you leaned forward, picking up where he left off.

“I agree with the numbers,” you said smoothly, your voice carrying through the room. “But sustainability doesn’t always mean profitability. If we’re talking about the long-term viability of the company, we need to look at diversification.”

You let the words hang in the air for a moment, then continued, your eyes never leaving his.

“You’ve kept it safe, Nanami. But we’re not here to play it safe. We’re here to grow, to expand. You can only play it safe for so long before the market overtakes us. I say we invest in new international markets, even if it means taking on a bit more risk upfront.”

There was a slight shift in Nanami’s demeanor. A tightening in his jaw. A flare of something in his icy blue eyes. But his expression remained unreadable as he flipped to the next slide.

“And what about the supply chain issues in the Southeast Asia region?” he asked, his voice steady, but there was an edge to it. He wasn’t backing down. “Any suggestions for how we mitigate that risk?”

“More diversification,” you shot back without hesitation, your tone smooth, but firm. “We can’t afford to rely on just one region when there are so many variables outside of our control. What we need is a more global approach—one that doesn’t put all our eggs in one basket.”

The tension in the room was palpable now.

Everyone could feel it. The subtle undercurrent of animosity, the way your words were calculated to provoke, the way Nanami’s responses were sharp, measured, never losing his composure.

There was a reason everyone in the office avoided the two of you when these meetings happened. The air seemed to hum, charged with an energy that made everything else feel distant.

A low murmur swept through the room as Nanami gave his final response.

“Diversification is too risky at this point. We don’t know enough about the regions you’re suggesting, and I don’t intend to make decisions based on speculative information.” His voice was calm but firm. “Without concrete data, we can’t afford to gamble the company’s future.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“And I’m saying we won’t have a future if we don’t take risks. Sure, we can stay on this safe path, but it’s the same one we’ve been on for years, and it’ll eventually stagnate.” You leaned forward, pushing the point. “We need to be ahead of the curve, Nanami, or we’ll get swallowed up by the competition. The world doesn’t wait for us to get comfortable.”

There was a long pause. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Nanami’s counterattack.

“You’re assuming the worst-case scenario,” Nanami replied, his voice still calm but with a subtle bite to it. “I don’t deal in worst-case scenarios. I deal in facts. And the fact is, our company is thriving just fine as it is.”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you smiled slightly, leaning back in your chair with a controlled breath.

“That’s because of people like me, Nanami. People who know that thriving isn’t enough. We need to evolve.”

It was a quiet challenge. A call to the very heart of his cautious nature, the kind of challenge that stirred something deep in both of you.

For a moment, the room was silent. No one dared to speak, sensing the standoff between the two of you. You both knew the stakes. Your points were valid, and his were just as solid. But in this game, it wasn’t just about who was right—it was about who could bend the other to their will.

And with that, the meeting continued, but the energy in the room never quite settled. The board members watched in silence, accustomed to the tension between you and Nanami by now, though none of them fully understood the true nature of the competition, of the rivalry between you two.

It wasn’t just about the work.

It never was.

And as the presentations came to an end and everyone began to file out of the room, Nanami gave you one last glance—his eyes not cold, but something else. Something unreadable, but familiar.

“Good work,” he said, almost as if he were conceding a point, though his tone remained neutral.

*-*

The day had been long—longer than usual, filled with presentations, sharp glances and the undercurrent of competition that was familiar but still exhilarating.

As the office began to empty, you found yourself walking down the hallway, your heels clicking softly against the polished floor. It had been a long day, but the tension that lingered between Nanami and you after the meeting was… intoxicating. And, as always, you had a feeling you’d be running into him soon.

And by "running into him," you meant, of course, you were about to collide on purpose.

As if on cue, you turned a corner and found yourself standing in front of the conference room. The door was slightly ajar, and you could see the faint outline of Nanami’s figure inside.

You paused, your heart picking up pace, knowing what was about to happen.

This wasn't just a coincidence, it never was.

You pushed the door open, slipping inside with a barely noticeable smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Late-night work, Kento?” you asked, playing it cool, but the mischievous glint in your eyes betrayed you.

Nanami didn’t look up right away.

He was leaning over a set of papers, reviewing something quietly, and for a brief second, he gave no indication that he had even noticed you’d entered.

But you knew he had.

You always knew.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice steady but with a certain edge to it, “-didn’t expect you to be so punctual after our little ‘debate’ today.”

You took a slow step forward, your heels clicking softly as you closed the gap between you.

“Oh, I’m always punctual. You know that.”

Nanami glanced up, his gaze narrowing slightly as his eyes met yours. That familiar, teasing tension was already swirling between you. You could practically feel it crackling in the air. And, just like every time before, it was like you were the only two people in the world.

You leaned against the table, crossing your arms casually.

“So, what’s the verdict on my very risky ideas from earlier? Did I win, or are we still battling it out?”

His lips quirked slightly, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stood from the chair with slow deliberation, locking eyes with you as he did. There was a dangerous, playful glint in his gaze now.

“We both know you’re stubborn,” he said softly, a challenge laced in his tone. “But you do make a good point every now and then.”

Before you could respond, Nanami turned and locked the door behind you, the soft click of the lock reverberating through the room.

You raised an eyebrow, the realization hitting you like a slow wave. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, Kento,” you teased, but your voice softened.

He didn’t reply at first. Instead, Nanami took a step closer, closing the distance between you until there was only a whisper of air separating you. His hand reached up, fingers grazing your cheek, his touch delicate but firm. The tension between you felt so thick it could’ve suffocated anyone else in the room, but not you two.

You thrived in it.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to your lips, “I do love how much you push me.”

“And I love how much you push me,” you whispered back, your voice low and steady, heart pounding in your chest.

His lips curled into a smirk, and before you could fully register what was happening, his hand was on the back of your neck, pulling you toward him with a force that sent your pulse racing. Your lips met in a sudden, heated kiss.

No words. No preamble.

Just pure, undeniable fire.

The kiss was a clash of desire and frustration—a mingling of rivalry and affection. You could feel his hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, and you responded by tangling your fingers into his shirt, tugging him even nearer.

Between kisses, Nanami murmured softly against your lips, each word barely audible but intense.

“You were right, you know. Your presentation was damn good. Risky as hell, but good.”

You could feel a smile tugging at your lips even as you kissed him back.

“Yeah? I know. I did well.”

He chuckled softly, the sound deep in his chest. “You always do,” he muttered, his voice soft and warm despite the heat of the kiss.

His hands moved to your face, cupping it gently as he deepened the kiss, his thumbs tracing the curve of your jaw. The intensity of the moment was enough to make you forget everything around you. In this room, there was no competition, no rivalry—just you two. Just him. Just the way you were always meant to be.

And then, between frantic kisses, his voice dropped into a breathless whisper. “Marry me.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, blinking in confusion. “What?”

He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes softening as he gazed down at you with the same affection that always made your heart skip a beat.

“Marry me again,” he repeated, his voice thick with sincerity. “You already have my heart, but I want to do this all over again.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and joyful. “You already asked me, Ken.”

He grinned, his hands pulling you closer again. “Then let me ask you again. Marry me.”

You held up your hand, showing him the ring that already glimmered on your finger. “You really don’t need to ask. I already said yes.”

Nanami pressed his lips to yours once more, his kiss warm and tender this time, as if every part of him was soaking in the quiet joy of the moment. In between kisses, you heard him whisper,

“I don’t care. I want to ask you every day.”

And as the kiss deepened once more, you couldn’t help but think that, despite all the competition, all the tension, all the heated moments between you—they were all just a reminder of how much you really loved each other.

And in the end, that was all that mattered.

A/N: yeah so idk my brain just couldn't not think of this. i might remake this into a longer fic bc I LOVE this premise so much

Masterlist

:)

[rafesbabygirlx]

6 𝑫𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 🎄 𝑹𝒂𝒇𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒏

𝙳𝚊𝚢 3 - 𝚂𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝙸𝚗 - 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙿𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚢-𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 "𝚃𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚛 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚎" 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚌𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 (𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐) 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢

𝙰/𝙽- 𝙸 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚝 3𝚊𝚖 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚕

The wind howled outside, shaking the cabin as snow piled higher against the windows. The storm had come in fast, trapping you and Rafe inside while Sarah, Topper, and Kelce were still out, struggling to make their way back. The thought of being stuck here alone with Rafe Cameron hadn’t been on your list of plans for the weekend.  

Rafe made it abundantly clear he wasn’t thrilled about your presence, brushing off your attempts at conversation with snide comments. You’d only come because Sarah begged you to, not wanting to be the only girl on a trip with her brother and his friends. Now, the storm has forced you into an unexpected standoff with the Kook prince himself. You had known them since you were little. Despite being a Pogue from the cut, your dad played an important role in Cameron Development. He just refused to move from where he and your mom were raised. You’d learn more life lessons on the cut, you’d learn the importance of work, and you’d learn how to take care of yourself. You were more well off than your friends, but just from your location alone, the title and the reputation still stook.

The power had gone out hours ago, leaving the cabin cloaked in shadows. You had spent most of your time alone avoiding each. But since the only light and warmth now came from the flickering fire in the family room, casting golden glow across the room, you two ended up sitting together on the couch. Heavy blankets were draped over both of you as you sat on opposite ends of the couch, nursing mugs of whiskey-laced hot cocoa.  

The silence between you was uneasy, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the relentless wind outside. The tension was thick, though whether it stemmed from genuine animosity or something else entirely, you couldn’t quite tell.  

Rafe glanced at you over the rim of his mug, his expression unreadable. “Looks like it’s just you and me tonight,” he said finally, his tone edged with something you couldn’t place. Looking down at your phone, you noticed Sarah had texted you and Rafe that the group was just going to stay at a motel closer to town. It was impossible for them to make it back to the remote cabin. 

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine. “Lucky me,” you muttered, taking a sip of your drink. The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a moment, the storm outside seemed to quiet, as if the real storm was brewing between the two of you.  

“Truth or Dare?” Rafe had proposed after a long stretch of silence,, his voice carrying that infuriatingly smug tone he always seemed to use around you. You agreed reluctantly, suspecting he’d use the game to tease you. 

It started out innocent enough. Although it’s truth or dare, all you keep throwing at each other is truth. “What’s your favorite food?” “What’s your favorite color?” 

The fire crackled softly in the quiet cabin, the golden glow of the flames flickering against the walls. Outside, the storm continued to rage, wind howling as snow battered the windows. Rafe stretched his legs out lazily, his eyes fixed on you with a smirk as he swirled the whiskey in his mug.  

“Alright,” he said, breaking the silence, “truth or dare?”  

You raised a brow, sipping your cocoa. “Truth. I’m not about to trust you with a dare.”  

Rafe chuckled, the sound low and almost taunting. “Fair enough. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”  

You thought for a moment, biting your lip. “Probably sneaking into the country club with Sarah one night to swim in the pool. Security almost caught us.”  

Rafe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Not bad for a pogue,” he teased. “Your turn.”  

You smirked. “Truth or dare?”  

“Truth,” he replied easily, his gaze not wavering from yours.  

“What’s the most trouble you’ve ever gotten into?”  

Rafe tilted his head, pretending to think. “Define trouble,” he said with a smirk.  

“Something that could’ve actually gotten you locked up,” you clarified, rolling your eyes.  

“Fine,” he said, his tone growing more serious. “Got into it with some guy at a party. Things got... messy. Cops came, but my dad made it all go away.” He leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”  

“Truth,” you answered quickly, wary of what he might come up with.  

“What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve ever done?” he asked, his smirk returning, but this time it felt heavier, more charged.  

You felt your cheeks heat up, the firelight only making it worse. “Bold question,” you muttered.  

“I’m waiting,” he said, leaning back and giving you a look that was both smug and daring.  

You crossed your arms. “Skinny dipping counts, right?”  

Rafe laughed, shaking his head. “Weak answer.”  

“Alright, your turn,” you said, ignoring his jab. “Truth or dare?”  

“Truth,” he said again, his voice dropping slightly.  

“What would you do right now if no one could stop you?”  

His eyes locked onto yours, the tension thick enough to cut. He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on his knees as he let the question hang in the air. “You really want to know, princess?”  

You nodded, holding your ground despite the flutter in your chest.  

“I’d warm you up, for starters,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips, as he reaches for your hand, stroking it gently.. Your heart skipped. His challenge hung in the air, and the storm outside seemed to intensify as if it sensed the shift between you. He began to tug on the hand he was rubbing.  

“Fine,” you said, trying to sound unaffected, though your voice wavered slightly. You moved over to his side of the couch and hesitated for a moment before settling yourself across his lap.  

His hands immediately found your hips, steadying you. “Comfortable?” he asked, his tone laced with mockery, though his grip was firm and grounding.  

You glared at him. “Your turn,” you said quickly. “I dare you to kiss me.”  

“You didn’t ask me truth or dare,” Rafe’s smirk returned, but there was something softer beneath it this time. He leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek before his lips met yours. The kiss started slow, almost tentative, but it deepened quickly, the heat between you burning away any remaining tension.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice a low rasp. “I dare you to suck my cock.”  

You wasted no time sinking to the floor in front of him. Your hands on each of his thighs, moving up to reach the button of his jeans. You open them and tug his pants down his legs. You sit in between his wide spread legs and palm him through his boxers. You can’t believe how big he feels. You really never pictured him in that way and now your mouth is watering at the thought of it. Before you can do anything else, Rafe grabs your chin and leans over you. 

“Open,” commanding as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip. 

You comply and he spits onto your tongue. “Just making sure you know your place here, sweetheart. Swallow.” He leans back and you move to pull his boxers down.

You take his base in your hand and kiss his tip. Using your lips to smear his precum down his length. He’s already shifting above you, throwing his head back on the couch. He grabs a handful of your hair, squeezing it tightly when you move your head lower taking in all of him. 

“Shit that’s fucking good. Taking in all of me like a good little slut. Keep your eyes on me.” He looks down at you with a hazy look and you stare straight into his eyes as you begin to bob your head. 

As you continue to slowly take him all the way again, he starts to breathe heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His grip on your hair tightens, and he pulls your head back, exposing your neck. He leans forward, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"Fuck," Rafe whispers, his voice husky with desire. "Your mouth feels amazing."

You look up at him, your eyes locked onto his, and whisper, "I'm just getting started."

Rafe's eyes flash with excitement, and he pulls your head back down, his hips thrusting gently against your mouth. You feel his warm breath on your skin as he whispers, "Deeper, please. Take me deeper."

You oblige, moving your lips and tongue in sync with his movements, creating a sensual rhythm. His precum mixes with your saliva, creating a slippery texture that allows your lips to glide effortlessly up and down his length.

"Ah, yeah," Rafe groans, his body tensing. "Just like that. Don't stop."

You feel his muscles coiling with anticipation, as he struggles to maintain control. His hand in your hair pulls you closer, deepening the connection between you. You feel his tip hitting the back of your throat, and you relax, allowing him to slide in further.

Rafe's groans grow louder, and his body starts to tremble, signaling that he's on the edge, teetering between pleasure and release. He pulls you off of him, "I...I don't want to come yet," he whispers, his voice strained. "I want to savor this moment, feel your mouth on me for just a little longer."

You look up at him, your eyes sparkling with amusement, and whisper, "We'll see about that."

You continue to tease Rafe, your lips and tongue working in tandem to drive him closer to the edge. He's panting heavily now, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggles to maintain control.

"Please…" he whispers, his voice barely audible. "...J-Just a little longer."

You slow down your movements, taking your time to savor the moment. Rafe's eyes flash with frustration, and he tries to thrust his hips forward, seeking more friction. He knows what he asked but your mouth just feels too good to stop. But you're ready for him, and you hold him back, your hands grasping his hips to keep him in place.

"Patience," you whisper, your breath hot against his skin. "This is what you wanted, just a little more time feeling me."

Rafe groans, his body trembling with anticipation. You can feel his muscles coiling, you can feel the internal battle he’s having with this moment. He wants to give in so bad. 

And then, in a flash of movement, you take him deep, your lips wrapping around his length as you swallow him whole. Rafe's eyes go wide, and he lets out a loud groan, his body shuddering as he loses control. You continue to deep throat him as he squirms beneath you. 

"I'm...I'm coming," he whispers, his voice strained.

You feel his release building, his body tensing as he prepares to let go. And then, in a burst of heat and sensation, he's coming, his length pulsing as he empties himself into your mouth.

You swallow, feeling his warmth spread through you. Rafe's body relaxes, those muscles uncoiling as he collapses back onto the couch. He's panting heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggles to catch his breath.

You pull back, your lips releasing his length as you look up at him. Rafe's eyes are closed, his face relaxed in a mask of satisfaction. You smile to yourself, feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment.

"Wow," Rafe whispers, his voice barely audible. "That was...wow."

You lean forward, your lips brushing against his ear. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," you whisper.

Rafe's eyes flicker open, and he looks at you. "I more than enjoyed it," he whispers. "I needed that. I’ve been dying for you to do that."

You smile, feeling a sense of connection with him. "I'm also glad I could finally give it to you," you whisper.

Rafe's gaze holds yours, and for a moment, you just look at each other, the only sound is the heavy breathing and the beating of your hearts. And then, without a word, Rafe reaches out, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close.

You feel his warmth, his body heat radiating into you as he holds you tight. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both just breathe.

He takes a deep breath, and then, without warning, he stands up, lifting you with him. You feel a rush of excitement as he spins you around.

You feel his fingers tracing down the sides of your body, sending shivers down it. He reaches the hem of your shirt and lifts it up, pulling it over your head. You feel a rush of cool air on your skin as he discards it, and then his hands are on your breasts, grasping them firmly.

Rafe's fingers squeeze your nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. He leans forward, his lips closing around one of your nipples, sucking gently. Your legs go weak and you feel a moan building in your throat as he teases your nipple, his tongue flicking back and forth.

His hands move to your pants, unbuttoning them and pulling them down. You feel his fingers tracing down your thighs, sending shivers down your legs. He kicks off his own pants, and you feel his cock pressing against your ass.

Rafe spins you around, pulling you down to the couch with him. His hands grasping your hips as he turns you to face away from him. You feel his cock pressing against your entrance, and then he's lifting you up, sinking you down onto his length. You feel a rush of pleasure as he fills you, his cock stretching you wide.

As you settle onto his cock, Rafe's hands move to your hips, grasping them firmly. He starts to move you, lifting you up and down as you ride him reverse cowgirl style. You feel his cock sliding in and out of you, the friction building a fire in your belly.

You start to move on your own, your hips rocking back and forth as you ride Rafe's cock. His hands guide you, helping you find a rhythm that drives you both wild. You feel his cock hitting your g-spot, sending waves of pleasure through you.

As you ride him, Rafe's lips are on your back, his tongue tracing up and down your spine. You feel his breath hot against your skin. His hands are on your breasts, squeezing your nipples and sending jolts of pleasure through you.

You're lost in the sensation, your body moving on its own as you ride Rafe's cock. The room around you fades away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the intensity of the moment. You feel your orgasm building, a fire that's burning out of control.

You lean back on to Rafe’s chest and place a foot on the couch and begin to move your hips up and down. “Touch me,” you desperately plead and Rafe swiftly moves the one hand from your breast and swirls rough circles into your clit.

As soon as that pressure is applied, you're coming, your body shuddering. You feel his cock pulsing inside you, his body tensing as he comes right after you. The two of you are lost in the moment, your bodies entwined as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

You don’t get a second to recover before Rafe is lifting you up and laying you back onto the couch and settling in between your legs. You don’t mind though, you're not ready for this to end either.

He strokes his cock a few times to get hard again and as soon as he does he’s plunging right back into you.

As Rafe begins his harsh thrusts, he leans down and kisses you deeply, his tongue probing your mouth. You feel his warm breath on your skin, and his chest pressing against yours. He pulls back, looking into your eyes, and says, "I love being on top of you, feeling your body underneath me, I fucking own you now."

You smile, feeling a rush of excitement, and reply in between breaths, "You feel so good inside me, fucking me like the dirty little whore I am."

Rafe's eyes widen with desire, he honestly didn’t expect those words to come from you. You feel his cock filling you, stretching you, and you arch your back, moving your hips in sync with his, trying to take him deeper. "You're so tight, so wet," he growls. "I love feeling your cunt grip my cock."

As he moves, Rafe leans down and spits into your mouth again, his saliva mixing with yours. You feel a surge of excitement, and you swallow, tasting the salty sweetness of his spit. Rafe groans, his eyes closing in pleasure, and he says, "You're so fucking sexy. I love fucking you like this, making you mine, making you come all over my cock."

You feel his hips move even faster, his thrusts becoming more intense, and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer. Rafe's hands are on your breasts, squeezing and kneading, feeling his fingers pinch your nipples.

 "You like it rough, don't you, baby?" he asks, his voice low and husky. "You like it when I fuck you hard and deep, making you scream my name." You nod stupidly, not able to form a sentence right now.

As he fucks you, Rafe leans down and whispers, "I'm going to come soon, baby. I'm going to fill you up with more of my cum, make you feel like a dirty little slut." You feel his cock swelling, his movements becoming more erratic, and you know he's close. Those words make your back arch and make you come, your pussy clenching around his cock, milking him for every last drop of his seed.

"Oh, fuck yeah," Rafe groans, his voice husky with desire, "I can feel you coming, baby, I can feel your hot little cunt squeezing my cock, begging for my cum."

You look up at him, your eyes locking onto his, and you say, "Come inside me. Please. I want to feel you explode, feel your hot cum filling me up." Rafe's eyes flash with excitement, and he thrusts into you one last time, his body tensing, his cock pulsing with his release.

You feel his cum filling you, warming you, and you smile, feeling satisfied, feeling complete. Rafe collapses on top of you, his chest heaving, his breath hot on your skin. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, and you whisper, "I love being your dirty little slut."

Rafe's eyes open, and he looks at you, his gaze soft, his expression tender. He says, “I love making you mine." You feel his lips on yours, his kiss gentle, complete opposite of how passionate everything just was. You now realize, this wasn’t something done out of boredom. Rafe likes his sister’s pogue friend.

Tags- @maybankslover @eringaitskill @luissa266 @lolll505 @dayyzlol @calaryssia @eg-dr3amer3 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @rafestar @writtenbyhollywood @leilanizcals @rafestoothbrush @weluvwbb @itsforeverandalwayz @butterfly-ibuki @percysley @siredbtches @bigenergy777 @aupernatural-teenwolflover @slut4you @skywalker0809 @whytheylosttheirminds @starkeysprincess @rafeyscurtainbangs @cameronsprincess @httpsdrewstarkey @angelicameron @littlelamy @kieeslove @snowtargaryen @etheraltides @starkeysprincess @cooper8224 @hockeybabe87 @xdaughterofpersephonex @leather-n-velvet @mima116 @urbrunettebombshell @pogueprincesa @purplerose291 @frankoceanluvr11 @ivysprophecy @starsmoonn @akobx @rafestify @drwstarkeys

[g4rvez-r3id]

Let Me Stay

Ex! Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU Reader

Synopsis: You and Spencer have gone back to normal, somewhat. But it only takes one conversation to ruin that all again. All you wanna do is stay, but he won’t let you.

Category: Angst

Warnings: not really a happy ending, established past relationship, maeve arc, mentions of death and suicide, takes place during 8x17 ���The Gathering”, mentions of 8x17 events, spencer being a lil sad shit, crying, reader was in a past relationship before spencer, it’s just really sad, let me know if i missed anything! <3

Author’s Note: here is part two to “when you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light”! it’s short and sad 🤗 might make a part three???

part one

After helping Spencer, things were back to somewhat normal. You’d both bumped up from only talking on cases to the occasional small talk near the kitchenette or asking how each other’s days were going when you both were in the elevator on the way to the bullpen.

Everyone seemed to notice the change but hadn’t said anything to indicate that they knew. But then you’d heard Garcia gossiping about it in her office the other day to Morgan.

“Can you believe it? They’re finally talking again! Isn’t that great? Small talk can lead into something more! Maybe they’ll finally get together again and my ship will sail!” She’d fangirl and you shook your head with a small chuckle escaping your lips. (She was always so hell-bent that you two would eventually get back together).

Not that you didn’t agree with her, you always hoped you’d get somewhere with Spencer again. You just didn’t know when you could. He was still in mourning over Maeve and you knew he needed time to heal before dating again. You’d wait forever if you had to, unfortunately.

He still seemed quiet during most of the cases or would bury himself in his work to avoid feeling his feelings. And you couldn’t say you blamed him, because if it were you, you’d do the same thing. You have done the same thing. So, with understanding, you left him alone. And you were waiting for him to come to you.

And then you had that case in Minnesota. Your unsub was Peter Harper, he had stabbed women and pulled their tongues out pre-mortem. And you knew that him pulling the tongues out had some kind of significance to him. The disparate set of women victims was chosen at random until they discovered one connection between the women and it was that they all have a very strong on-line presence, their deaths telegraphed by stories in their own online blogs, messages or texts.

They’d finally found him at a public pool, ready to throw a woman in the pool and to wait for her to drown and when the team finally found him, he’d had a knife to his neck, ready to kill himself. You and JJ tried to talk him down off the ledge and told Peter he’d get help and that everything was gonna be okay. But then Reid had spoken up, telling him the truth and the total opposite from what you and JJ were saying.

Peter had killed himself shortly after that. And Reid walked off in frustration. You and JJ shared a look, wondering what the hell that was about.

You’d gone back to the office after filling out your paperwork. You were ready to go home, to relax and to wash the stench of this case off of you. And while you were packing up, you’d overheard Hotch and Reid’s conversation nearby. You knew Hotch was questioning his decision with telling Peter Harper the truth — that it wouldn’t get better, that it was gonna be hard to get help.

And when questioned about it, Reid’s answer was simple. “Well, Hotch, I thought the last time I was in a situation like this, I did exactly what I was supposed to. I told a perfect lie and that didn't work, so this time, in the hopes of saving someone's life, I tried something different.”

And then it was clear what this was about. Maeve. And you’d known that he still wasn’t over her. And of course, it really hadn’t been that long since she died, the wounds were still raw.

When you saw Reid abruptly leave the convo between him and Hotch and head towards the elevator, you knew to follow immediately. You’d worried a lot about him since what happened with Maeve. And you guessed that you just wanted him to be reassured that he had someone in his corner.

“Spencer,” You called in the parking garage and he’d turned around at the sound of your voice and could tell by his sigh that he was in no mood to talk with you but regardless he stopped.

“Look, I really don’t want to talk right now—” And you should’ve just left it at that. But you pushed, like you always do. Instead of walking away, you interrupted him. “I don’t care if you don’t wanna talk, but you know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna listen.” Spencer crossed his arms, obviously in defense mode as you continued.

“Spencer, we have given you time. We have been there for you thick and thin and all we wanna do is help—” This time, he interrupts you. “Have you ever thought about the fact that maybe I don’t want your help? That maybe what I need is just a little bit of space?”

With that, he walked off.

And you’d officially had enough.

“Do you really think that you are the only person in the world who has lost someone?” You exclaimed and Spencer stopped in his tracks, his back still facing you. “Well, you are barking up the wrong tree because — newsflash, Spencer — you are not the only person who’s lost someone. When I lost—” You pause, not wanting to say his name. “I was… such a wreck.”

You gulp, deciding to continue, hoping your words were getting somewhere with him. “And you helped me, remember? I never would’ve gotten through that if you hadn’t of helped. And I pushed and pushed you away but you didn’t leave. You stayed. All I’m asking is to let me stay.” You walk over to Spencer and he looks down at the ground, avoiding your eyes as you choose to stand in front of him.

You bow your head, wanting to meet his eyes as you put a waiting hand on his soft cheek. You move his head to look at you. “So, let me stay.” He can see the tears forming in your eyes as you practically beg him. His eyes gaze over to your lips before quickly going back to your eyes.

“Please don’t shut me out when all I wanna do is help.” You tell him and instead of nodding and listening to you and asking you to stay, he walks away. Because if he stays any longer, he might kiss you. And you don’t deserve that. Not right now.

He walks away, leaving your heart in pieces and you in shambles. He chose his path, so you must take the same route and forget you’d ask him to let you stay.

[fictionalsimp09]

Mistletoe Kiss

Jegumas Day 21 - @noblehouseofgay - 344 words

“Put us all out of our misery and just kiss him,” Peter sighs as he sips from his plastic cup.

“No, no and no,” Sirius replies. “Don’t you dare kiss my baby brother. But also, please put us out of our misery. Your pining is pathetic, Prongs.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” he quips.

“Hey! At least me and Moony are together now.”

“Just go talk to him,” Remus adds. “We all know he likes you too.”

“Fine,” James says, downing the rest of his firewhisky and struts towards the younger Black, standing on the opposite end of the Gryffindor common room looking bored out of his mind while his loved-up friends are preoccupied with their partners. “Hey, Reggie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It makes you flustered, and you’re cute when you blush.”

“Call me cute again and you’ll be spending the rest of the term in the hospital wing.”

James chuckles. “You wouldn’t dare hurt me.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “And what makes you so sure of that?”

“Because you like me.”

“I can’t stand you.”

“We both know that’s not strictly true.” James decides to be brave, tucking some of Reg’s hair behind his ear, letting his fingers linger a little longer than necessary. “You’re beautiful, you know.”

“Just how much have you had to drink, Potter?”

“Not much.”

“Lightweight,” he mutters.

“No, I’m just drunk on love.”

“Piss off, Potter,” Regulus snaps. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

“It isn’t a joke.” Just then, movement above their heads draws their attention, both of them looking up at the same time. Mistletoe. “I promise you this isn’t a joke.”

James looks into Regulus’ grey eyes, trying to convey just how much he wants him with a single look. And it works. Regulus leans forward, placing a brief kiss to his lips. When James doesn’t pull away, the kiss deepens, and it’s more magical than any spell he could ever cast. In this moment, the world fades away until it’s just them. It’s perfect. Regulus is perfect. They are perfect for each other.

[hulloitsdani]

hi dani fire emblem :) do you happen to have any thoughts on book 6 "I'm going to kill you too" scene?

Please, Dani fire emblem was my father. Just call me HulloIts.

As for the scene in question, oh man. It’s the “I’m going to kill you too” scene, what more can I add! I got some tweaks and reads on Letizia, but I feel like that scene speaks for itself. You don’t need me to tell you why it’s good— It’s one of the moments where feh’s writing really works.

Instead, I think what I can offer to the conversation is an analysis on Alfonse’s three gambit scenes and how they relate to each other. Because taken as a package, I find it fascinating how these scenes are treated by the narrative over time. Alfonse’s ability to pull these off is such a massive boon, but it’s been steadily growing into a delightful character flaw over the years.

Now, let’s back up. What do I mean by Alfonse’s gambit scenes? This is in reference to three scenes that have occurred throughout heroes: Alfonse calling Hel’s bluff in book 3, threatening Letizia in book 6, and his plot to cover for Ratatoskr in book 8. Also known as “Because it means that it is your life that will end in nine days’ time,” “I’m going to kill you too,” and “My saviors have arrived.” These scenes are defined by Alfonse risking everything on a charisma roll. There might not actually be any dice rolling, but that is certainly what it feels like. If he’s wrong about Hel’s curse, he’s dead. If he can’t convince Letizia of his ruthlessness, then he’s super dead and everyone’s screwed. If he doesn’t perfectly sell Hraesvelgr’s assassination attempt, then him AND Ratatoskr are, you guessed it, dead.

These are gambits— major risks with massive rewards. And what’s unique about Alfonse’s brand of it is that they occur on a social level. He’s not, for example, tactically sacrificing a hero for the chance of inflicting enough damage/debuffs so another can to land the kill. He’s not a tactician at the end of the day and has not been shown to be able to crunch those numbers that fast. Instead, he’s weaponizing everything he has gleaned about his enemies as people and staking his life on it.

Now, he does not do that without motive. For all of these scenes, he’s attempting to protect people while backed up into a corner. Using his encounter with Letizia as an example, she’s rather successfully forcing the Order’s hand into surrendering by sending innocent people to the Shadow Realm— I mean Embla’s domain. She’s working under the assumption that the Order, you know, cares about that type of thing. If Alfonse can successfully menace her into believing the opposite, even if for just a short time, it can give them the wiggle room to better position themselves and lessen the use of human shields as it would not longer be a tactical option. He’s protecting his friends and his people in one swoop at the expense of himself. Pulling that stunt with the lady who specializes in weaponizing information is a recipe for his future disaster, but that’s a loss he’d take in a heartbeat in order to keep everyone safe.

The same can be said about his encounter with Hel. He openly invites her to curse him, because in that nine day timeframe, he can ensure he drags Hel down with him. This is an infinitely better option for him than Hel slowly picking everyone off with her curse. Now, out of the three scenes, this one is notedly the most heroically coded and the most corned our protagonists are. We just spent an entire opening act witnessing the lethality and unavoidability of this curse. Of death herself. Alfonse, having had to spend that time accepting his own mortality, successfully weaponizes that acceptance against a cruel and power hungry death. That’s signifying a growth and change of his character. The success of that gambit permanently puts his own life on the gambling table. Which, in accordance to book 3’s themes of death, is a positive thing. But, as time goes on, this idea gains more nuance.

Which brings us back to Letizia. We are not narratively in Alfonse’s head when he pulls off this gambit. We understand the boy smiling in the face of death, because we have seen everything leading up to that point. We, comparably, do not initially understand the boy smiling as he says “I’m going to kill you too.” He has to explain himself afterwards. It’s very jarring as a result. Against a cruel god blinded by hubris, this gambit feels like overcoming against all odds. Against a mortal woman who successfully outsmarted him? It’s concerning to see that he has the capacity for that malice, even if it was not real. We didn’t have the context of Líf when Alfonse initially had that confrontation with Hel, but we do now. It colors all these more morally complex actions whether we want it to or not.

This brings me to the scene in book 8, which is by far the most interesting in my opinion. For the entire first half of that book, we are seeing the social manipulation game Alfonse excels at. He’s not the most friendly or personable, but he’s smart and good at pattern recognition. He knows the information his enemies have and successfully predicts their actions based on that. And he, unfortunately, correctly recognizes that Ratatoskr is coming under greater risk of being found out and getting potentially murdered on their behalf. If there is a mole, it’s going to be her. So he comes up with a scheme to ensure her safety via the best tool in his arsenal. Ole reliable, gambling his own life.

But, interestingly, this time he’s not simply trying to convince his enemies of his deception. No, the charisma check he has to pass here is deceiving his own allies. Against Letizia, keeping his friends out of the loop made a bit more sense. The narrative he was selling was that HE was the farce within the Order. His sister looking surprised at his “true nature” helped. That is not the case here. He kept his friends out of the loop to partially help sell the illusion that this assassination attempt was not planned, but mostly because they would not have allowed him to do this. They would not have approved of this overly dangerous plan, if the serious convincing required for Anna to let him go meet Veronica by himself is anything to go by. But this was the only way to ensure Ratatoskr’s safety, so he did it anyway. That is a fascinating character choice and I wish it caused more character conflict, but I auppoae that’s what fanfiction and fanart are for.

Nonetheless, it’s fascinating how this behavior went from inciting a downright celebratory feeling to a more “what the hell is wrong with you?” reaction over time. The acceptance of his mortality in book three has straddled and then passed the line of overfamiliarity in book eight. This then pairs itself with his innate desire to protect those he cares about in ways that feel inevitable. If he doesn’t make that choice to put his life on the line, then it’s characters like Kiran experiencing the fallout. Or at least, that is how he perceives it after the events of seasons like book 5 and book 7. If their enemies are constantly trying to separate them, then maybe if he manually triggers it and puts the enemy focus on him instead, things will be better. The people he cares about won’t get hurt. It’s totally fine, he swears. He can take a hit.

[n0vazsq]

End | JMM21 x Reader x FC43

pairing . . . pepe marti x reader ,, franco colapinto x reader

summary . . . It was Pepe was your long time best friend, your favourite person, your crush. But Franco was the charming boy who flirted his way into his life. Both wanted you, but you didn't want to choose, you just wanted it to end already

request . . . yes!! based on this request!

word count . . . 1.2k+

warnings . . . angst?

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . idk how to write like love triangle stuff but i hope this was good!!

taglist . . . @barcapix ,, @f1lover55 ,, @ilovebarcaaa ,, @httpsdana ,, @hwalllllllelujah ,, @parkerloves (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

. . . You and Pepe had been best friends for years. From the moment you met, there was an instant connection, a bond so natural and easy that it felt like you’d known each other forever.

You spent your days laughing, sharing secrets, and supporting each other through everything life threw your way. The two of you were inseparable. But somewhere along the line, your feelings for him had shifted. What started as friendship had evolved into something deeper.

You didn't dare admit it, not even to yourself. You didn’t want to ruin the most important relationship in your life. After all, what if he didn’t feel the same? You couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

But recently, things had started to feel different. You noticed how your heart raced when you saw him, the way your thoughts often drifted to him even when he wasn’t around. Every time he looked at you with that familiar smile, your breath hitched.

And then Franco joined the team.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Franco was charming, outgoing, and good looking. He was the type of guy who always had a smile on his face and knew how to make everyone feel at ease.

He was the opposite of Pepe in a lot of ways. Where Pepe was quiet and reserved, Franco was loud and confident. But soon, it became clear that his attention wasn’t just directed toward anyone, he started focusing on you.

It began innocently enough. Casual conversations here and there. He’d compliment your work, or tell you that you looked nice that day.

But then, as time went on, the compliments became more frequent, the touches a little more lingering. Franco had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room whenever he spoke to you.

One evening, after a team dinner, you were standing outside on the balcony, gazing at the night sky.

You’d stepped out for a moment of quiet, trying to sort through the swirl of thoughts in your head. You couldn’t stop thinking about the way Franco had been flirting with you lately, how he made you laugh in a way no one else did.

He was persistent, and it wasn’t hard to feel drawn to him.

But as you stood there, you heard a familiar voice cut through the silence.

"Here you are," Pepe said, leaning against the balcony’s edge with a casual air, though his eyes were darker than usual.

You looked over at him, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. "Just getting some air," you replied, trying to act natural.

Pepe smiled, but it was a little too tight around the edges. He wasn’t quite meeting your eyes. "You know, Franco’s been pretty… forward with you lately."

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden change in his tone. "What do you mean?"

Pepe shrugged, though it didn’t seem entirely casual. "He’s been flirting with you non stop. Kind of hard to miss."

You sighed, feeling an uncomfortable knot form in your stomach. "He’s just being friendly. You know how he is."

Pepe’s expression faltered for a moment. "Right. Friendly."

It hit you then, Pepe was jealous.

You hadn’t even realized how much you’d missed it, but the signs were there. The way he always stayed close to you, his eyes following you when Franco was around. And now, his words were laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

Just then, Franco appeared in the doorway, a wide grin on his face. "There you are," he said, stepping outside to join you both. "I was wondering where my favorite person had gone off to."

Pepe straightened up, his jaw tightening as he met Franco’s gaze. Franco gave him a playful smile, not bothered in the slightest. But you could see the tension between them, two men, both vying for your attention in very different ways.

"Hi, Franco," you greeted him, trying to break the awkward silence. "What’s up?"

Franco leaned against the railing next to you, a bit too close for your comfort. "Just wanted to make sure you weren’t out here all alone. You know, it’s dangerous out here with all the stars in the sky."

You couldn’t help but laugh at his playful tone. "I think I’ll be okay."

Pepe crossed his arms over his chest, his stance stiff. "You’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately," he said, his voice slightly lower than usual.

Franco raised an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?" he asked, the challenge clear in his voice.

Pepe didn’t answer right away. He was staring at Franco now, the muscles in his jaw working. His gaze flickered to you for a brief moment before he looked back at Franco. "I just… I don’t think you’re exactly the type of guy she needs to be hanging out with all the time."

Franco chuckled, clearly unfazed. "Oh really? And what kind of guy is that?"

You could feel the tension rising between them. It was hard to ignore the sharpness in their words, the way they were both trying to stake their claim on you in subtle, unspoken ways. You didn’t want to be the reason for their conflict, but you couldn’t help but notice that you were starting to feel something more for both of them.

"Maybe… we should just drop it," you said, trying to ease the situation. But it was clear neither of them was going to back down.

Pepe turned his gaze to you, his eyes softer now. "I just don’t want you to get hurt. He’s a… bit much."

You couldn’t help but laugh. "Pepe, you're just mad because he’s stealing your spotlight."

Pepe’s eyes narrowed slightly, his lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Maybe. Or maybe I’m just tired of seeing him flirt with you."

You swallowed, realizing how real this situation had become. The underlying tension between you, Pepe, and Franco was becoming undeniable. And you couldn’t deny that you were starting to favor one of them more than the other.

That night, as you lay in bed, thoughts swirling in your head, you couldn’t stop thinking about Pepe. You had been best friends for so long.

You’d shared everything with him, confided in him, laughed and cried with him. He was always there for you. And the more you thought about it, the more you realized; maybe you had always been drawn to him. Maybe you just didn’t know it until now.

But then, Franco’s playful smile flickered in your mind. His flirtations, his persistence, the way he made you feel special and wanted.

You were caught between two worlds.

The next day, you found yourself standing between the two of them; Pepe, your long time best friend who seemed to be harboring feelings he wasn’t ready to admit, and Franco, the charming newcomer who made your heart race every time he smiled at you.

And it seemed like the competition for your attention had only just begun.

But you wanted it to end already.

[karabin4ik]

"Cat's Tail"

Oh my God, I'll take the earth apart, look under every stone, call every person who speaks English at least at the level of "hello"...

BUT I'LL FIND THE AUTHOR OF THIS MORAL RAPE, TIE HIM TO A CHAIR, SOLDER HIS HANDS TO THE ARMRESTS AND HIRE A STENOGRAPHER SO HE FINALLY FINISHES THOSE 6 PLANNED CHAPTERS. (Right now there are 34 of 40)

(kiss the author on the forehead)

I've wanted to strangle Jeeves (he's a complete scumbag in this fic) and slap Bertie on the head too many times (please stop humiliating yourself in front of someone who wipes his feet on you) to just be left alone with an unfinished fanfic. At the same time, the ff itself shows that everything will be fine at the end of the story, but I, hand on heart, seriously want these two to just punch each other in the face and run away from each other in opposite directions. After everything these two have been through, I don't believe in restoring their relationship.

But still, I will be happy with any ending, as they say, don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

[leather-field]

three healers

[unopenablebox]

attempt to idly discuss concept of custom wedding vows with 🌸 ground to a halt after the realization that neither of us actually, like, wants to try to figure out what the fuck we'd be promising

can you do custom vows, but instead of vows to do stuff, it's just a list of the superbly good qualities of the other person in order to make it clear why any rational actor would agree that you should obviously plan to keep hanging out with them as long as possible

[akkivee]

ichiro threw gales of wind and kuukou had all this water falling imagery attached to him in the rap mv, oh they know they were cooking

[florainkingdom]

"Well, if the Keeper was to put up a bit of a fight about it, he'll have his hands full with my sister out there. Hopefully he'll at least work with her so that doesn't happen, because she isn't the greatest at pulling her punches. Then again, if the Keeper has a personality like her, well, I guess a fight is unavoidable." Blitz had seen a lot of time gods, and they sure loved to be in control of things. Made sense given their job.

"Well, I had a feeling you might be tempted to ask if there was something we could do to not have them marry. Figured I'd get it out of the way first." Blitz would take a seat. "I wonder if dream tea still stays after you leave the dream," the fox said before taking a sip.

"Oh, trust me, I know all about divine twins. When I became a primordial all the others were up in arms, well, expect for one. Anyway, they decided to ask Forger to create an opposite for me, just to take me out and take the power I was given back. And they nearly got me to a lot of times." Blitz then looked off to the side seeming to think before looking at Sol and leaning forward slightly.

"They said I only had one choice, end them and each one who holds their power next. Though I knew that would only start a cycle, one that wouldn't end. So, I made a different choice. I let them get back up, watched them recover, and we just kept going at it. Fought for six months, and made he realize there was another choice, to exist together."

"Because if there's one thing I learned about fate, is that it can bite me. Sometimes, we have to make our own branch. I won't say we get along, though we don't try to kill each other. We keep the balance in the universe, just in our own ways. That said, it's easier to find a balance when it's broken. Wish I could give you an easy solution where everyone walks away happy." Blitz doubts his story would even help, though never hurts to share in this situation.

The fox then looked at the orb, chuckling a bit. "Sorry, not finding your offer funny. I just have a bit of a better way." He would pull out a seed from his pocket, holding it out for Sol to take. "A primordial seed. Plant it, and you'll always be able to contact me and I you. Besides, it's a bit safer than me carrying something I could lose. I get in a LOT of fights. As for the Keeper, I think I'll let my sister handle that. By now she should've gotten the ticket I made. Can't have something with a small amount of my energy around."

Sol wasn't a fool, she'd lived long enough to see stars born and blink out of existence. She knew any change to a timeline could ripple along the sands of time creating a great wave that could shatter reality. It was why only gods of time were ever allowed to manipulate time in any capacity. She knew the care taker would see that nothing was damaged or changed to drastically. It was his duty to oversee time until such time as the keeper returned. Still she knew that this would happy the moment Poppy decided to bind herself with that Flora girl. But it made her happy, and that lone made Sol happy.

" The Keeper of Time's assistant is the only one who can truly facilitate any alterations to the time stream. With the Great Keeper missing, he is all that maintains the great clock. His realm is not easily accessed however. "

She only smiled as she poured them both a cup of tea and nestle down onto a great chair. Her smile as bright as the sun, there was naught but joy in her smile when speaking of her daughter.

" Talk my daughter out of her notion of marriage? I doubt i could or you or anyone else. She is quite smitten by Poppy, though i hope she does not grow to regret this choice. She has all to often rushed into love without thinking... but i suppose that is the mortal part of her... "

She glanced to one side her eyes looking softer still as the conversation shifted to her cycle. Her inevitable death, and the ascension of her daughter. It wasn't sadness at her own passing but of the trials that yet awaited her daughter. She knew every goddess faced there own troubles and Blazes she feared might be the greatest yet.

" I understand what you intend and i do appreciate the kind sentiment. But i must decline the offer, there are reasons i am locked away as i am... "

She spoke with a somber tone as her eyes looked out her window toward what appeared to be a great darkness in the distance. As if it threatened to consume her dream and yet the bright light kept that darkness at bay.

" You must have guessed by now that i did not lock myself away out of simple paranoia. Or to avoid the war, the truth is... every divine being has there twin. A divine opposite, whose power is equal to there own. In my case... we are eternally bound together... two halves of the equation. If i were to wake so to would he... and his darkness would consume all of Sol... so i must remain, until the fated time arrives... "

The dark truth revealed, a truth not even the priests of Sol knew. That the darkness that nearly consumed all of Sol during the cataclysm was her dark sibling. Together they were life and death two halves of the coin. She could not wake without also waking them, and so to protect Sol--- She remains in her slumber eternally.

To his final question she looked conflicted as if she was unsure if Blaze was ready for such power. Ready to take on this mantle, and to assume the role of guardian. To keep the darkness in check, to become its warden.

" Blaze is far from ready to face the trials of Ascension. But make no mistake... she's far more powerful then she knows. I have confidence that my little flame will be ready when the time comes. until then i shall be there in her dreams to console her as best i can. "

She created a little orb in her hand, a well of knowledge a simple way for gods to pass on information. She offered it to Blitz with a humble smile as she held it toward him.

" The location of the great clock... you will still have to convince the Caretaker of your plight... and do be careful. Not all gods in Sol are as kindly as Morpheus and myself. There are those who will see your presence here as a threat... "

[aromanticasterisms]

i'm cheating [don't have arlecchino yet and am looking at her lines abt the harbingers through hoyowiki] and thank god the harbinger "i hate my coworkers" trend continues + yaay sandrone and columbina crumbs + her line about signora has me in shambles

[rxttenfish]

i absolutely cannot let myself get started on another fic until im at least onto chapter 5 of caecilian but the temptation to write something of aaravi taking miranda monster hunting and describing the entire EVERYTHING there is real

[scribefindegil]

hhhhhhh thinking about Possession As Intimacy again . . .