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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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I’ve been binging your writing and I’m SICK

with inspiration and feelings. Big ones. Huge ones. Giant feelings.

Ugh my heart hurts and my ears tingle and my cheeks burn.

But that’s the best part of being alive isn’t it

through the fire | sylus

synopsis : In a world where soulmate marks appear on your skin, yours arrives in red—the color of unrequited love. And the name written there is the last one you ever wanted to see: Zayne, your closest friend, the man you’ve loved in silence for years… and the one already destined to someone else. You learn to smile through the ache, to hide the burn beneath your sleeve, until a chance meeting with a silver-haired stranger named Sylus changes everything. When you pretend he’s your soulmate, he plays along without hesitation. His presence becomes a quiet comfort, steady where your heart is not. But when Zayne starts to look at you differently, to hesitate, to wonder, you’re left caught between the love you’ve always longed for—and the unexpected one who chose you without a mark.

content : soulmate!au, zayne x reader x sylus, zayne x non-mc!reader, unrequited love, angst (light or not, you decide)

You stared at the name scrawled in red across your forearm.

Zayne.

So small. So cruel. So final.

Your breath caught in your throat, a trembling whisper slipping past your lips.

“Why is it his?”

The question barely made a sound, yet it rang loud in the silence of your apartment, echoing off the sterile white walls and the clinical smell of hospital-grade soap still lingering on your skin.

You pressed your palm over the name like you could smudge it away.

But red ink never fades. It brands.

It condemns.

A red soulmate mark.

You had seen the pamphlets before—those rare anomalies that happen once in a few hundred thousand people.

The ones born defective, the ones whose soulmates were already claimed by someone else.

Fated to ache. Fated to long. Fated to never be loved back.

You always thought it was tragic in a distant, abstract sort of way.

Until now.

Until it was his name.

Until it was Zayne.

Your Zayne.

Your friend. Your colleague.

The man who offered you coffee the day you transferred, when everyone else couldn’t be bothered to remember your name.

The one who knew when your hands shook after a 12-hour surgery and would silently leave your favorite chocolate mousse in the breakroom fridge.

The one who walked you home after night shifts, even though his apartment was one floor above yours.

The one you tried not to love.

You tried.

God, you tried.

Because his mark had already appeared months ago—in black. Like it was supposed to. Permanent. True. Undeniable.

You remembered how he told you.

How he looked almost dazed, fingers brushing over his skin like he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to find her.

You had smiled. You had said you were happy for him. You had even helped him pick out a gift for their anniversary.

And maybe you were happy.

A small, pure part of you had been.

But the rest of you was bleeding.

But you didn’t expect this.

You didn’t expect the universe to be so cruel.

Because months later, your body chose him.

As if fate wanted to mock you.

As if it wanted you to watch him belong to someone else, forever just one floor above you, one breath out of reach.

Red meant doomed.

Red meant defect.

Red meant you would love someone who was never yours to begin with.

Your fingers trembled as you traced over the ink again.

You imagined what it would feel like to show him.

To watch his face crumble, or worse—pity you. To be told, gently and with unbearable softness, that he loved someone else.

That his heart already belonged to the woman whose name was etched into his skin in perfect, black permanence.

You would never be that name.

You would never be enough.

So you rolled down your sleeve and turned away from the mirror.

The name still burned beneath the fabric.

And in the quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to break—silently, like you always did.

Because even the stars knew.

You were never meant to be loved.

Only to love.

—•

Day by day, you saw him.

In break rooms and bustling hallways, beside you during rounds, across you during late-night debriefs.

He was always there—smiling softly, offering you coffee in the way only he knew you liked it.

Asking about your day with that quiet warmth that made your chest ache.

He never noticed the way your fingers twitched when you took the cup.

Never saw how you always kept your sleeves pulled just a little too low.

Never questioned the stiffness in your smile.

It had been months.

You had become an expert at hiding the truth—an actress in your own life, wearing ease like armor.

You laughed when he teased you.

Teased him back when he tried to guess your soulmate’s identity.

“He probably doesn’t live around here,” you’d say with a light shrug, the same one you’d perfected in the mirror.

And he’d nod, gentle and non-intrusive, never the type to pry.

And maybe that made it worse.

That he was kind.

That he was always kind.

His soulmate didn’t make things any easier either.

She was bright, and sweet, and unbearably thoughtful. The kind of person you couldn’t bring yourself to hate, even if it would make surviving this easier.

She brought you takeout after long shifts, remembered your favorite boba order, got you a little potted plant for your birthday and left a sticky note on your locker that read, “For when life gets too sterile.”

Just like now.

You sit quietly at your desk, the hospital gone still with night, overhead lights buzzing low.

The sky outside is a deep, velvet black, rain tapping gently against the window.

She hums softly as she unpacks the sushi she brought, setting it out like you were her little sister she needed to fuss over.

“You need to eat properly,” she scolds, her voice warm, mothering.

You smile up at her, gratitude in your eyes.

You mean it. You really do.

Even as your wrist pulses beneath your sleeve—raw, restless, unbearably red.

Even as your soul screams a name it can never say aloud.

You thank her.

You eat.

And you pretend not to feel the burn.

“Any luck yet?” she asks gently, nodding toward your wrist as she takes a sip of water.

You follow her gaze, pulse ticking beneath the fabric, and force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“No,” you say, voice light, practiced. “Maybe I’m just destined to be alone.”

A half-truth.

The kind that slips out easily when the full one is too cruel to name.

Because what could you say?

That the name on your wrist has been there for months?

That it burns with a devotion that will never be returned?

That it’s his name—her soulmate’s name—written in red?

That while she buys you dinner and worries over your health, your heart quietly bleeds for the man who kisses her forehead and saves his smiles for her?

So instead, you say nothing.

You stir the soy sauce into your rice and let the lie settle between you—gentle, unspoken, and unbearable.

She offers you a sympathetic smile, her voice soft with well-meaning hope.

“You’ll meet him someday.”

And there it is.

The ache.

Low and sharp, blooming beneath your ribs like something cruel and familiar.

You nod, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

Because she’s looking at you with such kindness, such sincerity—never realizing that her comfort is the wound.

She doesn’t know.

She can’t.

That you’ve already met him.

That he’s just down the hall, finishing up his reports, waiting to walk her home.

That the universe gave you a name and then watched you unravel.

So you smile again.

The kind that feels more like a wince.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

—•

“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

She smiles, radiant and unaware, her arm wrapped easily around his as the two of you stand face to face.

Your mark flares beneath your sleeve, a slow, burning throb that pulls your eyes to where her hand rests—light, familiar, right—against his.

And Zayne—

He looks down at her like she hung the stars.

With that quiet kind of fondness that once lived in his gaze for you, before the universe chose to remind you of your place.

Before the mark.

Before everything changed.

He told you once, in passing, how they met.

At a park. A lost puppy.

He’d helped her look for it, stayed with her until it was found. Said it felt ordinary. Nothing sparked then.

Not until a week later, when her name bloomed black on his wrist.

You remember the way his voice softened when he said it.

“Shaiya.”

Like it meant something holy.

Like it made sense.

You had smiled back then too.

And you do it again now, a practiced expression, polished by months of pretending.

“Yeah,” you say, voice steady. “See you.”

She waves, content.

Zayne glances at you, just for a second—just long enough for your heart to betray you.

Then they turn.

And you’re left behind.

As always.

Your mark burns again as you watch them walk away—slow, steady, inseparable.

It always flares like this when you start to ache for him.

When you let yourself want him, even for a moment.

As if fate itself is reprimanding you.

As if the pain is a reminder: You were never meant to be his.

Just a defect. A flaw in the system.

But you ignore it.

You’ve learned how to live with fire under your skin.

Instead, you cling to the memories—the ones that feel softer in hindsight, even if they hurt now.

“I hope your name appears on my wrist someday,” he’d said once, offhandedly, turning his head to glance at you with a quiet smile.

You had laughed, heart skipping despite yourself.

“If I was your soulmate, you’d probably end up with a headache from dealing with me.”

It was meant as a joke. Lighthearted.

But now—

Now, it tastes like irony.

Because it did appear.

Your name did show up.

Just not where it was supposed to.

Not on him.

—•

You didn’t quite know how you ended up here.

Maybe it was the silence of your apartment. Maybe it was the way your wrist still throbbed beneath your sleeve like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Or maybe—just maybe—you were tired of pretending you were okay.

So you found yourself in a dimly lit pub, the kind where no one asked questions and the music was low enough to disappear into.

You sat near the bar, shoulders hunched in a way you hadn’t noticed until your reflection caught you in the mirror.

One hand wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the other idly pushing ice cubes in lazy circles.

“Here’s to unrequited love,” you mutter to no one, raising your glass like a toast to the cruel stars above.

You take a slow sip. Let the burn settle in your throat. Let yourself feel it—just for tonight.

Then—

A scent. Sharp. Clean.

Masculine and strangely grounding, like rain on stone.

It hits you all at once.

And before you can turn, an arm slides across the bar beside you—unhurried, confident.

He settles into the stool next to yours like it was always meant to be his.

You catch a glimpse.

White—no, silver—hair catches the low light. Almost too perfect. Almost otherworldly.

“Gin. On the rocks,” he says, voice low and smooth, like smoke rolling over velvet.

You glance at him, just for a moment.

And somehow, you felt drawn.

You let your gaze drift to the stranger beside you, curiosity outweighing caution.

He was striking in a way that demanded attention—dangerous, almost.

Red eyes, sharp and unflinching, stared ahead with the kind of focus that made the world seem like background noise to him.

His hair was a mess of white-silver strands, tousled and unruly, falling just above his brows like they had been kissed by moonlight.

And his mouth—curved in an easy, knowing smirk—looked as though it had never forgotten how to charm.

As if he was always just about to say something wicked.

There was an ease in the way he occupied the space, like he wasn’t merely sitting at the bar—but claiming it.

You stared a beat too long.

And then—

A sharp sting.

Your mark flared beneath your sleeve, searing hot.

You flinched, barely, teeth gritting as the pain sliced through the moment like glass.

Of course.

Even now—even with someone like him sitting beside you—the universe couldn’t let you forget.

You were still branded.

Still trapped.

Still hopelessly tethered to someone who would never be yours.

And the burn beneath your skin felt like fate laughing.

You cursed under your breath, the word slipping out low and bitter as the sting pulsed through your wrist like a cruel reminder.

You took another sip, letting the whiskey scorch its way down, hoping it would dull something—anything.

It didn’t.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him shift.

The stranger turned his head slightly, just enough for those crimson eyes to find you.

There was something unreadable in his gaze—sharp, deliberate.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… intrigued.

“Rough night?” he asked, voice low and laced with dry amusement.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just stared into your glass, watching the ice crack quietly beneath the amber.

“Something like that,” you muttered, not looking at him.

But he didn’t look away.

And somehow, you felt seen.

Not pitied. Not judged. Just… noticed.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t looking through you.

He chuckles, a low, rough sound that wraps around the edges of your exhaustion like velvet trimmed in iron.

“Same here,” he murmurs, raising his glass in a mock salute before taking a slow sip of his gin.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—“I’m Sylus,” he says, turning slightly to face you now.

There’s something in the way he says it—easy, but deliberate. Like his name is a secret he only offers to a select few. Like he’s giving you a choice. To take it or don’t.

You glance at him again.

That silver hair, those red eyes. The quiet confidence that radiates off him in waves.

He doesn’t ask for your name.

He just waits.

And for reasons you don’t fully understand, you give it.

“Y/N,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the clink of glass and the murmur of conversations behind you.

Sylus nods, as if the name fits. As if he already knew.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, and somehow, it doesn’t feel empty.

Somehow, it feels like the night has started over.

You blink slowly, eyes fixed on the amber swirl in your glass.

“All my nights are rough,” you murmur, your lips curving into a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Not just this one.”

You take another sip, let the warmth settle into your bones like armor.

Beside you, Sylus raises a brow—curious, maybe, but respectful. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press.

And somehow, that’s more comforting than if he had.

So you both sit there, shoulder to shoulder, in a silence that feels oddly natural.

Not forced. Not heavy.

Just… there.

The sting on your wrist begins to fade, slowly—like a held breath finally exhaled.

Maybe it’s the alcohol.

Maybe it’s his presence.

Maybe it’s just that for once, you don’t feel so unbearably alone.

A sudden courage bubbles up—liquid and reckless.

You keep your eyes forward, voice casual.

“What do you think of people with red marks?”

You feel him glance your way.

There’s a pause. Barely a second. But in it, something passes—something unsaid.

He seems a little surprised by the question, but his expression remains unchanged. Calm. Measured.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says after a sip of his gin. “Mine’s never shown.”

He shrugs like it means nothing. Like fate hasn’t touched him at all.

And somehow, you envy that.

“Good for you,” you say, a little too flat, a little too bitter around the edges.

A beat of silence follows.

Then—a chuckle, low and quiet, rumbles from his chest.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just… amused.

Knowing.

“Interesting,” is all he says.

The word lingers between you, heavier than it should be.

Like he’s already pieced something together. Like he sees more than you intended to show.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his presence beside you—steady, unbothered.

As if your pain isn’t a burden here.

As if your broken pieces don’t make you harder to hold, only more worth noticing.

And for the first time in a long time, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper and a pen—moves smooth, unhurried.

You watch as he scribbles something down, his handwriting sharp and elegant, like everything about him.

Then he slides it across the bar toward you, the paper curling slightly at the corners as it stops in front of your glass.

He doesn’t look at you right away—just takes another sip of his gin, eyes still trained on the bottles lined across the shelves.

“I am fully aware of stranger danger,” he drawls, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, “but do call if you need… company.”

His voice lingers on the last word, smoky and deliberate.

Not suggestive.

Not empty.

Just a quiet offering from one broken night to another.

You glance down at the number.

It looks oddly out of place between your fingers—this small, absurd lifeline.

But it’s there.

And so is he.

You give a small, tired smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes but feels a little more genuine than the others tonight.

“Maybe I will,” you say, tucking the slip of paper between your fingers like a secret.

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a glint in his crimson eyes as he raises his glass, as if to toast to unspoken things.

To bruised hearts.

To broken fates.

To strangers who feel a little less like strangers.

You both drink in silence after that, letting the night bleed slow and quiet around you.

No questions. No confessions.

Just the comfort of existing beside someone who doesn’t ask you to pretend.

When you finally step back into your apartment, the stillness greets you like an old friend.

Familiar. Too familiar.

You loosen your coat, kick off your shoes, and sit at the edge of your bed, the quiet pressing in.

The mark on your wrist is calm now—dormant, for once.

You pull the slip of paper from your pocket, smoothing the crease with your thumb.

Sylus.

You murmur the name to yourself, letting it linger in the dark.

As if, maybe this time, fate might finally listen.

—•

You sigh, long and weary, as you sink into your desk chair.

Every part of you aches—your back, your hands, your mind.

Eight hours in the operating room, eight hours of focus and tension and the weight of someone else’s life resting in your palms.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence wrap around you.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Soft. Familiar.

Before you can even answer, it opens just enough to let him in.

Zayne.

His dark hair falls slightly into his hazel-green eyes, coat still dusted with rain from outside.

He walks in with quiet purpose, holding out a paper cup—your usual coffee order, still warm.

“Long day?” he asks, voice calm and steady, like always.

Your chest tightens.

And then it comes—the burn.

That same, awful heat radiating from your wrist, seeping into your bones.

You clench your jaw, forcing a tired smile as you take the cup from him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, hoping your fingers don’t brush too long against his.

He doesn’t notice the wince you try to hide.

Doesn’t see how tightly you’re holding your sleeve.

Because to him, it’s just kindness.

To you, it’s agony.

You both sit in silence, the kind that would feel companionable if it didn’t ache so much.

The coffee sits warm between your hands, grounding you in the moment—keeping you from unraveling.

Then he speaks.

“I saw you out two nights ago.”

His tone is casual, but there’s something underneath it—curiosity, maybe. Concern, even.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just takes a sip from his own cup, as if the words don’t mean much.

“Were you drinking again?”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around the paper cup.

The truth sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspoken.

You look down at your wrist, still hidden beneath your sleeve, the phantom sting of the mark pulsing like a second heartbeat.

So many things you could say.

Yes. Because pretending I’m fine all the time is exhausting.

Because I watched you walk away with her again and smiled like it didn’t kill me.

Because my mark won’t stop burning, and I don’t know how to live with this kind of love.

But instead, you offer a small shrug.

“Just needed some air,” you say quietly. “That’s all.”

A lie.

But it’s one he won’t press.

Because he trusts you.

Because he doesn’t know.

He gives you that small, familiar smile—the one that always undoes you more than it should.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he says softly, like it’s second nature to worry about you.

Then he turns, footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you with the smell of coffee, the echo of his voice, and the quiet devastation he’ll never see.

Your fingers curl around the cup.

Tight. Too tight.

As if holding on to something will keep you from breaking.

But your mark burns hotter now, searing through your skin like punishment.

As if it’s angry.

As if it’s jealous.

And for a moment, you wonder why it hasn’t bled.

Why it doesn’t just split open and spill all this hurt onto the floor where everyone can finally see it.

“Stop being so kind to me,” you whisper into the silence, your voice shaking.

But there’s no one left to hear it.

Only the sterile hum of the lights overhead, and the sound of your heart breaking—quiet and familiar—as tears trace down your cheeks, uninvited and unstoppable.

Somehow, without really thinking, you found yourself at his doorstep.

The city was quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, your coat clutched tight around you like it could hold the pieces of you together.

Your wrist still ached beneath your sleeve, raw and restless, but you had long since stopped trying to soothe it.

Sylus had texted you the address after your call—short, clipped, and straightforward, like him.

And now you’re here, standing in front of a door you never expected to seek out, uncertain of what you’re hoping to find on the other side.

Healing?

Distraction?

A place where your mark doesn’t matter?

You raise your hand to knock, hesitating for a moment as your breath fogs in the cold.

Then, before you can lose the nerve, your knuckles meet wood.

One. Two. Three quiet raps.

A pause.

Then the door clicks open.

And there he is—Sylus.

Silver hair a little messier than usual, a glass still in his hand, red eyes sharp but softer than you’ve ever seen them.

No questions. No judgment.

—•

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded once, slow and understanding, and led you inside.

Now, the two of you sit on opposite ends of his worn leather couch, a respectful distance apart, the fire crackling gently between you like a heartbeat neither of you wants to claim.

The room is dim, shadows dancing along the walls, the only light coming from the flicker of flames and the occasional glint in Sylus’s eyes when he turns his head slightly to look at you—then away again.

You’re still.

Tired.

The kind of tired that no sleep could ever fix.

The tears have long since dried, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache in your chest, like grief carved a space in your ribs and decided to stay.

And your mark—

Still there.

Still burning beneath your skin.

You stare into the fire, your hands loosely clasped in your lap, and for the first time in days, you breathe—slow, deep, and unguarded.

Sylus doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t pry.

He just sits there, presence steady, like a wall you can finally lean against without fear of collapsing.

And in that silence, something shifts.

Not healed. Not whole.

But a little less alone.

You turn your head slightly, eyes drifting from the fire to him. His profile is lit in warm gold—sharp, unreadable, but not unkind.

“Sorry,” you say softly, the word catching at the edges of your throat.

For what exactly, you’re not sure.

For showing up. For falling apart.

For being the kind of person who calls a near-stranger because no one else feels safe anymore.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn to look at you.

Just gives a small shrug and takes a slow sip from his glass.

“It’s good company,” he replies, casual, like it’s nothing.

Like you aren’t a burden.

Like this—the silence, the ache, the weight of everything you can’t say—is somehow welcome.

You exhale quietly, some small part of your heart unclenching.

Maybe that’s what you needed.

Not comfort. Not words.

Just someone who doesn’t mind the quiet, even when it’s heavy.

“I can understand.”

His voice breaks the stillness, low and quiet—almost like an afterthought, but it sinks deep.

Your eyes dart to him.

Sylus is still facing the fire, his expression unreadable, the flames dancing across the sharp lines of his face.

“I love someone,” he says, slowly, deliberately. “But her name isn’t on my wrist.”

He takes a sip of his drink, his fingers steady around the glass.

“There’s another name on hers.”

The words hang in the air like smoke—soft, but heavy with weight.

And suddenly, you understand why his silence felt so familiar. Why he never asked questions. Why he didn’t flinch at your pain.

Because he knows.

He knows what it’s like to love without being chosen.

To look at someone and see a future they’ll never see with you.

To exist in the quiet spaces between their laughter—wanted, but not meant.

You swallow hard, the ache in your chest mirroring his.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Does she know?”

A pause.

“No,” he murmurs. “And I’m not sure I want her to.”

And for a moment, you’re not two strangers on a couch.

You’re two people clinging to the same kind of hurt.

And somehow, that makes it just a little easier to breathe.

“How does it work?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes stay fixed on the fire, but your voice trembles with something deeper—something raw.

“Love. How does it work?”

There’s a pause.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away. He sets his glass down on the table, the faint clink of glass on wood echoing in the quiet.

You finally glance at him.

He’s staring into the flames, brows drawn slightly, as if the question has rooted itself somewhere inside him.

“I don’t think it does,” he says at last, voice low and unfiltered. “Not the way we’re told it should.”

His gaze flicks to you, slow and steady.

“Everyone talks about fate. About destiny. About names on skin and inevitability.”

He leans back, resting an arm on the back of the couch, red eyes glinting.

“But love—it’s messy. It’s inconvenient. It doesn’t follow rules or timing or marks.”

You swallow, something stirring painfully in your chest.

“Then why does it still hurt this much?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment. Not with pity, but with understanding so deep it feels like a balm.

“Because you love honestly,” he says. “And honest love never goes unpunished.”

“I just want it to stop burning,” you whisper, the words escaping before you can take them back.

You’re not looking at him—your gaze stays fixed on the fire, on the flicker and hiss of flame. It’s easier than meeting his eyes.

“It’s not the unrequited part,” you continue, voice low and frayed at the edges. “I always knew it would be like this. I never expected anything more from him.”

You inhale shakily, pressing your hands tighter around your knees as if that could steady the tremble in your chest.

“But the mark—it burns every time I think of him. Every time I miss him, want him, remember him.”

The heat isn’t just under your skin. It’s inside your lungs, your throat, your heart.

A fire that reminds you with every spark that your love is a mistake written in red.

“I just want it to stop hurting every time I feel something.”

A quiet hush follows, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

Then, Sylus speaks. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Love shouldn’t feel like a wound,” he says.

You glance at him. And for once, there’s no teasing in his expression. No smirk, no defense. Just something quiet. Something honest.

“And yet,” you murmur, “it always does.”

He doesn’t offer easy comfort. Doesn’t pretend to have answers.

Instead, he leans back, watching the flames for a moment.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “the pain won’t go away completely. But it can dull. If you let someone help carry it.”

Your chest tightens, but this time, it’s not from the burn.

It’s from the way he says it. Like he means it.

Like he would.

He steps toward you—unhurried, deliberate. The firelight flickers across his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his crimson eyes.

“I may not know you,” he says slowly, voice low and steady, “but I know your pain.”

His words settle over you like a weighted blanket—not too heavy, not too light. Just enough to be felt.

Then—

He extends a hand.

Open.

Unassuming.

Offered without expectation.

Not to fix you.

Not to save you.

Just to stand with you in the wreckage.

You stare at it for a moment, your breath caught between resistance and the aching need for something—someone—to anchor you.

And somehow, in the quiet of that moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s a stranger.

Because pain recognizes pain.

And for the first time in a long while… you don’t feel alone in it.

You hesitate—just for a breath—then slip your hand into his.

His grip is firm, warm, steady.

He pulls you gently to your feet, the motion smooth, careful, as though you might break if he moved too fast.

And then—

The mark flares.

A sharp, scalding pain radiates up your arm, and you flinch, breath hitching as the heat sinks into your bones like fire licking at old wounds.

But before you can pull away, his arms are around you. Solid. Certain. Anchoring.

“Let it burn for a bit,” he murmurs, voice close, low, and rough with something almost tender.

Then he guides your head to his chest, where his heartbeat drums slow and steady beneath your ear.

No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

And in that quiet, flickering room—with the fire crackling, your heart aching, and his arms holding you like a promise—

you let it burn.

—•

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

The sharp snap of fingers in front of your face jolts you back to the present.

You blink, startled, eyes locking onto Shaiya’s concerned expression across the table. Her brows are slightly furrowed, lips tugged into a gentle frown.

You’d drifted again.

Your thoughts had wandered—slipped away from her words, from the crowded café, from the clatter of cups and the warmth of the sun spilling through the window.

You were thinking about him.

About Sylus.

About how his arms had felt around you.

How steady his heartbeat was.

How you let yourself lean in, even when the mark warmed beneath your skin like a quiet warning.

“Sorry,” you murmur, straightening in your seat. “I was… thinking.”

Shaiya softens, letting out a small sigh as she reaches for her drink.

“You’ve been spacing out a lot lately,” she says gently, not accusing—just noticing.

You force a small smile, fingers curling around your mug to hide the slight tremble.

If only she knew who you were thinking of.

And how much it wasn’t her soulmate.

“Just… soulmate,” you blurt, the word tumbling out before you can catch it.

Your heart stutters in your chest the moment you say it, the regret immediate and sharp.

Shaiya’s face lights up, eyes wide with surprise and sudden excitement.

Her hands nearly drop her fork, and she leans in, voice hushed but eager.

“Did you find him?” she asks, a hopeful smile blooming across her face.

You freeze.

There’s a second—a split, breathless second—where the truth rises in your throat like a wave.

That yes, you found him.

That it’s not a matter of who, but how painful it’s been.

That his name is carved in red into your skin.

And that her name is written on his.

But you don’t say any of that.

You just force a smile, one you hope doesn’t look too broken at the edges.

“Not exactly,” you say softly. “It’s complicated.”

How do you explain being loved—held—by someone who might be more than a stranger… but isn’t quite fate?

Suddenly, an arm wraps around your shoulders—casual, confident—and your breath catches in your throat.

The scent hits you first. That same sharp, clean cologne.

Then the warmth.

Then the voice.

“Why don’t you just tell her you did?” he drawls, low and unbothered, his tone laced with a kind of amused defiance that only he could make sound like an invitation.

Your heart stumbles.

You turn your head slowly and catch the now-familiar glint of white hair falling just over crimson eyes that look too pleased with themselves for someone who walked into your unraveling.

Sylus.

Of course it’s him.

You’re frozen, stunned, as your mark flares beneath your sleeve—burning a little brighter, a little wilder, as if it recognizes the chaos he’s just dropped into.

Shaiya’s eyes widen as she looks between the two of you.

“Oh,” she breathes, lips parting in surprise. “Is this…?”

And still, Sylus doesn’t move his arm.

He just smirks.

And you—

You can’t decide if you want to run, scream, or lean into him and let the world burn.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat.

He gives a small, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable but his voice smooth as silk.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “I’m Y/N’s soulmate.”

The words land like a strike of lightning.

Shaiya freezes, her eyes wide, mouth parting in shock as she looks at him—then to you—then back again, like her mind is trying to catch up with the reality laid out in front of her.

You feel the burn instantly—sharp, searing, a violent protest beneath your skin.

Your mark is screaming.

But you smile anyway.

You lie through the pain like you’ve always done.

With practiced ease, you reach for Sylus’s arm, pulling him down to sit beside you.

His body is warm beside yours, grounding and steady in a way that only makes the burn worse.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft, your lips curled into a sheepish smile. “We’ve been… keeping it quiet.”

Shaiya blinks, still stunned, still searching your face for some confirmation that she hasn’t stepped into a dream.

You glance at Sylus, who is already watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

And all you can do is smile.

Even as your wrist burns like a brand.

Even as your heart threatens to give out beneath the weight of the lie.

Because in this moment—right here, right now—you just wanted to be chosen, even if it was a lie.

“Oh, that’s great! How did you guys meet?” Shaiya beams, already clutching your hands in excitement.

You glance toward Sylus, your heart a tangled mess of gratitude and quiet devastation.

He smirks faintly, unbothered.

“At a bar,” he says smoothly. “She toasted to unrequited love.”

You laugh softly, a breath too close to breaking.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes on him. “And he didn’t walk away.”

Shaiya claps her hands, practically glowing.

“Oh, I have to tell Zayne!” she exclaims, already pulling out her phone.

Your breath catches.

You stare at her, helpless, your pulse thudding in your ears.

There’s a flicker of panic—of heartbreak—just beneath the surface.

And then you feel it.

Sylus’s hand, warm and steady, closing over yours.

Silent. Certain. There.

You glance at him, and he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze, letting you borrow his strength.

So you smile.

Small. Fragile.

But real.

Even as the pain coils in your chest and your mark burns beneath your sleeve like a wound that won’t heal.

After the café, Shaiya darted off, excitement practically radiating from her as she called over her shoulder about celebrating soon.

You could only wave, sheepishly, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Beside you, Sylus chuckled, that familiar, low sound that always managed to cut through your thoughts.

You turned to him, brows furrowed, voice soft.

“Why?”

He glanced down at you, completely unfazed, and shrugged.

“Would you rather people think you were lonely for the rest of your life?” he asked, smirking. “Because you were giving off tragic energy.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

—•

A week passed.

And somehow, Sylus was everywhere.

In the hospital lobby, leaning against walls like he belonged there.

In the café line beside you, pretending it was coincidence.

On your lunch break, slipping you your favorite pastry like it was nothing.

You didn’t complain.

Even when your mark burned with every glance, every word, every moment spent too close.

Because his presence—while painful—was constant. Steady. Like a shield between you and everything else you couldn’t bear to face alone.

Now, you were in your office, signing off reports, when the door creaked open.

Zayne.

You looked up, startled, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something frayed at the edges.

Conflicted.

Still, for the first time in what felt like forever, you smiled at him.

Your mark responded immediately, pulsing beneath your sleeve.

“I heard from Shaiya,” he said, voice calm, measured. “You finally found him?”

You nodded, sheepish. “Yeah.”

He opens his mouth—stops. Looks at you.

“That’s… good,” he finishes, but it lands flat. Like he meant something else. Like he almost said it.

You ask, carefully, “Is everything okay?”

He nods. Smiles. Too polite.

“Yes. I’m just… glad.”

And as he turns to leave, your mark pulses—not from yearning this time, but from something worse, realization.

You’re left in the quiet hum of your office, with the sting of your mark flaring and a new ache settling deep in your chest.

Because this time, it wasn’t just unrequited.

It was almost.

Sylus enters not long after, silent as ever.

The room doesn’t announce him—he simply is, like a shadow slipping into light.

His eyes find you instantly.

You expect the usual smirk, the dry remark perched on his lips.

But instead—

He just looks at you.

And something in his expression softens.

Like all the sharp edges of him have momentarily dulled.

Like seeing you—tired, unraveling, still trying to hold it together—matters.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to.

“Why was he looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

The question isn’t really for Sylus, but he hears it anyway.

It slips out before you can stop it—raw, unguarded, aching.

You’re not sure what hurts more.

The look in Zayne’s eyes, or the fact that it came too late.

Too late, when you’d already chosen to pretend.

Too late, when someone else had stepped in to hold you through the burn.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away.

He just steps closer, his gaze steady—never pitying.

“Because,” he says softly, “he’s starting to see what he never let himself feel.”

And the worst part is… you’re not sure that changes anything.

“That’s worse,” you whisper, the words breaking as they leave you. “That means he knew.”

The realization crashes over you like a wave—sharp, cold, merciless.

All this time.

All those quiet moments.

All the silence between your smiles.

He knew—and still chose someone else.

The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, then another, and suddenly you’re unraveling—slow, quiet, but completely.

And without a second’s hesitation, Sylus is beside you.

No questions. No hesitation.

Just arms around you, solid and warm, pulling you into him like he’s done this before—like he knows this pain.

You bury your face in his chest as the sobs come, muffled and broken, and he holds you tighter.

One hand in your hair, the other against your back, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

And for once, you believe it.

You look up at him, eyes glassy, voice trembling.

“That means he had a choice,” you whisper. “That the soulmate mark… meant nothing.”

The words feel heavy in your mouth, bitter and raw.

Because if Zayne knew—if he saw your love and still turned away—then the mark wasn’t fate.

It was just a cruel joke.

Something to cling to while he chose someone else.

Sylus holds your gaze, his own expression unreadable for a moment—quiet, intense.

Then he speaks, voice low and steady.

“It means the mark doesn’t make the choice. We do.”

He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle in a way that undoes you.

“And he didn’t choose you,” he adds, soft but honest.

“But I would.”

You choke on a breath, barely able to speak past the lump in your throat.

“But you… you don’t have a mark. Not yet.”

Your voice wavers, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

Instead, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips—wry, almost sad.

“I had mine removed,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t once cost him something.

“Years ago.”

You blink, stunned. “Why?”

His gaze lingers on you, softer now.

“Because I didn’t want fate to decide who I could love.”

Then, quieter—just for you:

“I wanted the choice to be mine.”

“Then… the girl,” you murmur, barely above a breath. “The one you loved…”

Your voice falters, unsure if you want to know the rest. But the question hangs there between you, fragile and trembling.

Sylus’s eyes dim slightly, the usual spark giving way to something quieter—something older.

“She never chose me,” he says, his voice low, steady. “Even before the mark showed up, I think I knew.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze drifting somewhere distant.

“And when it finally appeared,” he continues, “I already made a choice.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not suffocating.

You feel it—the familiar sting of being almost enough.

And as he looks back at you, something in your chest eases.

Not because the pain is gone.

But because he understands.

You wanted to feel happy.

Wanted to let Sylus’s words wrap around you, ease the ache, soften the hollow in your chest.

But the mark burned—sharp and relentless—like it knew you were trying to let go.

Like it refused to be ignored.

A cruel reminder that no matter how gently Sylus held you, no matter how steady his presence or how kind his eyes—

your heart still belonged somewhere else.

To someone who never asked for it.

And never wanted it.

And that was the worst part.

Because for once, someone was choosing you.

And still, some part of you couldn’t stop choosing him.

Sylus watched you quietly, his gaze lingering not on your tears, not on your mark, but on you—the part of you that still hadn’t healed.

He saw the way your fingers twitched, the way your eyes dropped to the floor like you were ashamed of your own heart.

And then, softly—gently—he spoke.

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to choose me now.”

No pressure. No expectation.

Just understanding.

Because he knew what it was like to love someone who couldn’t let go of someone else.

And still, he stayed.

Not to replace. Not to compete.

But simply to be there.

You didn’t say anything.

You just leaned into him.

And Sylus opened his arms without a word, holding you like he’d been waiting—like he knew you would break again, and he’d already decided he’d be the one to catch you.

You let yourself cry.

Not the quiet, hidden kind, but the raw, aching sobs that shook your shoulders and spilled everything you’d been trying to bury.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away.

He just held you.

Steady. Solid. Safe.

And in his arms, for the first time in a long while, you let yourself feel it all.

—•

You stared up at the white ceiling, its endless blankness strangely comforting.

Sterile. Still. Silent.

The soft, steady beep of the machine beside you was the only sound in the room, each pulse reminding you that time was still moving forward, even if part of you hadn’t caught up yet.

It had been three months.

Three months since you stood in front of Zayne and smiled through your breaking heart.

Three months since Sylus stepped into your life with his sharp words and soft hands and gave you something you didn’t know you needed—space to fall apart.

Three months since everything changed.

And Sylus never left.

Not once.

He stayed through the confusion, through the aching nights when you couldn’t sleep and the mornings when the mark burned so violently you thought it might consume you.

He was there when you made the decision—tired, trembling—to pack your things and leave it all behind.

Zayne.

The hospital that held too many memories.

The city that never stopped reminding you of what you couldn’t have.

You moved somewhere quieter.

Somewhere you could breathe.

And now you were here—lying on a padded bed in a clean, white room, moments away from erasing the mark that had defined you for far too long.

You weren’t doing it to forget him.

You weren’t doing it out of spite.

You were doing it to reclaim your skin.

To stop punishing yourself for loving too much.

To stop letting fate write a story you never agreed to.

There was fear, yes—lingering at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow.

But there was peace, too.

Because this time, the choice was yours.

And just beyond the clinic door, waiting in the hallway like he always did, was Sylus.

Waiting—not to save you.

Just to be there when you returned. Whole. Scarred. Free.

The procedure wasn’t just to erase ink from your skin.

It was to quiet the fire.

To silence the part of you that still, after everything, ached for Zayne.

The part that stirred when you heard his voice in a memory, that still wondered what if, even when you knew the answer.

At first, you were afraid.

Afraid of what you’d lose.

Afraid that without the burn, without the mark, you might feel nothing—or worse, that the emptiness would linger.

But then you thought of him.

Of Sylus.

Of how he stayed when he had every reason not to.

Of the way he never asked you to love him, only to let him stand beside you.

And somehow, that gave you strength.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow, shaking breath as the doctors moved around you.

The bed shifted beneath you as they began to wheel you away, the lights overhead passing in soft, distant flickers.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t look back.

But just before you crossed into the next room, you whispered it—soft, steady, final.

“Goodbye, Zayne.”

And this time, you meant it.

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 2- Begin Again

Chapter 2 of When the Tide Comes In

Poly! Love and Deep Space x MC! Reader

WC: 2.4k

TW: descriptions of grief and canon typical amnesia/ medical discussions

There is a quietness that descends in the mornings that will always unsettle Xavier. Once—lifetimes ago—he used to look forward to the early mornings. A time when he was allowed to pursue his passions without the constant watchful eyes of his father's guards, with the cynical thoughts that swirled, reminding him constantly of his duty. A time when every morning was a new day with you. After he left, he began to sleep in. It wasn’t on purpose—more a delay of the day. If he woke up late, then he would have to move, to go, to fight. There would be no time for grieving the life he left—the life he had chosen. The life he inadvertently condemned himself and the rest of his crew to. But recently, he had been getting up earlier again. The Association had originally been abuzz with seeing Xavier around the office during normal business hours—not only when he was reporting back from some top-secret mission that he usually just made for himself. The coincidence that it aligned with the new recruits being initiated was not lost on the more rumor-prone of the Hunters. Xavier—well-known for ditching team-building outings—suddenly becoming a staple at them? Well, if she were there… The betting pool about when the announcement would be officially made was a tight race. Near daily dissections of your Moments feed happened over breaks (soft launching had been strictly outlawed after the first post of you teasing about someone for not winning a plushie—there were too many comments to determine exactly whom you were speaking of, and the person who lost because of that threw an absolute fit, so the general rule became it had to be said clearly). It’s been two years, and still no definitive answers, and the betting pool has nearly grown out of control. So, of course, Xavier knew about the bets. When he would walk through the office toward your desk, he had to fight not to let the blush take over his face (his ears were a lost cause; he could barely look in your direction without them pinkening) because deep down he enjoyed it. He enjoyed people thinking that he was yours. That his coworkers no longer asked him out, that his colleagues would make vague comments about partners and look to him for advice. So, it is no surprise that his phone had been ringing, buzzing, and humming until it had inevitably died hours ago. After the first few messages had popped up: “Hey Xavier, keep us updated.” “Let us know if you need anything.” “Hey man, I am so sorry.” “Take the time you need.” He’d put it on the windowsill and turned his back. The sun was coming through the window again. Fourteen hours since the world ended.

The night before had been suffocating. The trauma unit room was not small, but even the largest ballroom would have felt too small given the “circumstances.”

After Rafayel had strolled into your room the night before, the other men followed, but there was an unspoken respect that each man be allowed a moment alone with you. Each man seemed to understand that they needed to be assured that even if you didn’t know them, you were still you. You were still alive.

Your wide eyes and gentle smile disarmed Rafayel. In his head, he had assumed that he would have to try harder to calm you, but he rolled with it. He wanted to scream and fall apart. But you needed him. It only took him looking at you for the bond to sing, as it always did when he was in your presence. “Hi. A blanket would be nice. It’s cold in here; you’d think they’d keep hospital rooms warmer. Who are you, Mr. Weatherman?” You can do this, Rafayel. You’ve done it a dozen times before. “Hmmm. That’s a big question.” He turned to the cabinet, taking a breath before opening it. “Well, I am a painter. An artist. I was teaching at the university, but that got boring after my favorite students graduated.” Grabbing a baby blue blanket from the cabinet, he very dramatically unfurled the folded cloth, draping it over you. “Okay, sorry—Mr. Artist Painter Professor,” you said with a giggle, your head tilting at him. “Well, that’s a mouthful. My name is Rafayel. Is that what you were asking, cutie?” “You sure are something, Rafayel. I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.” He tries to hide the flinch, and he thinks he does a good job. If you were, well, you—you would’ve noticed the downward twitch of the left corner of his mouth, the elongated blink he took to steady himself, the shifting of weight on his feet. “Well, Y/N, I think you have some other people who want to meet you, so I’ll leave you to it. When I come later, I’ll bring some watercolors—this room of yours is so drab.”

You laugh, refuting that it isn’t your room, but he can’t turn around. If he does, you will see the tears in his eyes. And you can’t see him cry. Sirens weren’t pretty criers.

Caleb was the next to enter the room. A few minutes had passed after the artist had scuffled by—the self-assured saunter replaced by feet being dragged against linoleum, a slight squeak being heard that was meant to cover the gasping breaths he took. With any other group of people, it would have done the job, but this was not a normal group of people (half barely even met the definition). Caleb didn’t often feel grateful he couldn’t feel much, but in the moment, the memories of you small and wrapped in a hospital gown flashed in front of his eyes. He was glad he couldn’t feel that guilt, that pain, that feeling. No, you needed strong and capable Caleb. “Hi, my name is Caleb.” Dammit. He had promised this would never happen again. He had given up everything to make sure this never happened again. Deep breaths Caleb- she needs you. “You are probably confused and that’s okay, Pips. It’s okay.” “I am a little confused. But the doctor told me it’ll be okay; to not worry too much. That I had people who would help me. Shoot, where are my manners? I’m Y/N.” I know. Sometimes it’s the only name I can remember. When you were both children it had almost been easier. He would distract you, play around, push you on the swings, let you cry on his shoulder. You still were hopelessly positive and not near as agitated as should be expected- you weren’t an entirely blank slate, he knew that much. You would remember small things, your name, the city you were born in, your birthday, facts of life but anything further than that would make you struggle. He had never pushed in the past to get you to remember- what even was there to remember? The pain, the experiments? The fact that the woman who was raising you was the very one who put you in this situation? No. He hadn’t pushed last time but he had a feeling starting over wasn’t going to be as easy this time. Last time he had nothing to grieve when you forgot but now he had lost everything. What did he have if not you?

But he didn’t say that- didn’t explain that to you. Instead he said simply, “You sure do have people who will take good care of you, Pips. For as long as you need.” The smile you gave him was bright but for the first time he saw a bit of hesitance in it, a question.

“You can ask me anything. Don’t worry I won’t be mad.” “Are you and Rafayel the people who care about me?” A sharp inhale. “Yeah, we are some of them.” “But I don’t know you. I can’t- I can’t..It’s dark.” A tear slipped out of your eye. “It’s okay.” he grabbed your hand as it went to wipe your face. Delicately with his right palm he cupped your cheek using his thumb to wipe away the tear making its way down your face. “We can hold onto the memories for you until you take them back. As long as we need to love, as long as you need.” He was greeted with a small smile with a few more tears. “Now there’s that smile.” You giggle and he sighs tenderly, “There are a few more people who want to meet you- is that okay?” “I think so.” He isn’t sure when he sat on the bed, hovering over you but he stands up and goes to make towards the door. He feels you grab his hand so he turns back to you like a magnet, like always. “Caleb. Thank you.” “Of course love. Anything you need- anything.” He squeezes your hand gently and forces himself to cross the room and go through the door.

Sylus doesn’t know why he offers the Colonel a hug. They had never been friendly. Hell- a few months ago he had been determined to kill the man for attempting to collar you, to steal your independence. But after a little digging he had begun to feel sympathy for the man. If anyone understood what it was like to be forced to become a murderous beast- well, it would be Sylus. He had a feeling the Colonel was doing it for you and again if anyone understood sacrificing their life for you- well, Sylus wasn’t in the habit of being a hypocrite. He was surprised the Colonel took him up on the hug. It was brief but crushing at the same time. Sylus knew Caleb could control gravity but it seemed the man took “the weight of the world on his shoulders seriously”. If Sylus felt tears from the Colonel he would never tell.

Sylus had expected the knight in shining armor to already be at your side when Caleb released him and walked down the long hallway, typing quickly into the device at his wrist; but there he was. Quietly Xavier murmured, “You go, she doesn’t like sleeping in the dark. I don’t mind sitting with her.” In any other setting he would take that as an insult, as a stab at him from the hero. Stylus knew Xavier was Lumiere- he had been on the other end of the sword before after all. But at this moment there was nothing but honesty in his eyes. Well. Honesty and grief but Sylus didn’t hold that against the man. He had dealt with this before- at least this time you didn’t think he had murdered your family. This time you weren’t disgusted by him, right? Your eyes were slightly red when he appeared in your room but upon seeing him you quickly wiped your eyes and a slightly strained smile appeared on your face. You would fool anyone but them- always so strong, weren’t you. “You look a bit like a floofed up kitten, sweetie.” “Well excuse you- Hey, what are you doing!” Sylus had taken to keeping a pocket comb and a scrunchie in his pocket ever since you had reentered his life. You never had one on you but you also hated doing just about anything when your hair was in your face. Easing the comb through your tangled hair your body relaxed into his touch. Tying your hair into a low ponytail to keep it off your neck. “There we go- now you look like a well groomed kitten, much better sweetie.” With a pat to the top of your head- you narrowed your eyes at him “Aren’t you something Mister-.” “Just Sylus please. You’ll ruin my reputation if you call me Mister- people will think I’ve gone polite.” “Isn’t that a good thing?” “I couldn’t think of a worse fate, sweetie.” “Y/N” “Nice to make your acquaintance.” “Just Sylus you are strange.” “You’ve called me worse so I’ll take this as a win.” You blinked at him, your glare lessening and he felt his heart clench. Shit. “I’m sorry.” “Why?” “I am sorry I have been mean to you. I am sorry I don’t know what to say.” You look lost and the half of his heart that is in his chest splinters. “Oh, don’t apologize dearest. I deserve it and more. There is nothing you could say to make me mad at you.” He pats you twice more on the head. “Now I think it is time you get some rest- the rain is starting soon and that will put you right to sleep.” As he says that the lights in the hallways dim- shifting to the nighttime setting to allow the patients a reprieve from the harsh LEDs. He watches you startle and eyes dart as your room’s lights dim.

“It’s okay princess, I’ll take care of it.” Your eyes dart to Xavier. You see the two men acknowledge each other with a small nod as Sylus passes through the room, disappearing beyond the door. “The dark?” “Yeah-” Your jaw drops as the man begins to glow. Well, not literally. Small firefly-like orbs of light dance around him in a mesmerizing way. He smiles sheepishly at you as he plops in the chair that is next to your bed. “Wow. That’s so cool- you can just do that? Wow.” You lay back against your pillows, turning on your side to face the man. “Yep, that’s me. Xavier the professional night light.” You giggle at him, “Well Xavier the professional night light I am Y/N the professional sleeper. Thank you for your service.” A slight chuckle releases from him as he tips his head back, closing his own eyes. “Sleep well princess. We’ll be here when you wake.”

Xavier was thinking about quiet mornings as the nurse ushers you to the bathroom to assist you with a shower. As the other men each enter the room, most still wearing the clothes from the night before, Zayne takes a glance at the phone that is beeping incessantly on the window seal. “Are you going to answer that?” The blonde meets his questioning gaze his own eyebrow twitching up, “I think I will enjoy the last moments of this quiet morning Doctor. I think we have some things to discuss before we worry about what’s on the other end of those messages.”

Rafayel, draping himself over the futon under the window, reaches up and turns the offending thing off. “Well- this fucking sucks. What now?”

A/N: Will be opening a tag list for this series so please comment if you want to be added! Comments, reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated!

#love and deepspace #lads x reader #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne #zayne x mc #love and deepspace angst #rafayel love and deepspace #zayne x reader #love and deepspace imagines #rafayel x you #lads sylus #lads xavier #lads caleb #lads rafayel #caleb x reader #love and deepspace caleb #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x reader #love and deepspace sylus

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

Text

From the 'Person I like'

To the 'Girl I love'

We've always felt Zayne's selfless love through his actions, but hearing him admit it just hits different.

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter One- When the World Ends

Poly! Love and Deep Space LIs X MC!Reader

Words: 2.1k

Major Character Death, Grief and Canon Divergence (kinda you’ll see)

Okay after a pretty great reception on the imagine I spewed from my brain last night I wrote I have put together a better more edited version of the idea. Plan is for this to be more romantic than depressing but I love angst. All the comments are read and loved and your reblogs bring me immense joy and writing power so I appreciate you!!!

When the day started there had been no hint that the world would be ending. But when was there ever? The citizens of Linkon had lived through the apocalypse once and while that should prepare you- it hadn’t prepared them.

Jenna had given you a last minute assignment to check out a small metaflux disturbance in a residential park not far from the Bloomsdale district.

“It’s probably nothing but better safe than sorry. Xavier has left for the evening but I am sure he wouldn’t mind to come back if you want me to call him-”

“No worries, Captain. I’ll call if it gets to be too much- promise!”

You hadn’t even gotten the chance. It was a small metaflux disturbance. Nothing too difficult to handle and quickly dispatched without incident. You had even been excited to text your loves about how your weekend stretched out in front of you. That the last thing you had done at the end of a long week was settle an easy disturbance- safely and, more importantly in their opinions, without getting yourself hurt.

You could picture them so clearly: Xavier already camped on your couch- head lolling to one side, delivery app open and forgotten on his phone as the text pinged him. Rafayel spamming pictures and videos of the newest seagull choir demanding your attendance at the Concert of a Century tomorrow. Caleb’s reply- delayed but excited for you- “My ever capable Sunny Apple- protecting the peace! Proud of you Pips- don’t stay up too late! :)” Sylus always called immediately- the man always preferred hearing you but you knew it was also his way of making sure you made it home safe. You could practically see the subtle eye roll Zayne would give you over video call later that evening- “You have to stop rushing into these things, what if something happened?”

But you never made it home that night.

The last thing you felt was the strong buzz of energy and a sharp pain in your chest. You clutched your chest and choked on your air- you couldn’t breathe. You panicked.

“Distress Activated Emergency Protocol Engaged. Abnormal Vitals Detected. Emergency Services Deployed. Please Wa-”

The world went dark.

Zayne had been on his feet for 9 hours when his pager began to beep the code blue signals.

Friday’s were a heavy surgery day for the cardiac surgeon- the last day of scheduled surgeries and preparing mentally for a weekend of emergencies. The residents were almost always exhausted and antsy by this point in the week so Dr. Zayne had to be in perfect form to ensure all his patients were receiving the best care possible.

He was finishing his floor rounds with a small bounce in his step. Dr. Greyson was on call Sunday meaning that he was looking at a glorious day off with you. It would be the first in a while that you both had an entirely free day together and in normal fashion it was booked with restaurant visits and a trip to a newly opened arcade to “scope out the competition” (aka you needed to get a lay of the land to figure out who you would need to beat to ensure you had the high scores on the fps stalls).

He was strolling into his office- phone already in his hand to text you about your day when the beeping began.

Code Blue: Y/N L/N

Li Room SR 2A

He didn’t even think he just moved.

If you asked him what the next fifteen minutes of his life had entailed he would have no answer for you. He had, run (probably- he was panting by the time he) scrubbed in (probably- his hands were gloved and taped, his hair capped and his gown on when he) held your heart in his hand.

He had never done this before.

No, he had.

He had.

He had never done this successfully.

He was only a man. A man with a needle and thread and tears in his eyes. Greyson was home and there was no time for ethical considerations that would come later. Would come after.

8:52 PM

He doesn’t know when he ended up on the floor. His breaths coming raggedly through his mask, his hands shaking tugging it off, his gown slipping and his evol slowly spiraling out of his control.

The air frigid as Yvonne leans her hand down to attempt to help him up.

He doesn’t even see her.

He sees you. Small, missing teeth- words slurring as you cry. Your popsicle had melted. He had never felt the need to help another like he did at that moment. His small hands had grabbed yours and with a single touch the blue sweet treat had refrozen.

You had looked at him like he saved the world- like he was a hero.

He hears you- slightly bigger now, all your teeth grown in, swinging gently on the swing explaining to him why your family was overbearing.

“It’s a heart thing. It’s weird? When the world ended my heart should’ve stopped. It didn’t though. Takes more than that to stop me.”

“Isn’t it scary?”

“Not really. I mean it makes me cooler I think. At least that’s what Caleb says.”

You- grown and beautiful and smiling- meeting him again. Demanding his time, his attention, his care. He feels himself falling for you.

Over and over and over again.

“Dr. Zayne. You need to call it. We’ve passed the standard time of care. I can call-”

Beep…… beep….beep…beep

Everyone in the room stilled. Then in a blink of an eye Zayne was up.

When the time for questions to be answered this would be the only thing everyone could agree on. Your heart had stopped. Your brain function has ceased. You had gone a full 30 minutes without breathing on your own when it happened.

Your eyes flew open. A blinding light, a sterile room, and a teary face loomed over you.

You smiled, eyes widening feeling sad for this sad man. You raised your hand which he quickly grabbed.

“Don’t cry. It’ll be okay.”

“Y/N- do you know where you are? Do you know what happened?”

You hummed in response. “Hm? No. I don’t know. What is going on Mister? Don't be sad.”

The man’s eyes widened and you heard the others bustling around and the man was taken from your side. A kind eyed woman slipped a mask over your face-

“It’s okay Honey. Everything is okay. Now count with me. One… Two… Three”

The consult room looked like the punch line of a terrible joke.

Xavier- usually nearly glowing- had his shirt on backwards and no shoes on. He had simply appeared outside the hospital moments after the initial alarms on his Hunters Watch began. His presence seemed to darken the already dim room.

Rafayel was pacing and had been a flurry of movement since the sharp pain in his chest that was accompanied by a slight glowing red that still peeked out from under his unbutton shirt. Normally he was content to sit and stew (you had always called it pouting but he was contemplating thank you very much) the nervous energy that flowed through him was only going to be extinguished one of two ways and the only socially acceptable version was to allow the man to pace the perimeter of the room.

Sylus was a barely contained ball of rage- all the money and influence in the world and no one would tell him what was happening. The doctor will be in there soon. The nurse had not taken it well when he had tried to explain that half of his soul was ripped out and he would make it everyone’s problem very soon if someone didn’t fucking answer him.

Caleb was the last one to arrive at the hospital. His sleek black Colonel uniform and steady footsteps passing through the doorway in a manner that seemed to suck the air from the room. His eyes wide and frantic, the vein directly under his purple irises jumping in time with his frenetic pulse.

The room was silent- even Rafayel’s ceaseless pacing was halted momentarily. The men were all aware of each other. All aware of how entangled each other were with each other through you. When imagining how they would inevitably meet most had pictured a dinner table or a brawl not an Akso Hospital Patient Consult room.

Caleb, always the force to be reckoned with, broke the silence first.

“Where is she- I swear I’ll-”

The door abruptly opens, knocking directly into the Colonel’s outstretched hand. Zayne- looking uncharacteristically shaken and haunted- peers at the strange group. Faces he had seen through Moments posts, had heard stories of, had always known he would meet (or see again in the case of his once dead childhood friend) all stared at him in various stages of grief, duress and anger.

“Zayne.”

“She’s alive.”

There is an exhale.

Xavier relaxes slightly into the pleather chair he is sat in- rustling his legs which had become nearly molded to the fabric as he had sat as still as a statue for what felt like centuries. The chaotic energy that buzzed around Sylus dissipates slightly. Air returns to the room on Caleb’s exhale. Rafayel’s shoulders release and his pacing shifts into an unsteady sway back and forth like he may pass out.

“Great.” Sylus purrs, standing to his full height, his practiced facade snapping securely into place, taking a steady step towards the door. “Where is sh-”

“She doesn’t remember who she is. She doesn’t know where she is. She died. And then she- well- she came back. We don’t understand.”

Zayne feels detached. He feels a million miles away. He was trying to stay strong- to find a logical explanation for everything. But deep down he felt his entire reason for being crumbling. He had spent his whole life working so he could save you (from melting popsicles, from himself and his unstable evol, from your own heart) and he failed. He had worked for over a decade so he could hold your heart safely in his hands. And he failed. The only test that ever truly matter and he failed.

Xavier has lost her again. He had waited over 200 years to see her again. He was able to love her openly and freely only for her to be stripped from him again. Was the cosmic justice for leaving? Was this the timeline righting itself? How many times can his tired soul bear the brunt of watching you fall in love with him again? How many more times can he take it?

Sylus felt the wound in his chest reopen. He had not ever allowed himself to think of the pain you must have suffered after killing him. After he had changed your fate- he had taken the choice from you because it was not one he could make himself. Better to take himself from the equation altogether- to rewrite fate himself. He had only just gotten you back- his little sorceress with fire in her veins and spitfire on her tongue- and now he would start over again? Would you be able to forgive him again? Would you be disgusted by him again?

Caleb bends at the waist and falls to his knees, clutching his stomach. He is going to be sick. He feels the bile tickle at his throat as he fights his own mind, as he wrestles for control of his emotions. He has to be strong- but he doesn’t know if he can be strong for the both of you anymore. Can he hold on with his fractured and broken mind to the memories of you happy and free and in love? If he forgets will there be anyone who remembers left? He has done this before but he has forgotten what this feels like- this nauseous grief that nearly resets him. But he can't because you need him. Don’t you? You need him right?

Everyone is so solidly grief stricken for a moment they don’t pay attention to Rafayel’s easy smile and his lack-a-daisical saunter out of the room, passing a kneeling Caleb and a wheezing Zayne. They were only brought into focus when they hear a soft scoff and quiet words:

“Amateurs. What, like it’s your first time? Expected better from the others her heart had chosen but looks like I’ll take the lead on this one. Thanks guys.”

He is out of the room and down the hallway before anyone can stop him; humming softly to himself.

“Hi, cutie. It’s gonna rain tonight better grab another blanket for ya.”

A/N: wrote this in 2 long sessions so the next part will hopefully be up soon as I sort of already know what the plan is for that.

If you don’t like lead X lead or polycule situations heads up that is where this is leading sooooooo

In this house we know all of their hearts are big enough for all this love

#love and deepspace #lads x reader #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne #zayne x mc #love and deepspace angst #rafayel love and deepspace #zayne x reader #love and deepspace imagines #rafayel x you #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x reader #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x mc #lnds sylus #lads sylus #love and deepspace x reader

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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Well the people have spoken writing a real first chapter of the poly memory reset au today

I’m still debating exactly if I want the LIs to fall in love with each other DURING the story or have it already be the case that they’re all together hmmmmmmm

I’m kinda a sucker for them slowly learning to love each other through out the story but it makes it harder to write for sure. I’m just so enamored with their dynamics dammit

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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Polycule love and deep space idea I may never write but it’s been plaguing me-

Completely and totally unedited I just have this picture in my head I can’t get it to leave me be. Also there is a severe lack of poly lads writing- please feed me.

Reader is MC in this for plot reasons you’ll see. Canon divergence but it’s for the PLOT.

Reader who dies on a mission- it was supposed to be an easy check on a small park with minor metaflux changes.

She’s rushed to the hospital and is declared dead. Zayne is crushed and inconsolable. He was the one who called it.

Caleb is still her emergency contact and he comes immediately. Rafayel who feels it through the bond. Xavier whose Hunter Watch is buzzing so incessantly. Sylus who feels half his souls rip.

As Zayne stands still in the corner wondering how the hell he is meant to even breathe now is beyond shocked when you take another breath.

And another.

And you’re alive.

Even though your body is broken you have a large easy smile on your face as you glance at him. Your eyes wide and easy, blinking owlishly at him

“Y/N” Zayne chokes out- his sobs have subsided into unbelieving gasps.

“Huh?” You hum easily. “I’m not sure what’s going on. Can I help you sir? Are you looking for someone?” You feel strange not panicking because the man in front of you clearly is. He’s beyond panicked- you watch fearful for a moment as ice trails up his arm. He’s gone quickly and you’re surrounded by kind faces and beeping and needles and then darkness.

The waiting room looks like the punch line to a terrible joke.

Xavier has his shirt on backwards and no shoes. He had simply appeared in the ER after getting the hospital name out of a distraught Tara.

Sylus is a ball of barely restrained fury. He had all the power and influence in the world and the nurse refused to tell him a thing.

Rafayel was strangely silent. He looked like he had seen a ghost. He stood, arms crossed and ghastly, shoulders near his ears and pearlescent tears in his eyes.

Caleb was taking heavy strides into the room they had all been bustled into. His colonels uniform swishes behind him, his jaw clenched and the room was already too small but suddenly it feels as if all the air had disappeared.

The room is silent for a moment as all the men stare at each other wearily. They had known they would meet eventually- each of them too entangled in you to not know of the other men in your life.

Caleb is the one who breaks the silence

“Where is she- I swear I’ll-“

The door abruptly opens pushing directly into Caleb’s already outstretched hand. Zayne- looking uncharacteristically shaken and haunted- peers at the strange group.

“Zayne.”

“She’s alive.”

There is an exhale.

Xavier relaxes slightly into the chair he is slumped in. The frenetic energy that buzzed around Sylus dissipates slightly. Air returns to the room. Rafayel’s shoulders release and his pacing stops.

“Great.” Sylus stands to his full height, his practiced facade securely in place, taking a step towards the door. “Where is sh-“

“She doesn’t remember who she is. She doesn’t know where she is. She died. And now she’s alive again. We don’t understand.”

Caleb feels like throwing up. Not again. He doesn’t know if he can remember for the both of them anymore.

Xavier has lost her again. He had loved her again and she had loved him. How long could he fight for? How many more times would he have to watch you learn him again?

Sylus felt the wound open again. The one in the center of his chest- would you be disgusted by him? Would you hate him? He would love you in every lifetime but would return to him?

Zayne was trying to stay strong- to find a logical explanation for everything. But deep down he felt the entire reason for his being crumbling. He had become a doctor to save you- to be able to hold your heart safely in his hands- and he had failed.

Everyone was so solidly grief stricken for a moment they didn’t pay attention to Rafayel’s easy smile and saunter. They were only brought into focus when they heard a soft scoff and a quiet “Amateurs. What, like it’s your first time? Expected better from the others her heart chose but look like I’ll take the lead on this one. Thanks guys.”

And with that he was out of the room and lightly humming to himself.

“Hi, cutie.”

Heheheheheheheheehhe thank god it’s out of my brain. Maybe I’ll write more. Maybe I’ll write better. Anyone want to see it?

Also can you tell who my main is from this? I think it’s obvious but maybe not ???

Edit: wrote the first chapter and yay here we go!

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads caleb #lads zayne #lads xavier #lads rafayel #lads x reader #zayne x mc #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace angst #rafayel love and deepspace #zayne x reader #love and deepspace imagines #rafayel x you

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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Tears in my eyes I love this so so bad omg

forget me not

Caleb loses his memories, again. It turns out he's even more embarrassing about you without his memories.

caleb/afab!mc | xia yizhou/afab!mc

tags: this is pure teeth rotting fluff. the power of love baybee, established relationship, i just wanted to write caleb being even sappier because he's high from painkillers, not proofread or beta'd, happy ending.

The light above Caleb's bed blinds him when he wakes up, piercing through his skull. It's aggravatingly bright, and he would really like to return back to nothing, thank you very much. Who the fuck interrupted the best sleep of his life?

He tries to swallow around the sandpaper in his throat, but he can barely move. He doesn't even know if he can open his eyes, settling instead for a half-assed groan.

Explosion, he thought, I had to escape...where?

"You're awake!" a voice cuts through the fog, "Caleb oh my god--".

Slowly the room comes into a sort of focus, and Caleb vaguely registers that he's in a medical facility of some kind. Not again. Before he can panic though, he turns to the sound of the voice and that's when he sees it.

There's an goddess sitting on his bed, holding his hand.

Caleb's heart starts to race, and the monitor next to him beeps angrily. There are purple shadows underneath her eyes from crying, was it something he did? and she's clearly exhausted, but there's no doubt about it. He had been sent a literal angel. Angels are real.

His jaw drops and he stares at her, mouth agape.

The angel looks at him, gaze searching his face, "Caleb are...are you alright? You probably don't remember but--".

Oh my god even her voice is perfect. Caleb thinks. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out-

" Who are you? Are you an angel?"

All around the room, jaws drop.

Your eyes widen in shock at Caleb's question. Zayne had warned you that he would likely be very disoriented when he woke up, and that his memories may not be fully intact after removing the Toring chip. You were prepared for that possibility when you signed his surgery waiver, after all, you were more concerned that Caleb was alive and free of the chip, even if it meant forgetting everything that you had built together.

But this wasn't what you were expecting.

Caleb continues to stare at you in wonder as he takes you in, purple eyes slowly going over your form, a look of naked innocent awe as he brings your hands to his cheek. Despite a lifetime together, you've never gotten used to the full intensity of his gaze.

"I must be dead..." he whispers, nuzzling your hand. "There's an angel here to take me away this time at least...right? That's what you're here for?"

Gideon leans forward, grinning, "Oh he's so high."

An emotion you can't name threatens to burst out of your chest.

His speech is slurred, but he continues to nuzzle into your hand, a dopey smile making its way across his lips. Suddenly he groans.

"Oh my god, you even smell good," Caleb declares, "You must be God's favorite. Seriously though, am I dead? If I'm not dead, why did they send a model to my room?"

Gideon starts laughing, "He's even more embarrassing stoned, holy shit".

Caleb didn't know that angels could blush. She's looking at him in shock, face warm, so lovely. So lovely, and she smells so good. In his delirium he can't place it, but he wants to live in the scent forever. If he's dead well, he better try to savor this feeling for as long as he can before it all turns to nothing.

She's trying to respond to him, but all she can manage is a very eloquent, "...What?" before turning to the door as a man with black hair steps in.

"You're not dead," this black haired man who looks like a doctor says, " She's your fiancee."

Caleb snorts in derision, "There's no fucking way. Me? Engaged to her? I'm dead and my head hurts, but I'm not stupid."

The doctor, Zayne or whatever based on his name tag, flips through a chart before turning to address her. "We don't know the full extent of his memory loss yet, but his physical signs are trending in the right direction. This is good."

He turns back to Caleb with a sigh, "I swear on my medical license. She's your fiancee. You're also not dead. Now can you sit up? I just need to run some assessments,"

Caleb looks at you, fingers tightening around your hand. "It's not funny to lie to someone," he insists. "Angel, are you both making fun of me?".

With some effort, you help Caleb move to a sitting position. He starts a little at the feeling of your hand on his bare back, and you can see his cheeks and ears flush red.

The entire time that Zayne runs his tests, Caleb stares you with a mixture of joy and disbelief. His mouth seems to be on autopilot, unfiltered sentences praising your looks, your voice, the clothes you're wearing, the entire time mumbling about how lucky he was. He's overjoyed when you slip his dogtags back on him, marveling out loud at how of course you picked the perfect gift for him. He listens with rapt attention as you describe your shared apartment, his proposal, the past few years. When you scroll to the engagement photos on your phone, his eyes well up.

"There's just no way. How did I get so lucky? My fiancee is you? You're perfect."

It's all a little bit much, and you giggle. You're not sure how it's possible, but Caleb smiles even harder upon hearing you. "You think I'm perfect?" you ask. "Really?"

With great effort, Caleb sits up straighter, " I know you're perfect. God you're so-- you're so-- really??? I'm going to be your husband?". Out of the corner of your eye, you see Zayne roll his eyes. Caleb had always been forthcoming with complimenting and praising you, but this was on a whole other level.

You clasp both of his hands in yours. "Look, here's the ring." It's a beautiful band, with stones that you had picked together. He had confessed afterwards that he had purchased the centerpiece with the first few paychecks he got from the DAA, and had been holding onto it ever since. "I'm your fiancee Caleb, I've been waiting for you to wake up from your operation."

Suddenly, he scowls, "I made you wait? God, I'm sorry I should've---" his voice falters as he suddenly looks at your lips, "You're-- can we...kiss? I can kiss my wife right? Can I kiss you?"

Wife.

You laugh, "We can kiss as much as you want", you say as you gently hold his face and press your lips to his.

Just like your first kiss, he stares at you after you pull away, his eyes filled with adoration. It reminds you of how the Caleb is when it's just the two of you, open, honest, exuberant, as warm as a beautiful summer day.

"Holy shit" he whispered, "We're gonna ...I'm not dreaming. You're real."

His exhaustion catches up to him, and he sinks back into the pillows. "Do I....have I treated you right?"

Your heart catches at the question. Despite his addled state, you can hear a trace of fear creep into his voice. The guilt and self-hatred omnipresent in his mind. Softened now, but forever there. His ever present concern for you, despite the state he was in, brings tears to your eyes.

"You're actually a stupid jerk sometimes, but you do," you say, "I love you so much."

His eyes start to flutter close, "Oh good...I have to...keep doing that. I gotta be with you forever."

You lean to kiss his forehead, "I need you forever too. Please stay by my side."

"Who are you? Are you an angel?"

Caleb groans as the crowd turns to the screen. Gideon promised a surprise was involved in his best man speech and could he pretty please use a projector too? Unbeknownst to Caleb, Gideon had managed to record the entire episode, and now he's playing it at max volume at your wedding.

"I'm dead and my head hurts, but I'm not stupid."

You turn to him, beaming, " You know I'm going to use this against you for the rest of our lives right?"

He scoffs in mock outrage, "As if you didn't already have enough ammo against me,"

The ammunition is my heart, my soul, it was promised to you since we met.

"I've always made it clear that I love you."

"Yeah but you think I'm an angel, literally sent from the heavens."

Caleb presses a kiss to your forehead, "That's what I thought since the moment we were kids, when we first met. Now I'm the lucky man with an angel for a wife."

When we first met in that sterile room, I knew my destiny was always going to be intertwined with you, is what he doesn't say out loud.

But it's always been obvious hasn't it?

a/n: This was originally way angstier at first but I scrapped all the backstory (it involved a ship exploding and like end-of-life flashbacks). Slinking back to my cave to write Xavier/MC/Caleb next I think. Reblogs and comments and likes are always appreciated!

divider is from CafeKitsune

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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Now, we all know that all of the LADS men are "my wife" men but I wanna think about rafayel for a sweet second...

Rafayel being definitely a "my wife" man. The kind who weaves you into every conversation like it’s second nature, like he physically cannot help himself.

Someone asks about the giant oil paintings in his studio? He barely glances up—"Hmm? Oh, those? Yeah, that’s my wife." Like it’s obvious. Like the answer was always going to be you.

He gestures toward the hallway leading to his studio, lined with canvas after canvas, brushstrokes mapping out the curve of your smile, the tilt of your head, the way light bends just to kiss your skin. “Dedicated wall? No. It’s an entire hallway....yes its a shrine!? What else would it be?”

He rambles. Constantly. About you, about your kids. About the way you stole his favorite shirt to use in the nights, and now it smells like your perfume, which means he can never wear it again, because .... what if the scent fades?

He talks about the shape of your hands, the way they fit against his jaw when you hold his face, the way your laugh catches in your throat before spilling out in full.

Someone mentions beauty, and he hums, thoughtful. “Mm. Beauty’s subjective, you know.” Then he taps his fingers against the table, a slow, absent rhythm, before adding, “But my wife’s got these eyes—" and suddenly, they’re trapped listening to a love story they never asked for.

Rafayel is a lovestruck fool, and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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Angel of Her Own Making | Part 6

Synopsis: You were meant to reincarnate 10 times. In your second lifetime, you met and befriended a dragon who was mistaken for a little boy, who eventually learned to resent you for something you never did. Only after you'd spent the rest of your reincarnations trying to save him, ultimately dying for the sake of his happiness, did Sylus realize the enormity of his mistakes. Now, having traveled back in time to your first life where you'd never met him, the dragon wanted nothing more to make amends...

Content Warning: Angst, Fight Scene, Violence, Reader is not default MC

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading so far! I was so surprised to see everyone's reactions to this fic!

Parts: (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), (6)

Taglist: @sillyfreakfanparty, @exactlysizzlingdonut, @sylustoru, @nayukiyukihira, @sinnamon-bunn, @mangooes, @codedove

You’d like to think that you had honed your acting skills well. Putting on a smile and remaining pleasantly quiet had seen you through school—by the time you were in 11th grade, you had reduced yourself to a mere husk in order to fit in. By then, you’d grown tired of being ridiculed and scorned for simply existing; and the fact that everyone started treating you much better after you relinquished your true self further cemented your anxieties about being the odd one out. Only when you’d gone to college, living far away from everyone you knew, did you begin to feel more like yourself again. But after joining the Hunter’s Association, the need to pretend returned, and you didn’t even realize how miserable you were every time you clocked in and out.

While you understood the reasons behind your irrational thoughts, you often found yourself unable to dislodge the self-doubt from your heart. Your brief meetings with Sylus at the coffee shop had been a reprieve, yet even that now felt strange—you’d wanted to believe that the events at the Hunter’s retreat hadn’t affected you that much, that the unexpected revelations about MC and Sylus hadn’t hurt. It had taken you nearly a month to even broach the topic with MC, who offered an explanation you didn’t buy.

He’s just someone I met while investigating the market, you know?

The market? What market?

Ah… the one that borders the N109 Zone. He runs a… fruit vendor there. I didn’t expect him to show up at our retreat. I was drunk out of my mind. Was I really that embarrassing?

You’d spent the rest of lunch break convincing MC that she didn’t do anything all that outlandish. In other words, you lied—partly to protect your friend’s feelings, and partly to not seem too interested in some random stranger. You were determined to get the story out of the man himself, but lately it had been increasingly difficult to find time to drop by the coffee shop, and it wasn’t as though you could come knocking at Onychinus’s door. You had Sylus’s number—he’d made sure to enter it into your phone before you parted at the resort—and you could simply text him to arrange a meeting.

I’m a coward, you groaned, pressing your fist to your forehead in frustration. You’d read every single file in existence that had any information on Onychinus and its elusive leader—the reports offered no real answers, and all witness sketches of Sylus’s likeness were way off, rendering him more monster than human in most cases. At least, you didn’t think he’d approached you as part of some plot to infiltrate the Association. He had MC, for one, and there were infinitely more compliant targets to approach. Such as your own partner, Marcus.

You wished you had a partner like MC’s—Xavier, though aloof and absent-minded, seemed dependable and pleasant enough. At this point, you’d take anyone who could shut up for five seconds. Marcus not only talked incessantly but also loved boasting about his connections to the underworld, seemingly unconcerned about the possibility of being fired for corrupt behavior. He was more glorified cop than Deepspace Hunter, less likely to battle Wanderers than to run protection rackets for local gangs. You would have turned him in already if it weren’t for the fact that he had some higher-up and a group of other corrupt cops backing him; your reputation as a talented rookie could only earn you so much good graces until you started being labelled insubordinate. Things had gotten so odious that you’d entertained the idea of taking Sylus up on his offer…

No, you were determined to find a solution on your own. To earn Marcus’s trust, you allowed yourself to be dragged around while he busted local drug dealers and pocketed their profits. It didn’t help that you were the only female on the team; the men put on a show of shielding you from the ‘less tasteful’ side of the job, leaving you to stand alone while they staged crime scenes. It was all too easy to catch their illicit activities on your Hunter’s Watch. It never occurred to you that Marcus had been tipped off about your attempts to dig up dirt on him…

The house smelled like mildew and stale cigarettes. The flickering fluorescent light in the hallway buzzed like a dying insect, casting long shadows on the peeling wallpaper. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms as you followed Marcus down the narrow corridor. Your partner’s broad shoulders blocked most of the light ahead, but you could see the faint glow of a doorway at the end.

“Marcus,” you said, voice low but firm. “What are we doing here? This isn’t protocol.”

Marcus didn’t turn around. “Relax, kid. Just a quick errand. These guys owe me a favor.”

Your stomach churned, instincts kicking in. Something was off. Marcus had been acting strange all day—too calm, too dismissive. And now this? A house in the middle of nowhere, no backup, no call to dispatch. You reached for your watch, but Marcus stopped you with a sharp look.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice cold. “You’ll blow this whole thing.”

Before you could argue, the door at the end of the hall swung open. Three men stood in the doorway, their faces hard and unreadable. You recognized one of them—Ajax, a low-level enforcer with ties to the local gang. His eyes flicked to you, then to Marcus, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

“Marcus,” Ajax said, nodding. “You brought her, just like you said.”

Your blood ran cold. “What the hell is this?”

Marcus didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped aside, his hand resting on the butt of his gun. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to run, but before you could move, Ajax’s men lunged forward, grabbing your arms and shoving you into the room. You stumbled, your back hitting the wall, and reached for your Evol—the powerful hum of energy that always answered your call.

Nothing.

Your breath hitched. You tried again, willing a weapon into existence, but your mind felt foggy, your body sluggish. The coffee. Marcus had handed you a cup that morning, his eyes avoiding yours as you drank it. Power-dampening chemicals. He’d planned this.

“You son of a bitch,” you spat, your voice trembling with rage. “You set me up.”

Marcus shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Nothing personal, kid. You just ask too many questions.”

Ajax stepped forward, a knife glinting in his hand. “Let’s make this quick. Bathroom’s down the hall. Less mess to clean up.”

Your heart pounded as the men closed in. You were unarmed, powerless, and outnumbered, but you weren't going down without a fight. As one of the men reached for you, you ducked under his arm and drove your elbow into his ribs. He grunted, stumbling back, and you used the opening to slam your knee into his groin. He doubled over, and you grabbed his head, smashing it into the wall.

The second man lunged at you, but you sidestepped, grabbing his wrist and twisting until he dropped the knife. You kicked it away, but before you could follow up, Ajax was on you, his fist connecting with your jaw. Pain exploded across your face, your vision swimming.

“Feisty,” the goon sneered, grabbing you by the hair. “I like that.”

Gritting your teeth, you drove your heel into his shin. He cursed, loosening his grip, and you twisted free, slamming your palm into his nose. He fell back, but the third man pounced, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you off the ground.

Refusing to submit, you thrashed blindly at your assailant, elbowing him repeatedly, to no avail—he was too strong. Ajax recovered quickly, his scarred face a mask of fury as he grabbed your legs and pulled you abruptly across the floor. One of the other men stomped on your wrist, destroying your watch and only means of sending for backup. As you cried out in pain, they dragged you toward the bathroom.

“No!” You screamed, clawing at the walls, fingers catching on the doorframe, but they pried you loose and threw you towards the bath tub. You hit the tile floor hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs.

Ajax stepped inside, pulling a gun from his waistband. “Should’ve stayed out of our business, little Miss Hunter.”

You tried to stand up, your muscles clenching in protest. There was no way in hell you were dying here in this grimy, disgusting bathroom. As Ajax raised the gun, you propelled yourself forward, grasping his wrist and forcing the barrel upward. The shot rang out, the sound deafening in the small space, and the bullet embedded itself in the ceiling.

You grappled, even while your strength was fading with every second. Ajax slammed you against the sink, the edge digging into your back—stubborn as ever, you held on, bloody fingers tightening around his wrist. With a desperate cry, you twisted his arm, and the gun clattered to the floor.

Instantly, you dove for it, only for Ajax to kick you in the side. Pain exploded in your abdomen, and you crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. You were staring down the barrel of the gun as your vision blurred and a loud caw rang out from outside the bathroom’s small window.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, you forced yourself to move. You kicked out, your boot connecting with his knee, pushing him back—the gun slipping from his hand.

Desperate, you crawled toward it, your fingers just shy of the cold metal when Ajax was on you again, his hands closing around your throat.

You fought for air, your nails raking at his arms, but his grip was like iron. Spots danced in your vision—you were running out of time. With the last of your strength, you reached for the gun, fingers finally closing around the trigger.

The shot echoed through the bathroom, and Ajax’s grip went slack as he collapsed to the floor, a dark stain spreading across his chest. You gasped for air, your body trembling violently as you pushed him off you. You tried to stand, but the pain in your abdomen was too much. Dazed, you looked down and saw the blood soaking through your shirt.

The other men were gone, their footsteps fading down the hall. Your grip on the gun grew weak, and you let it slide noisily to the floor, choosing to press your palm to the wound instead. Your breath was coming in shallow gasps as the room spun and spun.

For all that violence, there was only silence now save for the faint drip of water from the broken sink and the low hum of the flickering light above. You blinked hard, forcing yourself to stay conscious. You couldn’t pass out. Not here. Not like this.

Then you heard it—a faint creak from the hallway. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and getting closer.

Your heart leapt into your throat, and for the second time that evening, adrenaline surged through your veins, dulling the pain for just a moment. You weren’t alone. Someone was coming.

Your eyes darted to the gun lying on the floor a few feet away. You could have sworn it was just in your palm; now you had to drag your bloody self over these dirty tiles once more, every movement agony. Gun secured, you fumbled with the magazine, checking the bullets. Three left. You had to make it work.

You flipped off the safety and raised the gun, your hands still shaking uncontrollably but steady enough to aim. With any luck, you hoped to maim the person before they could do you any more harm. The footsteps were closer now, just outside the door. You pressed your back against the wall, one finger hovering over the trigger.

The door creaked open.

Your clutched the gun so tightly you could feel the handle’s grooves embed themselves into your skin. “Don’t move!” you barked, your voice hoarse but fierce. “I’ll shoot!”

The tall figure froze in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. For a split second, your finger twitched, ready to pull the trigger. But then the man stepped forward, his hands raised in surrender, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Sweetie,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “It’s me.”

Your vision swam, and you blinked rapidly, trying to focus. The face that came into view was achingly familiar—sharp features, red eyes blown wide with devastating concern, and hair as white as snow.

Your heart stuttered. “Sylus?” for a moment, you were convinced this was simply an apparition your brain conjured up as death loomed close.

He was at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees beside you. His hands hovered over you, unsure where to touch, as if he was afraid you might break. “Goddamnit,” he murmured, brows strewn together in anguish. “What did they do to you?”

You allowed yourself to lower the gun, the tremor in your arm having gotten so bad that you could barely hold it. “Marcus,” you choked out. “He—he set me up. They tried to kill me.” Through teary eyes, you looked up at him. “How are you here…?”

Sylus’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with anger, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he gently pried the gun from your hand and set it aside. “You’re safe now,” he said, his voice steady as he carefully gathered you in his arms. “I’ve got you.”

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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hihi I loved the zayne princess treatment post could you do a sylus one as well please 🥹💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

sylus and his princess (queen) treatment

pairings: bf!sylus x fem!reader

warnings: none really, maybe minor mentions of some memories

a/n: thank you for the love and the request xx hope you enjoy <3

With a high bounty on his head Sylus has many enemies. Now having you as his beloved partner in this dangerous life (and all the ones before and after) your life has taken priority over his own. Despite your stubborn tendencies, he always has eyes on you ensuring your safety.

He not so slyly suggests you stay at his place 99% of the time as an answer to any of your complaints claiming he has 'this and that' but really it’s to keep you close by.

You insist on waiting up for him after his many late night outings much to his opposition. The lamps dim lighting catching his eye through the window each time he returns to find you cutely tucked into yourself sound asleep on the plush couch. He’d chuckle quietly and scoop you into his arms carrying you bridal style down the dark hallways to the bedroom.

You often complained about the coldness of his marble flooring even in socks. He’s made sure to have his staff keep you slippers in your most visited rooms ever since.

You thought his shower was huge before? He had it expanded and added multiple shower heads. When you asked why, he responded with “Time is of the essence, now we can save it by showering together sweetie.”

He loves to accommodate you, adding a vanity to his bedroom, his and hers closet, shared armory access personalized just to your liking… The list goes on.

He’s discreetly possessive with his touches but it’s usually masked by his powerful demeanor. For instance, when the two of you are out he’s often guiding you on his arm or with his large hand splayed on the small of your back. At meals and meetings his hand finds its way to rest on your thigh.

He will not stand for any sign of disrespect towards you, those who haven’t learned that are met with something violently unpleasant. (Most times completely unbeknownst to you— Sylus makes sure you’re occupied)

You yap and he listens. Earnestly. And I mean undivided and devoted attention. He is so very fond of the way you light up like a child when speaking about your life.

His attention to detail is remarkable and he shows that in your everyday life. Whether it’s picking up on your favorite scent or noting what things make you relax more than others, he provides you with them as much as possible.

That travel magazine you’d been reading hadn’t gone unnoticed and to your surprise, he’d arranged for the two of you to escape reality and venture out for a vacation.

This man can compliment, and he can compliment goooood. He has no issue expressing his gratitude and respect for you through his words and oh boy is he good with his words.

Seeing you scared or fearful wounded him enough the first few times that it now melts him into a puddle at the first sign of worry from you.

this is his *please don’t be worried/upset* look

He doesn’t mind one bit helping you bathe and dress after a long day of work. He even brushes your hair.

Your words mean everything to him, he wants to hear it. (He praises you for it in return 🤭)

For all the excursions you often clung to him like a backpack atop his bike— he decided a spare motorcycle helmet just wouldn’t do for you anymore and had one made to match his.

His date at any and every auction, he revels in getting to flaunt you around all dolled up and on his arm. Some even say his demeanor changed since you began attending these events with him..

read zayne’s version here

requests open ❤︎

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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Read his ancedote where he goes and makes a guy a double agent out of pure fear- threatening for info about not only himself but MC too.

Also we are over looking- yes, he’s annoying BUT when he’s being annoying and whiny MC gives him her full attention. MC loves it. We can joke ugh he’s so over the top but MC fucking loves it. She loves being lathered with attention and also taking care of someone. Literally calls him up all the time to check on her maniac pixie (mermaid) artist boyfriend bc she’s terrified he can’t fend for himself. (The other LIs call to check on her- she has to call her boyfriend to make sure he’s not getting mugged in an alley because he got distracted by a seagull or shiny shell)

MC is constantly running and fighting these larger than life obstacles and I genuinely believe she gets a kick out of taking care of Rafayel. At this point she knows he doesn’t need her protection but it’s nice for someone to need her for something she likes to do. Right now the story is asking her to basically save the ENTIRE WORLD it’s on HER shoulders. So protecting her fishie husband? That’s something that is fulfilling

I love a “pathetic” man okay. (In quotes bc that’s how he’s showing himself to MC bc he likes HER attention everyone else can choke and die for all he cares) a man who is not afraid to show how he feels and loves- to demand love back- to demand her full attention !!!

The weight of a whole civilization has been on his shoulders for CENTURIES can you blame a man for wanting to be silly with his wife? For just wanting to be babied a bit? I mean I feel that way after having a slightly frustrating day at work dammit.

Yes he’s our sassy fishie boy BUT he is also so desperate for his beautiful mermaid brides attention he will lay himself out in a hospital bed and flop off couches. He will cross oceans and deserts for her. He will give up his dreams and make new ones- he will lie to gods to protect her, wait for years for her.

I love Rafayel- I love all the guys so desperately and seeing him constantly getting shit on is kinda really getting my goat yall !!

Rafayel Rant

My man literally doomed his people for us. If that isn't dedication I don't know what is. He also seems the only (Love interest) that wants mc to actively remember their previous lives, constantly reminding us that we've 'forgotten' something.

And I think it might just be Western bias/stereotypes around men, but I hate how the fandom as whole represents him as a whiny brat when he is so much deeper than that. And yeah he can be annoying sometimes but wouldn't you also be irritated and mopey if the person you love has forgotten about you multiple times after everything you've been through.

Yes he's sassy and yes he's needy and dramatic at times. But he misses you and doesn't know any other way to express it.

Not to mention he's a romantic at heart. If you listen to any of his secret time audios you would know that he really does care about you. Hell, he lied about needing a bodyguard just to get you to be around him more. Even in his recent card [Intertidal Zone] you can see that sweet/caring nature come out. He sings a Lemurian love song to lull you to sleep at your request.

Not to mention he has a dark side.

1. If you look back at his interactions with anyone other than MC. He's only ever (ha) nice to you. Because outside of you Rafayel's kind of an asshole. (Chapter 8 *cough*) Not to mention his underlying hatred for humans

2. He has stalked mc

3. He has murdered and lied to your face about it

4. He's definitely done some criminal work. Did you see how effortlessly he blended in, in chapter 8. Not to mention he has, in his own words, ‘connections' to the underbelly of Linkon

——> You don’t have to like him, but don’t give him unnecessary hate, pls 🙏

Please give our fishy boi some justice. #JusticeforRaf 😔

#love and deepspace #rafayel l&ds #lads rafayel

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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Thinking about Tamino!Rafayel and how much he and Enforcer!MC relied on each other. They are both fiercely independent and couldn’t care less if the world ended tomorrow. They both don’t have anything really to live for at the beginning.

But MC sees her chance in wrangling this Praedator and maybe finally getting some renown. Finally being able to make something happen for herself in this horrible city.

Rafayel is so intrigued by this woman who is haggling with him in the face of death. Here is this person talking to him, engaging him for the first time ever- he has never had human interaction as far as he can remember that was not directly antagonistic. So he saves her.

When she tells him to go make money to help out around here (she’s blushing too hard and can’t think so she just snaps at him) he does. It’s as simple as breathing. If doing the experiments and hunting down other Praedators is what keeps him in her presence fine. Hell that’s easy.

When she takes him to the opera, when he finds himself in the role of the main lead. Well it keeps him important to her. She looks at him with stars in her eyes but he doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know what to do with anything.

Enforcer!MC who thinks he must understand what she’s doing. That she’s devoted to him- that she wants him safe no matter what. She’s wrong in her gamble. He doesn’t know anything but cruelty and her. So when she becomes cruel well it just is what is bound to happen.

But he can’t stand leaving her. So he makes himself important- puts himself in a place that can protect her (even if he swears that’s not what he’s doing. But he knows he doesn’t care. He has no pride in Linkon, he hated the Praedators almost as fiercely as the humans)

So when he sees her. Hurt. He flashes back to a year ago when she needed him. Although she relied on his presence for so long he doesn’t know that.

So when he lets her go and she traps him again- the betrayal he feels stings. Here is this woman- the only person he’s ever viewed in even a mildly amiable way making him feel like an animal again.

But it’s over so quickly. The violence, the sting, the cruelty. And he’s free. There will be no trace of him and not a whisper of her

Tamino!Rafayel and Enforcer! MC are the definitions of the world could be burning and I have the answer but I’ll never risk you. Never.

It’s crazy how a different setting changes EVERYTHING

Rafayel will always be hopelessly selflessly devoted to MC and you can’t convince me otherwise

#love and deepspace #rafayel x you #rafayel love and deepspace

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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the world when you're with me

synopsis: you seek out sylus for comfort after realizing you were wrong about him.

tags: comfort, fluff, implied avoidant!reader learns to trust sylus, implied avoidant!reader clings to sylus, sylus takes care of reader from afar, sylus has mephisto and the twins follow reader but wbk pairing: sylus x reader, reader is mostly mc word count: 802

a/n: is this the peak of literature? no. did i need to write it after the day i had? yes. did i need to post it today? no, because i’m trying to stagger my posts more, but here we are. anyway 4k caleb pwp coming tomorrow

For the first few weeks after you’d infiltrated the N109 Zone, you’d avoided Sylus Qin like the plague.

After being scared out of your wits by the first version of him you'd met—the cold, unavailable criminal mastermind who’d forced you to shoot him within 5 minutes of knowing one other—you were unashamedly wary of working with him again.

But Sylus’s intel was unrivaled. More and more often, you found yourself visiting the N109 Zone to meet with him, eventually not even bothering to book a place to stay. There was always a guest room at the Onychinus base prepped for your arrival.

As you spent more time with Sylus, he’d noticeably changed his approach to interacting with you. Rather than forcing you to resonate with him, he’d explained to you how his Evol worked, letting you aim his hands at some training dummies to test it out yourself. Instead of unceremoniously shutting you out when he was tired, he’d drag his robe-and-slippers-clad self to sit beside you on the sofa, answering your cautious questions by practically giving away all his secrets.

His shift in attitude hadn't stopped there. Sylus had clearly been using that endearingly incorrigible crow to keep tabs on you, but for the strangest reasons.

Whenever you had a bad day at work, some building-wide maintenance emergency would magically appear, forcing your team to cease operations for the rest of the day. He’d text you a couple hours after your early dismissal, saying he was in the city and inviting you on an evening joyride to clear your head.

The day after you’d lugged a case of water up the stairs to your apartment, having to pause a couple times to catch your breath, you came home to see your fridge mysteriously stocked with groceries. The only traces left behind were the masked twin figures you spotted scurrying away from your window.

When a new phone showed up at your doorstep one day—you never even told him you’d shattered your screen, you thought—you’d decided that Sylus wasn’t as bad as you’d once assumed. Not anywhere near as bad, in fact. He was thoughtful, generous, and helped you without taking credit or forcing you to ask for it. You’d never had that before.

Which is why, somehow, you find yourself standing in the doorway of his armory, studying him silently as he polishes an antique-looking gun.

When he notices you, Sylus looks up, raising a delicately arched eyebrow. “Something wrong, kitten?” he drawls, subtly checking your body for injuries.

Mind numb from your absolutely dreadful day, you stay silent while Sylus looks at you expectantly, his hands forgetting their earlier task.

But for the next minute, you remain hovering in the doorway. You expect him to get annoyed—you almost want him to, so you have an excuse to go back to relying only on yourself—but all you see on Sylus’s face is patience.

When you start shuffling toward him, that patience mixes with a glimmer of anticipation that he visibly tries to suppress. You need him to be calm right now—an anchor, he thinks. If he loses his composure, if he startles you with his excitement at your approach, you might bolt at any moment.

Sometime during his inner struggle, you reach him. Meekly, you stand before his chair, briefly opening your mouth before closing it.

“What is it, sweetie?” he asks softly. “Tell me, and we can figure it out together. I’ll personally track down whoever seems to have stolen your words from you.”

At his offer, you break, collapsing into his lap. His large, warm hands immediately encircle your waist, and you bury your face into his neck, inhaling his leather and spice cologne.

“Aw,” he coos in his baritone voice, rocking you slowly in his embrace. When he lifts your head an inch, you resist, letting out a soft whine. Gently, he guides your head back to his chest, his quickening heartbeat thumping in your ears and grounding you in the the moment.

After several moments of silence, your deep, shuddering breaths the only interruptions, Sylus murmurs into your ear. “When I noticed you never ask for help, I was worried the world may not be treating as well as it should. You must be very tired, hmm?” he asks, rubbing his chin against your hair.

Tightening your arms around him, you sit there for a while, his steady breaths seeming to mend a decades-long rift in your heart.

The next time Sylus tries to lift your head, you let him. He pulls your face from his neck so he can look into your eyes, hoping his gaze conveys his sincerity, before pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“You don’t need the world when you’re with me,” he promises. “I’ll treat you better than it ever could.”

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dontmakemechooseanli · 2 months ago

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Hearbreak Anniversary with Zayne

Summary: It was your anniversary with Zayne. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Zayne Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Also I don't think any of these men would ever be the type to actually willlingly forget it. Especially Zayne. So I had to adapt the request a bit. Content Warning: injuries, panic, insecurities, self worth issues, Zayne POV

Rafayel version |

Zayne’s apartment smelled like him—clean, crisp, and faintly of the eucalyptus-scented candles he kept on the shelves. You sat on the edge of his couch, smoothing the fabric of your dress down your thighs, nerves making your fingers tremble slightly. The dim light of the chandelier cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating the carefully planned surprise you had for him —flowers, his favorite treats, elegant scarves, and jackets you had spent weeks picking out. The final touch was the flexible weekend getaway tickets, somewhere warm and far from the sterility of hospital walls. A place where he could finally rest.

You had gone all out for tonight. The garden-themed restaurant was supposed to be the perfect setting—a quiet, intimate place where vines curled around twinkling fairy lights, and the soft scent of fresh blooms would fill the air. And you had dressed accordingly with something elegant, something that made you feel beautiful for him. The deep navy-blue dress you wore clung to your form just right, the intricate lace details at the sleeves soft against your skin. You had taken your time getting ready, styling your hair to perfection, slipping on a pair of delicate earrings he once admired absentmindedly. A spritz of white jasmine perfume, the one he once said reminded him of spring mornings. You wanted to look like someone worthy of being by his side. You wanted to be beautiful for him, for the man who had somehow, impossibly, fallen for you.

Because, truth be told, there were times you weren’t sure you were.

you still didn’t understand how this happened—how Zayne, the prodigy, the man who could save lives with his hands and mind, had chosen you. He was brilliant, disciplined, and deeply compassionate. And you? You were just… you. Ordinary in comparison. He never made you feel small, never belittled you, but standing beside him you felt you were just lucky to be there. His world was one of brilliance, filled with extraordinary people—Lina, the fearless Deepspace Hunter; his late friend Caleb, a DAA pilot whose loss still lingered in hushed conversations; his esteemed mentors and fellow doctors who spoke in a language you could only ever grasp at the edges. Compared to them, compared to him, you felt so small.

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, was supposed to be about the two of you.

You had fallen for him in the quietest of ways—through the gentle cadence of his voice, through the moments he noticed things others didn’t. How he’d pull a chair out for you before you could do it yourself, how he’d check the temperature of your tea so you wouldn’t burn your tongue, how he’d listen, really listen, to your ramblings even after a 48-hour shift. He had nestled himself into your heart without you even realizing it.

And tonight, he had insisted he wanted to be with you, even with the chaos of the hospital weighing on his shoulders.

The call came two hours before your reservation. You already knew what he was going to say the moment you saw his name flash on your screen.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Zayne’s voice was warm, familiar, but there was an edge of exhaustion to it. “I’m so sorry. I can’t make it tonight.”

Your heart sank, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to remain even. “It’s okay, Zayne. I know you’re busy.”

“It's been a long shift, and the surgeries…”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cancel the reservation. Take some breaks and rest, okay? You sound tired…”

“I am fine, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “I swear.”

"It’s fine, Zayne." you whispered, even if it wasn’t. “We’ll just celebrate it another day. No big deal.” Even though it felt like one at the moment.

Still, you weren’t upset. Not really. You understood. You always understood.

You hung up and exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your lap. It wasn’t his fault. He was working back-to-back shifts, saving lives, doing what he was meant to do. And yet, you couldn’t quite keep the disappointment from settling in your chest.

You exhaled slowly, stripping away the dress you had so eagerly put on just hours ago. You slip into into one of Zayne’s oversized sweaters instead, the one that still smelled like him, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You wear leggings underneath and slip on your shoes. You took your time packing the gifts back into the car, moving slowly, as if dragging out the moment would make it hurt less. Maybe when he was finally done, you could pick him up from the hospital. At least you’d get to see him and surprise him. This was what occupied your time for the next three to four hours.

Once everything was back in the car, you plopped yourself on his plush but ergonomic couch. You scrolled through your phone while waiting, mindlessly tapping through social media, until one post stopped you cold.

Lina’s story.

A picture of her sitting across from Zayne in a small restaurant outside Akso hospital, the caption lighthearted:

When you have to drag out your doctor because he won’t follow his own advice about resting. (-_-)

Zayne looked amused in the photo, tired but still composed, his lips slightly curved in a small, rare smile. He looked… content. His gaze focused on her as if she had just said something ridiculous.

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen.

It was stupid. It was so stupid to feel like this. Lina was his childhood best friend. She had never given you a reason to be insecure, and yet, the sting of it hit you like a slow, creeping ache. He had time to go out for a meal with her. He had time to smile like that, even after canceling on you. You knew you were being irrational, that he had only stepped out for a quick bite in his busy shift, yet you felt betrayed.

Tears pricked at your eyes before you could stop them. You wiped them away quickly, but they kept falling, silent at first, then turning into quiet, shuddering sobs. You felt pathetic. Childish. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. You knew he wasn’t. But it hurt anyway. Because you would have taken anything—just a few moments, even just a simple meal at that tiny restaurant, if it meant spending time with him today.

It hurt in a way that made your chest feel tight, made the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. The sting of it crept under your skin like a wound you hadn’t realized was open, raw and aching. The disappointment bled into something uglier, something heavier. Why, after everything, did it feel like you were always on the sidelines of his life? No, Zayne never made you feel that way. It was your own spiraling thoughts.

A loud sob choked its way out, your hands gripping the fabric of his sweater as if that would somehow ground you. You wanted to hate yourself for crying over something so petty. He was saving lives. He was exhausted. He didn’t mean to hurt you.

But it hurt.

You needed to go home. You needed to collect yourself before the ugly thoughts swallowed you whole. You stood up, tears streaming down your face, as the weight of it all seemed too much to bear. You didn’t want to sit here anymore. You didn’t want to wait. You needed to go home, to clear your head, to get away from the overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

You sniffled, grabbing your keys and heading out. The highway would be the fastest route home—less traffic, a straight shot. You rerouted, pressing your foot on the accelerator, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest. You wiped at your tears quickly, trying to focus on the road.

The road stretched out before you, a wide expanse of concrete and asphalt that felt like it would swallow you whole. The tears wouldn’t stop, and you wiped them away, trying to steady your hands on the wheel, trying to focus on the road ahead. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you understood, that you were rational about his work. The reality of it, the empty seat next to you, the disappointment of seeing Zayne happy in a photo with someone else, it all felt too much.

And then—

Headlights. Too close. Too fast.

A car jumped the signal, trying to merge into the highway.

You slammed the breaks, the scream of tires against pavement rang in your ears.

The impact was instant. A violent, sickening jolt that sent your body forward, the seatbelt snapping against your chest, the airbag exploding in front of you. The windshield cracked, splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. Your vision blurred, the world spinning.

Pain.

Your chest burned, lungs straining to catch a breath. Your limbs felt heavy. You reached for the seatbelt, your fingers fumbling, but it was jammed.

Fuck.

Your head lulled forward, resting against the deflated airbag. Your head was heavy, your thoughts slipping away like sand through your fingers. The distant wail of sirens reached your ears, but they felt so far away.

Your vision swam, the edges darkening.

I hope the other person is alright.

The thought barely had time to settle before everything faded into black.

ZAYNE'S POV

The fluorescent lights of the hospital buzzed faintly, casting an artificial glow over the chaos of the emergency room. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the undercurrent of blood—familiar, almost routine, yet tonight it gnawed at Zayne's nerves in a way he couldn't quite shake. He hadn’t left since he stepped through those doors, yet somehow, the guilt weighing on him had nothing to do with the lives he saved today. It was you.

He was tired. God, was he tired. His body screamed for rest, his temples throbbed from the strain of back-to-back shifts, but the hospital was understaffed, and there was no room for exhaustion when lives were at stake. As a cardiologist, his expertise lay in the intricate mechanics of the human heart, but duty demanded flexibility—especially in the ER. Cardiologists weren’t meant to be dealing with blunt force trauma and lacerations, but tonight, none of that mattered. They needed doctors. He was a doctor. So, he worked.

Even through the fatigue, his mind kept drifting back to you. He could still hear your voice from the call earlier, soft and understanding despite the disappointment laced beneath it. You didn’t deserve this. You had every right to be upset, to be frustrated that he had broken his promise, yet you didn’t even complain. That hurt more than if you had yelled at him

God, he loved you. And he hated himself for testing that patience again and again.

His hand tightened around the pen he was holding. He had plans—plans to make it up to you. The necklace in his office drawer, nestled in a velvet box, had been meant for tonight. Something small, perhaps, compared to everything you did, but a token of his devotion nonetheless. He could still salvage this. Maybe he could call you later, ask if you were still awake—

His device beeped, pulling him back to the present.

MVA on the highway. ETA: 5 minutes.

Multi-vehicle accident. Paramedics on site, victims en route.

Zayne exhaled sharply, shifting into work mode. He stepped into the ER just as the first stretcher was wheeled in. The radio chatter from their comms filled the space.

"Female, mid-to-late twenties, restrained driver, T-bone collision from a vehicle that ran a red light. Airbag deployment, but impact trauma to the chest from seatbelt. BP slightly low, likely from pain response. Tachycardic at 112. GCS is 14. Possible wrist fracture, mild concussion. No signs of internal bleeding from the ultrasound, but needs further imaging to rule out any complications."

He nodded briskly, slipping into the detached, clinical efficiency that had been drilled into him for years. It was only as he stepped forward, pulling the curtain aside, that his breath caught in his throat.

His world stopped.

There, on the hospital bed, was you.

Lying on the hospital bed, your hair disheveled, your skin pale against the stark white sheets. His breath lodged in his throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint focus on the rise and fall of your chest. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. There was dried blood at your temple, your lower lip swollen where you must have bitten down upon impact. The sight of the IV line in your arm, the faint bruises forming along your collarbone—he couldn’t breathe.

No. No. No. No. No.

"Dr. Zayne…" Yvonne’s voice cut in, sharp and urgent. A warning. He was frozen. This wasn't just a patient. This was you.

He blinked, his hands suddenly trembling as he reached for his gloves. Breathe. He had to focus. Had to push past the sheer, gut-wrenching fear threatening to paralyze him.

This is her. She was waiting for me. She—

"Dr. Zayne!!" Yvonne pressed, handing him the updated chart. "She needs you."

That snapped him out of it.

The moment his hands touched you, they were steady again. His voice was even as he examined you, the motions automatic, controlled. He checked your pupils, gently palpated your ribs to assess for fractures. He was a doctor. He was your doctor right now. He had to move. Focusing, he reached for his stethoscope, pressing it against your chest to listen for abnormalities. The rhythm of your heart was steady, but your breathing was just slightly labored—likely from the seatbelt trauma.

"You’re going to be fine." he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

You were stable.

"Her left shoulder—check for AC joint separation," he murmured, voice steadier than he felt. "Get a CT to rule out any internal injuries. And…" He swallowed. “Get me images from the crash site.” He needed to see how bad the collison was. He had to.

The hours blurred. He monitored your scans, adjusted your IV, checked your vitals more times than necessary. Each time his eyes drifted to you; his chest ached. He had seen the accident reports—your car, your windshield shattered, the crumpled hood. And the contents scattered across the scene…

You had planned everything.

For him.

And he wasn’t there.

Zayne clenched his jaw. Flowers were scattered, crushed against the upholstery. The pastries you must have picked out for him were ruined; their boxes torn open from the force of the crash. And gifts. There were so many gifts. He hadn’t even known you had planned all this.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

You had so much waiting for him. And where had he been? At a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, eating with Lina because she forced him to take a break. He had been smiling in that photo while you were—

God.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling shakily as he sat by your bedside. He should have been with you. If he had just—

The monitor beeped steadily, a quiet reminder that you were alive.

Now, he sat beside you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, fingers curled into his palms to keep them from shaking.

"Wake up, sweetheart." he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Please, just wake up."

And for once, Zayne—brilliant, composed, always in control—felt utterly powerless.

The beep of the heart monitor was steady, rhythmic, but Zayne found himself gripping the edge of his chair every time you stirred, waiting for that moment when your eyes would finally open. His body was stiff from staying in the same position for hours, but he didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to miss it.

Then, a small shift in your breathing. A twitch of your fingers.

Zayne leaned forward just as your lashes fluttered, your eyes cracking open, only to squeeze shut again at the harsh fluorescent lights. You groaned softly, shifting against the sheets. Instinctively, you tried to sit up.

"Hey—stay put," Zayne said immediately, pressing a hand against your shoulder to keep you down. His touch was gentle but firm, his fingers warm even against the hospital gown. "Don’t move too much yet."

Your body resisted for a moment, muscles tensing as if you wanted to argue, but the disorientation dulled your fight. Your gaze finally settled on him, hazy with the remnants of sleep and confusion.

Then you frowned.

“…You look tired,” you murmured, your voice soft, still groggy. “How long have you been here?”

Zayne’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt. Even now, even when you were the one lying in a hospital bed, barely recovered from an accident, your first thoughts were about him.

His throat felt tight, but he exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak. “You should look at yourself first, sweetheart.”

Your gaze flickered down, taking in the IV in your arm, the bruises along your wrist, the faint soreness that no doubt ached across your body. Zayne exhaled sharply and reached out, his fingertips tracing the side of your face before cupping your cheek fully. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, as if grounding himself with the warmth of you. His eyes were moist, though no tears fell.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, raw in a way that stripped away every layer of his usual composure.

You parted your lips, breath hitching as if you were about to reassure him—to do what you always did, to let him off the hook, to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

But he didn’t let you.

“No,” he cut in firmly, shaking his head. “Not this time. This is the one time you shouldn’t be so understanding.” His jaw clenched, something bitter twisting in his expression. “I should have been there. We should have been celebrating our relationship. End of discussion.”

Silence settled between you.

After a beat, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. “Why didn’t you demand my time?” His voice was quieter now, tinged with regret. “You had every right to.”

You hesitated, glancing away. “…I didn’t want to bother you.” Your fingers twisted into the hospital blanket, grip tightening slightly. “You’re important, Zayne. You save lives. I didn’t want to pull you away from that.”

Something in him snapped.

He let out a sharp breath, then reached for your hand, gently prying your fingers from the blanket. His grip was warm, grounding.

“Shh… And you think you’re not?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Don’t ever say that again.” His gaze bore into yours, unwavering. “You are important to me.”

"You’re important to me," he repeated, voice steady but almost desperate. "Just like my work makes demands of me, you are more than entitled to make demands of me, too."

Your eyes searched his, uncertainty flickering beneath the lingering haze of exhaustion. But Zayne’s gaze didn’t waver.

"I know I should have been there," he said again, quieter this time. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before brushing a thumb over the edge of your jaw, tilting your face slightly. “When I saw you on this bed when I entered the ER… pale, unconscious… I haven’t felt fear like that before," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not in all my years of doing this. Not like that."

You didn’t say anything, but your hand came up slowly, resting over his.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

This—this was what he almost lost.

His jaw clenched, then loosened as he exhaled. “I don’t want to ever feel it again.”

Another pause.

Zayne inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were still here. That you were warm. That he hadn’t lost you.

“I know I say I’m sorry a lot… and it probably has lost meaning to you.” he murmured; his voice rough with emotion. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if struggling to put his feelings into something more tangible. “I should have been there. And I will be. Every step of the way until you’re fully recovered and after....”

His eyes flickered downward, scanning you like the doctor he was, but this was different. This wasn’t just clinical analysis—this was personal. "You got lucky," he admitted, exhaling through his nose. "Blunt force trauma to the ribs, a mild concussion, and a broken wrist. Some lacerations on your arm and leg, but nothing deep enough to require surgical intervention. The worst was the head trauma, but the scans came back clear. No bleeding, no swelling. That’s the only reason I’m not having a complete breakdown right now…" His fingers ghosted over your arm, careful not to apply pressure. "Nothing life-threatening or with lasting consequences. But still… you shouldn’t have had to go through that alone." His jaw tensed. "Not when you have me."

You gave him a small, tired smile at that, and something inside him twisted.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to reach into his pocket, his fingers closing around the small velvet box. He’d gone to his office to clock off for the day to be beside you when he picked it up from his drawer. The very box he wanted to give you today. The one that was supposed to be given in a far more joyful setting. This was supposed to be today. A night spent celebrating the two of you—not this. Not hospital beds and IV drips and the hollow fear that had nearly swallowed him whole.

But none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that you were here. And this… this was still yours.

His throat felt thick as he flipped it open, revealing the necklace inside—a delicate silver chain holding a white jasmine pendant, smooth and polished, its petals carved with intricate detail. And behind it, barely visible, were his initials.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he took it out.

"I was supposed to give this to you today," he admitted, voice lower now, almost guilty. "Before all of this. Before I let my own priorities get in the way of what really mattered." He glanced up at you, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable. "I don’t want you to ever think that you come second. Because you don’t. You never have."

Gently, he reached around your neck, his touch featherlight as he fastened the clasp. The cool metal of the pendant settled just above your collarbone, resting against your skin. His fingertips lingered there, just briefly.

Then he let out a slow breath, tilting your chin up just slightly with his knuckles. His mind still reeled with everything that had happened, with everything he should have done differently.

"I love you," he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no wry smirk to mask his emotions, no half-hearted deflection. Just honesty, raw and unguarded. "Even when I do a crappy job at showing it." He didn’t need you to say it back—he just needed you to know.

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, his lips quirked, just slightly, into something softer. "And since I’m apparently on mandatory bedside duty, I hope you’re ready to be completely spoiled. I’m talking fresh coffee, extra pillows, a ridiculous number of medical advices—"

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, and Zayne felt something in his chest loosen at the sound. Then, slowly, you lifted a hand, brushing your fingertips over the pendant before reaching up to cup his cheek.

Zayne leaned into your touch instinctively, exhaling softly. He smiled, finally, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "We’ll be just fine. I've got you sweetheart... I'll always be here for you."

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version |

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

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dontmakemechooseanli · 3 months ago

Text

For a moment, I thought it was you.

Based on the text messages Zayne sends when you haven't opened the app in a long time. ❅ tags: angst, hurt/comfort ❅ word count: 2.4k ❅ synopsis: You go missing on the job. Zayne struggles with the thought that you might never come back. ❅ a/n: my first fic post!!!! I'm currently writing a part two, so let me know if you like this :)

"I saw a hunter wearing their uniform at the airport during my last trip. For a moment, I thought it was you."

His phone chimes when his message delivers. It takes him a while to look away, and he feels silly for it. It's been this long, and yet he has failed miserably to snuff out the habit of hoping you'll reply. He shoves his phone into his pocket, the weight of it tugging his jacket when it hits the bottom of his deep, wrapper filled pockets. Candy wrappers he pulled from your hands as you raved about the flavor, so he could throw them away for you later.

You had been missing for just over three weeks when he put that jacket on again, and something totally irrational in the back of his head begged him to leave them in there. He shook his head. When did garbage become precious? You'll be back. His pockets will fill with the crinkled paper when you amble by each other's sides once again, soon.

He decides to leave them in there anyway. He picks lint off the shoulder, lingering on the garment before pushing it back into his closet, near the back. He tries not to think much of that choice, and does his best to ignore the things his mind is trying to suggest.

He hears people talking on the street later that day, parroting rumors about a failed mission and 11 or 12 casualties, hunters. A team of them, sent out to do who knows what. You didn't tell him much about it before you left. You were legally barred from sharing details with civilians. It was standard safety protocol. He understood at the time, but now he wishes you could have given him something. Anything to figure out where you had gone, so he could go and get you himself.

A shrill meow sounds out near his feet, and yanks him out of his thoughts. He had stopped by a table of jewelry set up outside of a shop you used to stare at every time you passed by with him on your walks through town, but had lent all his focus to absorbing information from conversations that floated by. Scraping the world around him for any indication of you.

He stares at the cat, and recognizes her from the countless times you had reached down to pet her. You’d even started to carry loose treats in your pockets just for her.

He turns a ring from the table in his fingers, tracing over the small, sparkling embedded stones before setting it down. When you get back, he’ll remind you to check your clothes for cat treats before you wash them.

At work, none of his pens seem to stay put in his pocket. They're too busy whirling around his fingers, occupying his hands even when he isn't writing anything. He can't explain the fidgeting to himself or to his colleagues questioning gazes. He was a stable surgeon. A steady person. He started actively reminding himself of that, repeating it like a wish, as if it had stopped being true at some point.

🜺

A month and a half has passed. He sits tensely at his dining table, chin cradled in the space between his thumb and forefinger. The house is quiet like it always is when you aren’t there, but it bothers him more now. It unsettles him to think it might be like this forever, and he pleads with himself for the hundredth time not to go there in his head.

He started watching the news more often, almost religiously. The second he gets home and his keys rattle onto the counter, the tv is on. If the association releases any kind of statement, he doesn't want to miss it.

A fatigued sigh blows from his nose after about an hour of menial news reports, and he's just about to get up to cook something when the newscaster's voice cuts out. 'Breaking news' flashes across the screen.

"We can't make any definitive statements, but we believe we were able to recover data of the last signals their watches sent out before everything went dark. Again, the location of this mission was incredibly remote and difficult to navigate, so this doesn't guarantee we will find them. That is all in terms of developments. It has taken a long time to regain access to our systems and grab those signals."

His eyes are wide, and all he can think about is storming your building and demanding information. He knows it doesn't work like that. He still considers it. He had hoped when an update finally came, he'd be sprinting through the door to his car to pick you up. The ghost of that hope lingers in his legs, and he doesn't know what to do with the residual energy. He feels utterly helpless.

🜺

Your body wakes before you, searing pain striking through your limbs. Your eyelids feel glued together as you struggle to open them, but once you do, all you see is white. Fear kickstarts the rest of your functions, and you start to regain sensation. Quick and panicked breaths scratch their way out of your throat as your eyes dart around. You become aware that you are encrusted in icy crystals, sunken about two feet into some snowy expanse. Moving proves difficult, but you manage. Snow slides off your form and you stumble and trudge forward with hardly any mental recognition that you are actually moving. Things are fuzzy. You're not sure you're even really alive.

You're not all there, if there at all, but you feel a tinge of what you loosely recognize as rage floating in you somewhere in response to the snow that never seems to end. That anger blooms in your chest as you plow through what seems like miles of pure white, and your body feels like it's stinging all over. It's all you have.

This all just feels like an infinite dream. Maybe this was death. A cruel one, and maybe it came with a sentence. A punishment. Doomed to push through miles of numbing, freezing cold, thinking it'll end eventually, but it never does. All with half a mind, which is enough to feel the pain in your heart, but not enough to remember how to cry or scream or shout or plead. Condemned to carry a heavy sorrow that you don't even know how to put down.

Please let it end soon. You can't put the words together in your mind, but you feel them. You feel them for a while, until you don't anymore. You are none the wiser as your body collapses in a more shallow clearing.

🜺

Zayne doesn't even know how to describe what he just saw. Vocabulary wasn't an issue. He was well versed in nearly every medical term he encountered in the stacks upon stacks of textbooks and learning materials he revised in undergrad and beyond.

It was you, but it wasn't. Your skin was nearly a shade of grey he couldn't even fathom on a living human being. That thought sunk something in him as soon as it passed through his mind. He stood there paralyzed as you were rushed past him, the team of doctors wheeling you shouting up a storm of vitals and medications. All of which, for the first time in Zayne's life, were incomprehensible. He couldn't make out a single thing they were saying, and not because it was unclear. He couldn't think at all. He didn't realize he wasn't breathing until Yvonne stood up from the reception desk to lightly lay her hand on his shoulder. A turbulent breath suddenly thrusted out of him like water through a broken dam, and he ignored Yvonne's voice calling out to him as his body carried him down the hall as fast as it possibly could.

He caught up, and grimaced at the sight of you. He catches bits and pieces of what the doctors are saying as you are rushed into a room and CPR protocols begin. At some point, a catheter is placed and they begin pumping you with warmed intravenous fluids. The door swings closed as a doctor rushes past, and the only thing that stops him from crashing through that door is Yvonne finding him again. He only looks at her for half a second before he's staring through the tiny window in the door. He wants to say something, but stands there in silence.

"She has a pulse." Yvonne addresses the worry she can see written all over him. She stares into the window with him, and her next words feel strange when they eventually come out. "They're doing everything they can."

She's offered this line to countless anxious families, but never did she think a time would come where she'd be saying it to him. Greyson comes along at some point, having heard of the situation, and lightly gestures for Zayne to sit down.

"She's gonna come around, Dr. Zayne. She’s in good hands. You know you're not in a state to do anything right now, anyways, or you wouldn't still be standing out here instead of in there. Come on." He says gently. "She'll come around."

Two hours pass, and he's beating himself up the whole time. He should be in there, saving you. He's studied all his life to do just that, and when the time came, he couldn't. Fear got in the way. He loved you so much it paralyzed him. When he looked at you today, grief crashed into him like he had lost you right there in that hall. He felt like a giant hole had been blown in his chest. He starts to sink in that powerless feeling. You’re here, and yet he still feels like he did when the news came on that night in his home.

Your hypothermia was severe enough that invasive procedures were required. Tubes were put in through your esophagus, which connect to an external heat exchange unit. Zayne clicks through your intake form, and through several tabs on the procedure they were currently putting you through. As he sifts through the information, there's a growing tightness in his chest and throat. It pulls tighter, and he tries to ignore the way his eyes are burning. Grief continues to brew inside him, venting out of his chest with periodical sighs as he scrolls, brows knitted. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if you don’t make it.

A knock sounds at the door of his office. It’s Greyson. He offers a tight lipped smile.

“She’s stable. The docs are done and her room is empty.” He hardly has time to finish his sentence before Zayne is up and moving. He hurriedly marches out into the hall and straight for you. All the energy built up over the last 2 months propelled him forward, but dissipated as soon as he got to your door. He’s not prepared when he does see you.

Your skin isn’t quite as ashen anymore. Color is returning to you, but you are clearly emaciated. His mind races with all the possibilities of the kind of trouble you might have been in, and it shakes him deeply. He stands at the foot of your bed for a while, idling. Almost in complete disbelief that he is seeing you again, and not in a body bag with a certificate of death being handed to him.

He pulls a chair up to your bedside. You’re covered in a few layers of thick blankets. He hesitates to touch you, but he reaches under the warm layers, feeling for your hand anyway. Out of pure need. He has to know it’s really you.

He grazes something cold. His fingers find your hand, wrapping around it and squeezing lightly to warm you up.

He studies your sunken features as his heart starts to settle in his chest for the first time in months. The steady beeping from the monitor is music to his ears, lulling him into comfort as he settles into the chair, still holding onto you. You don't look well, but you're alive. That's all he needs. He falls asleep as he sits there for a few hours, the sky rolling into darkness outside.

🜺

Your eyelids open with much less difficulty this time. Met with the sterile white of the hospital room, you panic briefly before realizing where you were. Your mind is still foggy as you blink lazily, comforted by the sheer warmth that envelops you.

A soft noise comes from somewhere to your right, and the muscles in your neck ache as you turn your head to follow it.

Zayne. Slumped in his chair, head leaning toward one shoulder as soft breaths blow locks of hair from his face. Sunlight from the window falls over him, blanketing his features in warmth, and he’s the purest picture of paradise you’ve seen in a long time. The sight of him seems to activate some kind of primal instinct towards warmth, and adrenaline starts to pump into your blood. You long to hold him and ensure that this isn’t a dream, but you feel overcome with weakness, and you can hardly manage squeezing his thumb.

He doesn't wake. You huff, body going slack after a wholehearted, but futile attempt to move. You stare at the ceiling and breathe deeply, begging for only just enough strength. You turn your head to him again, and determination washes over you. You pull your hand free from his grasp, mustering up all the strength you have plus what you don't, and feebly tumbling out of bed onto his chair and him.

He startles and instinctually tries to catch you, his sleepy, bleary eyes becoming focused on you and expanding once he realizes it’s you, and your skin beneath his fingers. His expression breaks into so many things at once: sorrow, pain, relief and others you aren't even allowed to finish distinguishing before he pulls you into a suffocatingly tight embrace. The sight of the whirling storm in his eyes, maybe even just his eyes alone, were enough to choke you up. You let out an incredulous laugh as he squeezes you, and tears collect in your eyes. It’s the warmest you’ve felt in months.

You wrap your arms around his head, settling your cheek in his soft hair when you start to feel him shudder. Guilt crashes into him, for not being able to do more. He should have stormed into the Hunter's Association, he should have gone out and looked for you night and day, across states and countries. He should have taken care of you when you got wheeled in. He should have, he should have.

Excruciating recollections of what happened to you on that mission start to creep into your mind as his warmth begins to thaw you from the inside, so you squeeze your eyes shut, and hold him tighter.

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