fictionally-driven - Tumblr blog

[fictionally-driven]

>:)

Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh. You found me!!! D: /J

[fictionally-driven]

Helloo, I hope you're faring well! 'Tis I, the Dawn and Ezekiel anon from your Jiyan blog hehe, tysm for following me btw :3

I'm just here to say thank you for bringing me back to roleplaying and writing cause it kinda turned into a lost passion after a pretty bad burnout, but seeing the way you write ignited that spark again and omfg it's been fun roleplaying with ocs with my friends again!! 😭💕 I hope it continues even though I have school again haha, senior high is stressful af

And I do hope you'll use your hiatus as a way to take some time for yourself!! We all need to rest once in a while, so please enjoy yourself and I wish you all the best :D

In the meantime, maybe you'll see me lurking around wuwa tumblr and posting information about my ocs. See you! 🌸

This was so nice to read!!! And good luck with the school year!!!! I hope you have a smooth and successful year Aith no drama and very little stress.

[fictionally-driven]

>:)

Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh. You found me!!! D: /J

[fictionally-driven]

Brúarfoss, Iceland

[fictionally-driven]

Hiii!! I saw ur posts on ur rp blogs, I wish you all the best! It’s good to immerse yourself in nature, too much of screen time isn’t good for anyone overall and I’m glad you made the decision to reduce your screen time. I had fun rping with you, thank you once again for being one of the pushes for me to write again :)

~ Kaito anon 🌊

Hiiii

Thank you for reaching out!! I hope to see more of your stuff up here because you do write really well!!

I also realised that with college/internship, gaming, binging on shows, tumblr, social media and such, I rarely did anything outside of being glued to a device because at all points, I was on my laptop. My time away provided a good (healthy) break from that and therefore I wanted to limit using screens once I got home.

[fictionally-driven]

HIIIIII issa me, xuejun anon :>

from someone who graduated from college a week ago i say you got this!! reducing screen time to focus on priorities is great for the brain so i totally understand going into a hiatus from rp

i also gotta say your jiyan rp blog made me go back into rping years after retiring from it so thank you so much 😭 ive been rping my ocs again and its been super fun

now i must consume your writing like kirby

Bahahhaha.... Awww this genuinely made me feel good in a warm hot chocolate type of way.

Congratulations on graduating!!! I hope you're free from academic burn out and have something to look forward to!!

[fictionally-driven]

Casette pls

Dusty alleys twisted like snake paths between crumbling buildings, their walls tagged with graffiti as the only form of identity in this forgotten place. At just seven years old, Calcharo knew this world intimately, its dangers etched into his wary gaze.

His small frame, clad in tattered clothes, betrayed his hunger and weariness. He clutched a handful of shell credits tightly in his fist, his only means to secure a meager meal for the day.

As he rounded a corner, three men boys emerged from the darkness, their eyes gleaming with a mixture of hunger and menace. They were street-hardened, their faces marked with scars of past battles in this unforgiving place.

"Hey, kid, whatcha got there?" sneered the tallest one, his voice a grating echo in the narrow alley.

Calcharo froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew these streets were ruthless, survival often hinging on a knife's edge. With a defiant glint in his eyes, he tightened his grip on the credits and took a step back. "None of your business," he muttered, trying to sound braver than he felt.

The men exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing between them. In an instant, they lunged forward, aiming to overwhelm the smaller boy. Calcharo fought back with a raw ferocity born of desperation. He swung wildly, landing a few desperate blows, but the odds were stacked against him.

A sharp pain exploded in his side as a boot connected with his ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He staggered, gasping for breath, but they closed in mercilessly. One of them wrestled the credits from his hand, while another pinned him roughly against the cold, graffiti-covered wall.

"You think you can take us on, runt?" the leader hissed, pressing a knife blade dangerously close to Calcharo's throat. "This is our turf. Learn your place."

Calcharo's eyes burned with a mixture of fear and defiance. He refused to cry out, refused to give them the satisfaction of his fear. But deep inside, a primal scream of rage and helplessness threatened to escape. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. Just as quickly as they had attacked, the men dispersed, leaving Calcharo crumpled on the ground, clutching his bruised ribs. His breath came in ragged gasps, the sting of defeat mixing with the bitter taste of his own blood.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright, ignoring the ache in his body. His eyes hardened, a resolve settling deep within him. In this lawless zone, survival meant more than just evading physical danger; it meant navigating the treacherous currents of human cruelty and despair.

[fictionally-driven]

Relentless Nightmares

Jiyan x GN!Lieutenant!Reader

Theme: Hurt/comfort

Word count: 1163

Summary: You’re a lieutenant who works with General Jiyan. At some point, you begin having nightmares, causing you to take drastic measures to avoid sleep. Eventually, your teammates and your general start to notice and the general follows you in one of your nightly strolls to talk to you about it.

Tags: @n0tamused

[Note: This is my first time writing a fic in a really long time and I’m still learning. So Jiyan may be OOC in this. Feel free to offer feedback on my writing in the comments! Like/reblog if you enjoy this fic!]

It started with one.

You wake up with a start, in the silent lull of the night in your tent, Like a pair of clawed hands, the fragments of your dream gripped onto the recesses of your mind, refusing to let go.

The flash of a black silhouette, rapid footfalls, a blade twisting into your abdomen, your organs-

Deciding not to risk another nightmare, you equip yourself with your weapon before venturing out of the Midnight Rangers’ camp into Desorock Highland.

As your nightmares began, reports of Tacet Discord attacks also increased, leading to increasing patrols and skirmishes. The rare nightly excursions also grew increasingly frequent as more nightmares appeared, each time with a different theme. Any mentions of concern would be shrugged off by you, using the increased patrols at night as a means of avoiding sleep in desperation.

“[Name]? What are you doing out here? You don’t have night shift duty today.”

You whirl around, hand over your sword in an instant before recognising the person in front of you. A friend.

‘What is she doing out here now of all times? Just when I was about to leave too.’ You complained internally, annoyed at yourself for being easily startled.

“Oh me? I was just going to raid the fridge hahah! I got hungry-”

“You can talk to me, you know, to any of us.”

“What’d you mean? I’m doing good. I’m just really hungry.” You insisted, and as if to prove your point, you began striding towards the food storage unit.

With a heavy sigh, your teammate lets you go, knowing that pushing you to talk in this state is pointless.

Little did the two know, a certain teal-haired general caught wind of their conversation, hidden behind a wall. There were reports of a ranger sneaking out in the dead of night but no one knew who the culprit was…until now. The delayed reaction time in training, your sudden motivation to take on more night shifts, your tired gait and your lack of focus during debriefings with the other lieutenants all made sense now.

Regret festers in his heart for not talking to you sooner. Tacet Discord attacks had swelled in the past few weeks, causing him to be busy with work. Jiyan couldn’t help but empathise with your situation, having been plagued with nightmares from time to time that involved his departed friends. Determined to not let one of his lieutenants- no, close friends suffer alone, he returns to his tent, pieces of a plan already being fused together on how to approach you.

In one of your nightly strolls, Jiyan decides to follow you from afar. Being badly sleep deprived, you don’t take notice. And it’s due to this that you fail to draw your blade against a Sabyr Boar in time, before a signature teal spear stabs it, killing it instantly.

“Are you hurt?” a familiar voice that you recognise as Jiyan asks as you turn to its source.

“No…it’s thanks to your quick reaction that I’m not hurt..” you respond, still too caught off guard from what happened. You check yourself for any injuries to be sure as Jiyan watches you. Beckoning you to follow him, the two of you walk to a nearby tree, before sitting on the ground, the wind ruffling both of your hair slightly.

“It was that obvious huh?” You began, a tired and defeated look in your eyes. You knew there was no hiding from the general, who you’ve seen look right through the lies of some of your teammates when they were up to no good. Sooner or later, your nightly ventures and underperformance in your duties were going to be picked up by someone other than your teammate.

“Not really, no. But more importantly, [Name], you don’t have to deal with it alone.” Jiyan replies in a compassionate tone as he places his hand over yours, squeezing it. Normally, you’d shrug him off, but due to a combination of the attack from earlier, your exhaustion, the sincere and compassionate tone in Jiyan’s voice and that it’s late at night, something in you breaks.

A lump begins forming in your throat as your eyes sting with unshed tears. Wiping them off quickly proved futile as more came to the surface. You hurriedly look away from Jiyan, fearing what sort of reaction he’d have to your breakdown as you bit your lip to silence your cries. Jiyan's eyes only soften with compassion and empathy as he watches you fall apart, using his armoured arm to pull you close to him. The warmth radiating from him is akin to a heated blanket, providing you with quiet comfort in the cold night, in your moment of vulnerability.

“Coping with the nightmares must have been challenging. There are many of us, including your team, and me, who care for you and want to help you. It hurts us all to see you suffer and refuse help.” Jiyan expresses honestly. You struggle to compose yourself, thinking of what to say in response but also moved by his kind words.

“I..I’m sorry-” you sob. “For making you all worry.”

“Don’t apologise. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Jiyan reassures.

You let your sobs fade into sniffles before you open up about your situation, a mix of fear, exhaustion and frustration bubbled in your chest.

“Every time I sleep. The nightmares haunt me. It’s- It’s always different each time. Sometimes I’m surrounded by all of you, dead and staring back at me. Sometimes I’m being- being ripped apart by TDs..” You ramble with a disturbed look, running a hand through your hair.

“And it’s not just that. Everything felt so..so real. When our friends are dying in those nightmares, I can hear their screams, their cries of pain- When I’m being stabbed, I can feel the blade twisting into my stomach, feel my organs twist too. I..I just- I don’t know what to do.” You confess quietly, voice breaking slightly at the end.

Jiyan listens intently to your every word rubbing your arm in soothing circles as you spoke. He allows a comfortable silence to fall between you, reflecting on your words as the stars twinkled in the dark sky as he tries to think up of suggestions.

“Come find me then.”

“What?” You question, confused with where he’s going with this.

“When you get them and you can’t sleep, come find me and we can find something to do. Or talk about the nightmare too if you want to. And no, you will not be burdening me. Let me help you.” Jiyan moves his hand over yours once more, squeezing it gently.

Faced with such sincerity, you nodded, accepting his offer to help.

The two of you lie underneath the tree, talking about various things for the rest of the night before exhaustion finally overtakes you, your breaths becoming even. Jiyan watches over you with quiet relief, happy that you finally got the rest you desperately needed.

[fictionally-driven]

In Sickness and in Health - Part 1

Pairing: Jiyan x f! reader, Scar x f! reader (Separate) Plot: Some headcanons on how WuWa men would take care of a sick f! reader followed by a small plot on them finding the reader to be ill. trigger warnings: illness, caregiving, nausea, vomiting, unconventional remedies, predefined relationships, mentions of pregnancy (no one is pregnant!) , pet names

AN: Part 2 will be Mortefi and Calcharo, Part 3 will be Aalto and Yuanwu. Inspired by @local-x-reader 's work - Flowers for me?

JIYAN

Headcanons:

Ever since you and Jiyan started dating, his medicinal gourd has become your personalized first-aid kit. Allergies bothering you? He has antihistamines at the ready. Monthly menstrual woes? He stocks up on the best menstrual products and painkillers. Prone to migraines? He never forgets to carry tablets. Jiyan is always prepared to care for you at a moment’s notice.

Jiyan's keen senses pick up on your illness before you even realize it. The slightest change in your behavior or the faintest hint of discomfort doesn't escape his notice. He's there with a gentle hand on your forehead, a soft question about how you're feeling, even before you can put it into words.

Jiyan's cooking skills come in handy when you’re feeling under the weather. If you have stomach problems, he’ll make something light and easy to digest like a soothing broth or plain rice with some gentle herbs. If you’re suffering from cramps, he’ll whip up a meal rich in omega-3 fatty acids, such as a salmon dish or chia seed pudding. For colds, his go-to is a hearty soup filled with anti-inflammatory ingredients like turmeric and ginger. His cooking isn't just delicious; it's a heartfelt remedy tailored to your needs.

The General in him takes a backseat when you're sick, letting the compassionate medic take over. Jiyan becomes incredibly attentive, constantly checking on you, ensuring you're comfortable and have everything you need.

Jiyan is always on top of everything when it comes to taking care of you. He keeps track of your medication schedule, making sure you never miss a dose. He adjusts the room temperature to your comfort, brings you extra blankets, and even stays up late to monitor your condition. If you have a fever, he gently wipes your forehead with a cool cloth, and if you're nauseous, he's there with a basin, ready to hold your hair in place while calming you down with soothing words.

To brighten your day, Jiyan will bring you a bouquet of your favorite flowers. He knows how much you love them, and their presence always brings a smile to your face, no matter how ill you feel.

Returning from your latest mission, you could feel every step weighing heavier than the last. The water you had drunk during the mission had left your throat feeling like sandpaper, and a fever had begun to creep up on you. But this was a busy time for everyone, and you couldn't afford to show any weakness. You pushed through, ignoring the throbbing in your head and the chill settling in your bones.

Jiyan was away in Jinzhou for some official business. You didn’t want to bother him with something as trivial as a cold, so when your Pangu terminal rang, you straightened up and forced a cheerful tone.

"Hey, Jiyan!" you greeted, trying to mask the hoarseness in your voice.

"Hello, love," Jiyan's voice came through, warm and comforting. "How was the mission?"

"Exhausting," you replied, attempting a laugh that came out more like a cough. "But nothing I can't handle. Just really tired, you know?"

Jiyan’s keen senses picked up the strain in your voice. "Are you sure you're just tired? You sound a bit off."

"Yeah, yeah, just tired," you reassured him, forcing a smile even though he couldn’t see it. "I’ll be fine after a bit of rest tonight."

"Alright," he said, though his voice carried a hint of doubt. "Make sure you get plenty of rest. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Of course. Talk to you soon, Jiyan."

You ended the call and sighed, leaning against the wall for a moment before pushing yourself off to file your mission report. The sooner you finished, the sooner you could collapse into bed.

You were slower than usual as you prepared the report, almost dozing off in between. What would usually take you an hour, took you three this time. As soon as you filed the report, you pushed yourself off the chair, ready to greet your bed. The sky was littered with scars and you could hear the chatter of the Rangers who were allocated to the night shift. By the time you headed towards your allocated room, your vision was starting to blur with fatigue and fever. You barely registered the figure waiting by your door until you got closer.

"Jiyan!?" you whispered, shocked to see him standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

Before you could say anything else, Jiyan closed the distance between you and placed his palm against your forehead, his expression shifting to one of deep concern.

"You’re burning up," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?"

"I didn’t want to worry you," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "You have so much going on already."

Jiyan shook his head, slipping an arm around your waist to support you. "You’re my priority too, love. Come on, let's get you inside."

He guided you into your room, helping you sit down on the edge of the bed. Setting the flowers aside, he went straight into medic mode. He placed a cool cloth on your forehead and fetched a glass of water.

"Drink this slowly," he instructed, holding the glass to your lips. "We need to keep you hydrated."

You took small sips, feeling the cool water soothe your parched throat. "Thank you, Jiyan," you murmured.

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "You don’t have to thank me. I’m here to take care of you."

Jiyan then moved to unpack his medicinal gourd, pulling out various items. He gave you some fever-reducing medicine and an antihistamine to ease your symptoms.

"Here, take these," he said, handing you the pills. "And I’ve got some soup cooking for you in my quarters. It’s got ginger and turmeric—good for fighting off infections."

You nodded, taking the medicine obediently. As you settled back against the pillows, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for his presence. "How did you get here so fast?"

"I took the fastest route I could," he replied, his eyes softening as he looked at you. "I knew something was wrong when we talked. I couldn’t just stay in Jinzhou knowing you were unwell."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you reached out to take his hand. "You’re amazing, you know that?"

Jiyan chuckled, bringing your hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. "I just care about you. Now, rest while I finish up the soup."

You closed your eyes, feeling the fever slowly begin to abate under his care. The scent of ginger and turmeric soon filled the room, and before long, Jiyan returned with a steaming bowl of soup.

"Here you go," he said, sitting beside you. "Careful, it’s hot."

He fed you spoonful of the warm, nourishing soup, and you could feel the effects of it.  "You didn’t have to come all the way here," you said, feeling tears prick at your eyes

"Of course I did," Jiyan replied, his voice softening. "I can’t focus on anything knowing you’re unwell. Never think you're a bother to me," he continued, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter despite your condition. “You mean everything to me," he said softly. "I hate seeing you like this."

"I’ll be okay," you assured him, reaching out to take his hand. "Especially with you here."

He squeezed your hand gently. "I’m not going anywhere," he promised. "I’ll stay right here and take care of you."

As you finished the soup, Jiyan continued to fuss over you, making sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed. He brought the flowers closer, their sweet scent filling the room and lifting your spirits.

"These are beautiful," you said, admiring the bouquet.

"I thought they might cheer you up," he said, a warm smile spreading across his face.

"They do," you said, feeling a surge of affection for him. "You always know how to make me feel better."

"That’s because I love you," he said simply, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"I love you too, Jiyan," you whispered as you laid down, your eyes feeling heavier by the minute. "Thank you for coming back…" you said, your voice heavy with sleep.

"I’ll always come back for you," he replied. “Every time.” You felt his lips brush against your forehead as you closed your eyes. And with that, you drifted off into a peaceful sleep, knowing that as long as Jiyan was by your side, you’d always be well taken care of.

SCAR

Headcanons:

Despite his chaotic nature, Scar is utterly obsessed with you. If you so much as sneeze, he’s immediately by your side, eyes wide with concern and hands hovering as if unsure where to start.

The first time you fell sick, you didn’t expect Scar to be so devoted. His usual unserious demeanor disappeared, replaced by a palpable worry that made his antics seem like a distant memory. Even with just a simple migraine, he insisted that you see a medic, his anxiety clear in every word and action.

He constantly checks in on you, whether through calls, texts, or physically being there. He needs to know you’re okay, and his concern manifests in frequent, albeit endearing, interruptions to your day.

Scar is relentless in his encouragement for you to rest and take it easy. He’ll do everything in his power to ensure you don’t overexert yourself, including taking on your responsibilities.

Scar refuses to leave your side when you’re sick. He’ll camp out in your room, insisting on being there for anything you might need, and his presence, though sometimes a bit overwhelming, is undeniably comforting.

Scar's methods of care might be unconventional, ranging from brewing bizarre herbal concoctions to attempting ancient rituals he read about somewhere. Despite their eccentricity, his intentions are always pure—he just wants to see you well again.

Once you start feeling better, Scar continues his care with aftercare rituals that are part sweet and part eccentric. He might insist on daily massages or reciting protective chants to ward off any lingering illness.

The night had been restless, your stomach churning uncomfortably from something you ate the previous evening. As dawn broke, waves of nausea swept over you, accompanied by clammy sweats and uncontrollable shivers. By morning, you were pale and weak, unable to keep anything down.

In your dimly lit room, you clutched your stomach, hoping the queasiness would pass. Scar's usual chaotic presence was nowhere to be seen, which almost felt like a relief in your current state of misery. However, just as you began to resign yourself to a day of suffering alone, the door burst open with a bang.

"Guess what, little lamb!" Scar's voice echoed through the room, filled with a strange mix of excitement and triumph. "I managed to trick a few more Rangers into joining our cause! Can you believe it? They fell for the old 'lost patrol' routine like it was their first day out of the academy!"

You winced at the noise, trying to shield yourself from his exuberance. "Scar, not now," you managed to mutter weakly, your voice barely above a whisper.

But as Scar's gaze swept the room, his excitement faded into pure shock. His eyes widened as he took in your pale complexion, your trembling form, and the obvious distress etched on your face.

"What's going on?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

You barely had time to mutter a weak reply before another wave of nausea hit. You hurried to the restroom, barely making it to the toilet before retching once more. Scar followed close behind, his usual exuberance replaced by a rare seriousness as he knelt beside you, holding your hair back and rubbing your back soothingly.

"Are you... pregnant?" he blurted out, his concern mixing with his usual lack of filter.

You shot him a dirty look as you shuddered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "No," you managed to mumble, leaning back against the cool tiles. "Ate something bad..."

"Little lamb, why didn’t you tell me you were feeling like this?" he asked softly, helping you to sit back against the wall.

"I didn’t want you to see me like this," you admitted, feeling embarrassed and vulnerable.

Scar shook his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You think a little sickness is going to scare me away? Tsk.” He looked almost offended. He got up to leave you in the bathroom, only to return a few moments later.

He fetched a glass of water and a damp cloth, gently wiping your face and neck. "You need to stay hydrated," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "And rest. I’ll take care of everything else. Let's get you cleaned up, first, Hm?"

Throughout the day, Scar remained by your side, his usual antics subdued by genuine concern. He fetched cool cloths for your forehead, brought you small sips of water to keep you hydrated, and even attempted to brew some bizarre herbal remedy he claimed would settle your stomach.

"You know, I read about this plant that's supposed to cure everything from heartbreak to the plague," he mused, stirring a pot of leaves and roots that smelled surprisingly pleasant. "I figured it might help."

Despite your skepticism, his efforts were oddly comforting. Scar's presence was a constant, his chatter and eccentric care slowly easing your discomfort. He stayed close, ensuring you didn't feel alone in your misery.

As the day wore on and your symptoms began to subside, Scar insisted on continuing his aftercare rituals—massaging your shoulders to relieve tension, reciting what he called protective chants to ward off any lingering illness, and even preparing a simple broth to tempt your appetite.  His care was unconventional—his attempts at chanting ancient healing spells were met with your amused disbelief—but his presence was undeniably comforting. He refused to leave your side, camped out on the floor beside your bed with a makeshift nest of blankets and pillows.

As evening fell and you finally managed to keep down some broth, Scar sat beside you, his usual chaos subdued to a quiet vigilance. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his gaze soft with a rare tenderness.

"You really had me worried, little lamb," he admitted quietly. "I don’t like seeing you like this."

"I’m sorry," you murmured, feeling guilty for not letting him know sooner.

"Don’t apologize," he said firmly, his hand finding yours. "Just promise me you’ll tell me next time. I’m here for you, no matter what."

Despite his eccentricities and chaotic nature, Scar’s devotion to you was undeniable. His antics might drive you crazy on a daily basis, but in moments like these, you couldn’t imagine anyone else by your side.

"You should get some rest," he said gently, tucking the blankets around you a bit tighter. "I’ll be right here, little lamb."

You reached out to squeeze his hand, the nickname now a term of endearment. "I know," you replied softly. "And I appreciate it, Scar."

He smiled, a genuine expression that softened his rugged features. "Anything for you, even the world, should you ask." he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

You closed your eyes, feeling the exhaustion pulling you under, but not before whispering a heartfelt thank you to the man who had barged into your life in the most unexpected and chaotic of ways.

"Goodnight, Scar," you murmured, already drifting off.

"Goodnight, little lamb," he whispered back, bringing your hand, closer to his lips, pressing feather light kisses on each of your finger. Scar stayed true to his word, watching over you with a protective gaze that spoke volumes of his love and unwavering devotion

WuWa Masterlist

[fictionally-driven]

In Sickness and in Health - Part 1

Pairing: Jiyan x f! reader, Scar x f! reader (Separate) Plot: Some headcanons on how WuWa men would take care of a sick f! reader followed by a small plot on them finding the reader to be ill. trigger warnings: illness, caregiving, nausea, vomiting, unconventional remedies, predefined relationships, mentions of pregnancy (no one is pregnant!) , pet names

AN: Part 2 will be Mortefi and Calcharo, Part 3 will be Aalto and Yuanwu. Inspired by @local-x-reader 's work - Flowers for me?

JIYAN

Headcanons:

Ever since you and Jiyan started dating, his medicinal gourd has become your personalized first-aid kit. Allergies bothering you? He has antihistamines at the ready. Monthly menstrual woes? He stocks up on the best menstrual products and painkillers. Prone to migraines? He never forgets to carry tablets. Jiyan is always prepared to care for you at a moment’s notice.

Jiyan's keen senses pick up on your illness before you even realize it. The slightest change in your behavior or the faintest hint of discomfort doesn't escape his notice. He's there with a gentle hand on your forehead, a soft question about how you're feeling, even before you can put it into words.

Jiyan's cooking skills come in handy when you’re feeling under the weather. If you have stomach problems, he’ll make something light and easy to digest like a soothing broth or plain rice with some gentle herbs. If you’re suffering from cramps, he’ll whip up a meal rich in omega-3 fatty acids, such as a salmon dish or chia seed pudding. For colds, his go-to is a hearty soup filled with anti-inflammatory ingredients like turmeric and ginger. His cooking isn't just delicious; it's a heartfelt remedy tailored to your needs.

The General in him takes a backseat when you're sick, letting the compassionate medic take over. Jiyan becomes incredibly attentive, constantly checking on you, ensuring you're comfortable and have everything you need.

Jiyan is always on top of everything when it comes to taking care of you. He keeps track of your medication schedule, making sure you never miss a dose. He adjusts the room temperature to your comfort, brings you extra blankets, and even stays up late to monitor your condition. If you have a fever, he gently wipes your forehead with a cool cloth, and if you're nauseous, he's there with a basin, ready to hold your hair in place while calming you down with soothing words.

To brighten your day, Jiyan will bring you a bouquet of your favorite flowers. He knows how much you love them, and their presence always brings a smile to your face, no matter how ill you feel.

Returning from your latest mission, you could feel every step weighing heavier than the last. The water you had drunk during the mission had left your throat feeling like sandpaper, and a fever had begun to creep up on you. But this was a busy time for everyone, and you couldn't afford to show any weakness. You pushed through, ignoring the throbbing in your head and the chill settling in your bones.

Jiyan was away in Jinzhou for some official business. You didn’t want to bother him with something as trivial as a cold, so when your Pangu terminal rang, you straightened up and forced a cheerful tone.

"Hey, Jiyan!" you greeted, trying to mask the hoarseness in your voice.

"Hello, love," Jiyan's voice came through, warm and comforting. "How was the mission?"

"Exhausting," you replied, attempting a laugh that came out more like a cough. "But nothing I can't handle. Just really tired, you know?"

Jiyan’s keen senses picked up the strain in your voice. "Are you sure you're just tired? You sound a bit off."

"Yeah, yeah, just tired," you reassured him, forcing a smile even though he couldn’t see it. "I’ll be fine after a bit of rest tonight."

"Alright," he said, though his voice carried a hint of doubt. "Make sure you get plenty of rest. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Of course. Talk to you soon, Jiyan."

You ended the call and sighed, leaning against the wall for a moment before pushing yourself off to file your mission report. The sooner you finished, the sooner you could collapse into bed.

You were slower than usual as you prepared the report, almost dozing off in between. What would usually take you an hour, took you three this time. As soon as you filed the report, you pushed yourself off the chair, ready to greet your bed. The sky was littered with scars and you could hear the chatter of the Rangers who were allocated to the night shift. By the time you headed towards your allocated room, your vision was starting to blur with fatigue and fever. You barely registered the figure waiting by your door until you got closer.

"Jiyan!?" you whispered, shocked to see him standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

Before you could say anything else, Jiyan closed the distance between you and placed his palm against your forehead, his expression shifting to one of deep concern.

"You’re burning up," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?"

"I didn’t want to worry you," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "You have so much going on already."

Jiyan shook his head, slipping an arm around your waist to support you. "You’re my priority too, love. Come on, let's get you inside."

He guided you into your room, helping you sit down on the edge of the bed. Setting the flowers aside, he went straight into medic mode. He placed a cool cloth on your forehead and fetched a glass of water.

"Drink this slowly," he instructed, holding the glass to your lips. "We need to keep you hydrated."

You took small sips, feeling the cool water soothe your parched throat. "Thank you, Jiyan," you murmured.

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "You don’t have to thank me. I’m here to take care of you."

Jiyan then moved to unpack his medicinal gourd, pulling out various items. He gave you some fever-reducing medicine and an antihistamine to ease your symptoms.

"Here, take these," he said, handing you the pills. "And I’ve got some soup cooking for you in my quarters. It’s got ginger and turmeric—good for fighting off infections."

You nodded, taking the medicine obediently. As you settled back against the pillows, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for his presence. "How did you get here so fast?"

"I took the fastest route I could," he replied, his eyes softening as he looked at you. "I knew something was wrong when we talked. I couldn’t just stay in Jinzhou knowing you were unwell."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you reached out to take his hand. "You’re amazing, you know that?"

Jiyan chuckled, bringing your hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. "I just care about you. Now, rest while I finish up the soup."

You closed your eyes, feeling the fever slowly begin to abate under his care. The scent of ginger and turmeric soon filled the room, and before long, Jiyan returned with a steaming bowl of soup.

"Here you go," he said, sitting beside you. "Careful, it’s hot."

He fed you spoonful of the warm, nourishing soup, and you could feel the effects of it.  "You didn’t have to come all the way here," you said, feeling tears prick at your eyes

"Of course I did," Jiyan replied, his voice softening. "I can’t focus on anything knowing you’re unwell. Never think you're a bother to me," he continued, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter despite your condition. “You mean everything to me," he said softly. "I hate seeing you like this."

"I’ll be okay," you assured him, reaching out to take his hand. "Especially with you here."

He squeezed your hand gently. "I’m not going anywhere," he promised. "I’ll stay right here and take care of you."

As you finished the soup, Jiyan continued to fuss over you, making sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed. He brought the flowers closer, their sweet scent filling the room and lifting your spirits.

"These are beautiful," you said, admiring the bouquet.

"I thought they might cheer you up," he said, a warm smile spreading across his face.

"They do," you said, feeling a surge of affection for him. "You always know how to make me feel better."

"That’s because I love you," he said simply, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"I love you too, Jiyan," you whispered as you laid down, your eyes feeling heavier by the minute. "Thank you for coming back…" you said, your voice heavy with sleep.

"I’ll always come back for you," he replied. “Every time.” You felt his lips brush against your forehead as you closed your eyes. And with that, you drifted off into a peaceful sleep, knowing that as long as Jiyan was by your side, you’d always be well taken care of.

SCAR

Headcanons:

Despite his chaotic nature, Scar is utterly obsessed with you. If you so much as sneeze, he’s immediately by your side, eyes wide with concern and hands hovering as if unsure where to start.

The first time you fell sick, you didn’t expect Scar to be so devoted. His usual unserious demeanor disappeared, replaced by a palpable worry that made his antics seem like a distant memory. Even with just a simple migraine, he insisted that you see a medic, his anxiety clear in every word and action.

He constantly checks in on you, whether through calls, texts, or physically being there. He needs to know you’re okay, and his concern manifests in frequent, albeit endearing, interruptions to your day.

Scar is relentless in his encouragement for you to rest and take it easy. He’ll do everything in his power to ensure you don’t overexert yourself, including taking on your responsibilities.

Scar refuses to leave your side when you’re sick. He’ll camp out in your room, insisting on being there for anything you might need, and his presence, though sometimes a bit overwhelming, is undeniably comforting.

Scar's methods of care might be unconventional, ranging from brewing bizarre herbal concoctions to attempting ancient rituals he read about somewhere. Despite their eccentricity, his intentions are always pure—he just wants to see you well again.

Once you start feeling better, Scar continues his care with aftercare rituals that are part sweet and part eccentric. He might insist on daily massages or reciting protective chants to ward off any lingering illness.

The night had been restless, your stomach churning uncomfortably from something you ate the previous evening. As dawn broke, waves of nausea swept over you, accompanied by clammy sweats and uncontrollable shivers. By morning, you were pale and weak, unable to keep anything down.

In your dimly lit room, you clutched your stomach, hoping the queasiness would pass. Scar's usual chaotic presence was nowhere to be seen, which almost felt like a relief in your current state of misery. However, just as you began to resign yourself to a day of suffering alone, the door burst open with a bang.

"Guess what, little lamb!" Scar's voice echoed through the room, filled with a strange mix of excitement and triumph. "I managed to trick a few more Rangers into joining our cause! Can you believe it? They fell for the old 'lost patrol' routine like it was their first day out of the academy!"

You winced at the noise, trying to shield yourself from his exuberance. "Scar, not now," you managed to mutter weakly, your voice barely above a whisper.

But as Scar's gaze swept the room, his excitement faded into pure shock. His eyes widened as he took in your pale complexion, your trembling form, and the obvious distress etched on your face.

"What's going on?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

You barely had time to mutter a weak reply before another wave of nausea hit. You hurried to the restroom, barely making it to the toilet before retching once more. Scar followed close behind, his usual exuberance replaced by a rare seriousness as he knelt beside you, holding your hair back and rubbing your back soothingly.

"Are you... pregnant?" he blurted out, his concern mixing with his usual lack of filter.

You shot him a dirty look as you shuddered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "No," you managed to mumble, leaning back against the cool tiles. "Ate something bad..."

"Little lamb, why didn’t you tell me you were feeling like this?" he asked softly, helping you to sit back against the wall.

"I didn’t want you to see me like this," you admitted, feeling embarrassed and vulnerable.

Scar shook his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You think a little sickness is going to scare me away? Tsk.” He looked almost offended. He got up to leave you in the bathroom, only to return a few moments later.

He fetched a glass of water and a damp cloth, gently wiping your face and neck. "You need to stay hydrated," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "And rest. I’ll take care of everything else. Let's get you cleaned up, first, Hm?"

Throughout the day, Scar remained by your side, his usual antics subdued by genuine concern. He fetched cool cloths for your forehead, brought you small sips of water to keep you hydrated, and even attempted to brew some bizarre herbal remedy he claimed would settle your stomach.

"You know, I read about this plant that's supposed to cure everything from heartbreak to the plague," he mused, stirring a pot of leaves and roots that smelled surprisingly pleasant. "I figured it might help."

Despite your skepticism, his efforts were oddly comforting. Scar's presence was a constant, his chatter and eccentric care slowly easing your discomfort. He stayed close, ensuring you didn't feel alone in your misery.

As the day wore on and your symptoms began to subside, Scar insisted on continuing his aftercare rituals—massaging your shoulders to relieve tension, reciting what he called protective chants to ward off any lingering illness, and even preparing a simple broth to tempt your appetite.  His care was unconventional—his attempts at chanting ancient healing spells were met with your amused disbelief—but his presence was undeniably comforting. He refused to leave your side, camped out on the floor beside your bed with a makeshift nest of blankets and pillows.

As evening fell and you finally managed to keep down some broth, Scar sat beside you, his usual chaos subdued to a quiet vigilance. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his gaze soft with a rare tenderness.

"You really had me worried, little lamb," he admitted quietly. "I don’t like seeing you like this."

"I’m sorry," you murmured, feeling guilty for not letting him know sooner.

"Don’t apologize," he said firmly, his hand finding yours. "Just promise me you’ll tell me next time. I’m here for you, no matter what."

Despite his eccentricities and chaotic nature, Scar’s devotion to you was undeniable. His antics might drive you crazy on a daily basis, but in moments like these, you couldn’t imagine anyone else by your side.

"You should get some rest," he said gently, tucking the blankets around you a bit tighter. "I’ll be right here, little lamb."

You reached out to squeeze his hand, the nickname now a term of endearment. "I know," you replied softly. "And I appreciate it, Scar."

He smiled, a genuine expression that softened his rugged features. "Anything for you, even the world, should you ask." he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

You closed your eyes, feeling the exhaustion pulling you under, but not before whispering a heartfelt thank you to the man who had barged into your life in the most unexpected and chaotic of ways.

"Goodnight, Scar," you murmured, already drifting off.

"Goodnight, little lamb," he whispered back, bringing your hand, closer to his lips, pressing feather light kisses on each of your finger. Scar stayed true to his word, watching over you with a protective gaze that spoke volumes of his love and unwavering devotion

WuWa Masterlist

[fictionally-driven]

Waves

Hello hello! Tis I, Yue anon from your jiyan rp blog :p

Hellllllloooooooo!!!!!

[fictionally-driven]

You Deserve Better

Pairing: Calcharo x f!reader Word count: 4020 words

Trigger warnings: Injury mention, stress, anxiety, implied relationship, angst, heartbreaks

Plot: Calcharo, burdened by his dark past and aware of the danger he poses to (Y/N), is unable to see how his choices hurt her. To ensure that she gets the life she deserves, Calcharo makes an impossible choice.

Author Note: I am not paying for anyone's therapy and I apologize in advance for hurting y'all :3 This fic was inspired by the song You Deserve Better by James Arthur

The door creaked open with a hesitant groan; its sound amplified in the dead silence of the house. Calcharo stepped inside, every movement deliberate, every step weighed with the exhaustion that clung to him like the grime and dried blood matted against his skin. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and iron, mingling with the faint aroma of alcohol wafting from the living room.

He paused, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. Calcharo moved with practiced stealth, mindful not to disturb the peace. Yet, as he stepped into the living room, a sharp scent of alcohol pricked his senses, cutting through the familiar mustiness of home.

In the living room, he saw her—(Y/N). Her head was bowed, shoulders trembling with quiet sobs. A nearly empty bottle of wine lay cradled in her lap, her fingers gripping it like a lifeline. The sight pierced through Calcharo’ s hardened exterior. His heart clenched painfully at the sight. He had been supposed to return two days ago, but complications had delayed him. The mission had been brutal, and communication had been impossible. He knew she worried, but seeing her like this, shattered and vulnerable, was worse.

The sound of his footfall drew her attention. Her head snapped up, and the relief that washed over her face was instantaneous. "(Y/N)," he breathed, the single word heavy with unspoken apologies and unexpressed emotions.

For a heartbeat, she simply stared, as if ensuring he was real and not a figment of her desperate mind. Then, in an instant, she was on her feet, the bottle forgotten as it clattered to the floor. She crossed the space between them in a few quick strides, flinging herself into his arms with a force that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

"Oh, thank God," she murmured against his chest, her voice trembling. "I was so worried... I couldn't reach you... I feared the worst..." The grime and blood smeared onto her clothes, but she didn't seem to care. All that mattered was that he was here, alive.

Calcharo held her close, his arms encircling her with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the brutality of his profession. He could feel her trembling, her body wracked with the remnants of her sobs. He rested his chin on top of her head, closing his eyes as he soaked in her presence. For a moment, he allowed himself to forget the bloodshed, the danger, and just be here, with her.

"I'm here," he murmured, his voice roughened by exhaustion. "I'm here, (Y/N)."

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands cupping his face. Her thumbs traced the lines of dirt and blood, her eyes scanning his features as if reassuring herself that he was truly there, in one piece.

"I thought I'd lost you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Two days, Calcharo... I didn't know if you were ever coming back."

He could see the toll those two days had taken on her—dark circles under her eyes, her face pale and drawn. The weight of his absence was etched into every line of her expression.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words falling heavy and sincere. "The mission... it took longer than expected.”

(Y/N) nodded in understanding, her eyes softening with acceptance. "Have you eaten yet?" she asked.

Calcharo opened his mouth to respond, but she already knew the answer. "Of course, you haven't," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "I'll whip something up quickly. You should shower and get cleaned up in the meantime."

She always did this—pushing aside her own worries to care for him. She was a good woman, far too good for a man like him. He'd put her through situations like this too many times already, and every time, she was patient, loving, unwavering. He simply nodded, retreating to the shower to clean the grit off him while she headed to the kitchen.

The shower hissed to life, and as the hot water cascaded over him, he could smell her shampoo, her soap—those familiar, comforting scents that grounded him, reminding him that he was back home. He scrubbed the grime and blood off his skin, but he couldn't scrub away the memories, the guilt, the deeds he'd done. The water turned pink as it swirled down the drain, a cruel reminder that some stains never truly fade.

Patting himself dry, he slipped into a pair of pants and draped a towel over his shoulders. The mirror reflected a man weary beyond his years; his eyes shadowed with memories too dark to recount. With a heavy sigh, he left the bathroom, the comforting scent of her products still lingering on his skin. He couldn't delay any longer. He needed to check on (Y/N).

Walking into the kitchen, he found her standing by the stove, her hands moving deftly as she prepared a simple meal. Despite her woozy state from the alcohol, she was focused, determined to take care of him. Calcharo approached quietly, his presence announcing itself only when he was close enough to touch her. He took over the cooking process without a word, gently nudging her aside.

Her eyes traversed his form, widening as they fell upon a gnarly cut on his forearm. "Calcharo, you're hurt," she gasped, her voice tinged with a mixture of concern and reprimand. She clicked her tongue, rushing to get the medical kit.

"Let me see," she said, her tone shifting to the professional calm of a medic. (Y/N) was a former medic, and dealing with injuries was second nature to her. She laid out the supplies with a precision born of habit, her hands moving swiftly but with a tenderness that belied the severity of the wound.

Calcharo watched her work in silence, the ache in his chest deepening as he realized how much he relied on her strength, her compassion. She cleaned the wound methodically, her touch gentle yet firm.

"It's deep," she murmured, her voice tinged with concern as she applied antiseptic with careful precision. "You should have taken care of this sooner."

"I didn't notice," Calcharo replied quietly, his gaze fixed on her face. "I was... distracted."

She glanced up at him, her eyes searching his as if trying to read the depths of his soul. "I worry about you," she admitted softly, her fingers wrapping gauze around his arm to secure the dressing. "Every time you go out there..."

Calcharo’ s heart clenched at her words, the weight of her worry pressing down on him. He reached out, cupping her cheek gently with his clean hand, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "I know," he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “I am sorry, love…”

She didn't protest. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes closing briefly as if seeking solace in his warmth. For a moment, they simply stood there, bound together by unspoken words and shared experiences.

Calcharo knew. He knew in the depths of his soul that his profession, his life as the leader of the Ghost Hounds, was a poison seeping into (Y/N)'s veins. It wasn't just the worry etched on her face every time he left, nor the fear that gnawed at her when he returned battered and broken. By being with him, by loving him, she willingly walked a path fraught with danger. She put herself at risk, entwined her fate with his, despite the inevitable peril that shadowed his every step.

And yet, she didn't seem to mind. She stood beside him, unwavering in her support. She saw goodness in him where he saw only shadows. She believed in him, whispered words of reassurance that he was a good man, despite the blood on his hands and the darkness in his heart.

But Calcharo knew better. He had seen good men—General Jiyan, Mortefi—men with strong moral compasses who fought for justice and righteousness. They were the kind of men who did what was right, not just what was profitable. Unlike him.

As they cooked in silence, (Y/N) hummed a soft tune under her breath, a melody that spoke of innocence and hope. Calcharo couldn't help but contrast her purity with the darkness that clung to him. She was kind, selfless in a way he could never be. Since her arrival, many members of the Ghost Hounds relied on her medical expertise, freely given without any thought of profit. It was a stark contrast to his own dealings, where every transaction was a negotiation, every job a calculation of risk and reward.

The smell of alcohol lingered on her breath, a subtle reminder of her own struggles, her own ways of coping with the weight of their reality. Calcharo glanced at her, a pang of guilt tightening his chest. She deserved better than this life, than him. He wanted to protect her, shield her from the darkness that threatened to consume them both. But how could he, when he was the very embodiment of that darkness?

He finished preparing the meal mechanically, his movements precise but lacking his usual efficiency. Each chop of vegetables, each stir of the pot, felt like a ritual to stave off the inevitable conversation looming between them.

As they sat down to eat, she launched into stories about the Lawless Zone they inhabited, her voice animated despite the weariness that lined her features. Calcharo listened intently, his attention divided between her words and the weight of his own thoughts.

She spoke of the baker who had mastered the art of baking in makeshift ovens, of children who startled learning how to use grappling hooks to navigate the treacherous terrain. Her anecdotes painted a picture of resilience and adaptation in a place where survival was a daily battle. She found joy in the small victories of others, weaving tales that brought warmth to their otherwise harsh reality.

Calcharo ate in silence, marveling at how effortlessly she embraced life in the Lawless Zone. In this unforgiving environment where alliances shifted like sand in the wind, where trust was a luxury and betrayal a constant threat, (Y/N) saw good in everyone. It was a trait that set her apart, a reminder of the innocence she carried despite the injustice that had led her here.

But he knew the truth of her exile, the injustice that had ripped her from a life of healing and service. Some faceless bureaucrats in the New Federation had condemned her for a crime she didn't commit, tarnishing her reputation and casting her out. Yet, despite the bitterness that could have consumed her, she continued to trust, continued to give of herself without hesitation. The bitterness of the betrayal still lingered, a wound that hadn't fully healed. Yet, despite everything, she had found it in herself to trust again—to trust him.

As they cleaned up after dinner, (Y/N) moved to tidy the living room while Calcharo washed the dishes with a methodical precision. The clink of porcelain against porcelain echoed in the silence, a counterpoint to the tumultuous thoughts racing through his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him, she deserved peace, she deserved better.

When they finally retired for the night, exhaustion weighed heavily on Calcharo, but sleep eluded him. He lay in bed beside (Y/N), her head nestled against his chest, her breathing steady and peaceful. His mind replayed the events of the day—the worry in her eyes when she saw his injury, the tenderness of her touch as she tended to him, the way she effortlessly navigated their tumultuous existence with grace and compassion. She trusted him, believed in him, despite the darkness that tainted his soul.

But he knew the truth. He was a man haunted by his past, burdened by the choices he had made and the lives he had taken. (Y/N) deserved better than the life he could offer her—a life steeped in danger, where every day was a battle for survival. She deserved peace, safety, and the chance to heal from the wounds inflicted upon her. The weight of his own inadequacies pressed down on him; a suffocating presence that threatened to consume him whole. He closed his eyes, willing himself to find solace in (Y/N)'s embrace, in the warmth of her love. Yet, despite her comforting presence beside him, sleep remained elusive.

As the hours slipped by, Calcharo stared into the darkness, wrestling with his demons. He knew he had to protect her, shield her from the inevitable storm that was to come for him. Beside him, (Y/N) stirred in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Calcharo tightened his embrace around her, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her back. He wished he could shield her from the nightmares that haunted him, from the harsh realities of their world. But he knew he couldn't.

As dawn painted the sky in soft hues of orange and pink, Calcharo lay awake beside (Y/N), his mind churning with resolve and sorrow. He knew what he needed to do, though he lacked the strength to follow through. The abyss stared back at him—a reminder of the darkness that had consumed him long ago. He had always known that staying in the kill-or-be-killed business was never the path to redemption. Despite numerous attempts to leave this life behind, each endeavor had failed. The Ghost Hounds relied on him, and so did the people of the Lawless Zone. They needed his leadership, his expertise in navigating the treacherous underworld they called home. He couldn't abandon them, not after everything he'd done, not after the lives he'd already taken, not after the lines he’d crossed and the enemies he’d made.

But she was different. (Y/N) deserved a life far removed from the danger and uncertainty that defined their existence. She deserved peace, safety—a chance to reclaim the innocence that had been unjustly stolen from her. There was no salvation for him, no redemption from the sins he had committed. But there was hope for her—hope in a future away from the Lawless Zone, away from him.

As the sun continued its ascent, casting long shadows across the room, Calcharo made his decision. He would hurt her one last time, knowing it would break her heart. But he had to do it—for her sake, because he knew she would never make that decision herself. Quietly, he disentangled himself from her embrace, careful not to disturb her peaceful slumber. He watched her for a moment, the curve of her cheek illuminated by the gentle morning light. She looked so serene in her sleep. Her chest rose and fell with her soft breaths.

With a heavy heart and a sense of grim determination, Calcharo quietly began packing his belongings. Each item he placed into his bag felt like another piece of himself being removed from their shared space. The room that once held their laughter and whispered confessions now echoed with the hollowness of impending separation.

He folded his clothes with methodical precision, placing them neatly into the duffel bag. His fingers lingered over small trinkets—a worn-out book she had gifted him, a bracelet she had made from scavenged materials—that held memories of happier times. Yet, these very memories weighed on him now, reminders of what he was about to do. Calcharo erased every trace of his presence in the house, wiping down surfaces, gathering stray belongings, and leaving the space eerily devoid of his essence. It was a painful process, akin to erasing a part of himself that had intertwined with hers over time. The ache in his chest grew with each passing moment, the reality of his decision settling heavily upon him.

Once everything was packed, he sat in the living room, waiting. The Ghost Hounds had swiftly removed his belongings from outside, leaving no visible trace of his imminent departure. He glanced at the door, knowing that soon she would awaken to a home that felt emptier, colder, without him. Hours passed like slow-moving shadows before (Y/N) stirred awake, her footsteps padding softly as she entered the living room, still half in the realm of dreams. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips as she greeted him with a murmured "Good morning."

Her smile faltered as she took in the expression on his face—the somber set of his jaw, the sadness that clouded his eyes. Concern knit her brows together as she approached, sensing something amiss in the air.

"Calcharo, what's going on?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with worry.

He gestured for her to take a seat beside him, his own features drawn with a mixture of resolve and sorrow. "I... I need to talk to you," he began, his voice rough with emotion. He paused, struggling to find the right words, knowing no syllable would make it easier.

(Y/N) sat down slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. Her concern deepened, a flicker of fear darting through her expression. "Calcharo, please," she implored softly, reaching out to touch his arm, seeking reassurance in the warmth of his skin. "You're scaring me. What's happened?"

Calcharo took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable pain he would inflict. He met (Y/N)'s worried gaze, her touch still warm against his arm, and he knew he had to be resolute.

"I... We can't do this anymore," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not right for you to be with me."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened in disbelief, her grip tightening on his arm. "Calcharo, no," she protested, her voice trembling. "Please, don't do this. We can work through whatever it is. I love you.”

He shook his head, his own voice choked with emotion. "You deserve someone better than me," he insisted, his tone firm yet laced with pain. "Someone who can give you stability, peace... a life without constant fear and danger."

Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over as she fought against his words. "But I don't want someone else," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "I want you. I can adapt, I can learn. I can handle it."

Calcharo’ s heart clenched at her words, his resolve faltering for a moment. He gently detached her hand from his arm, standing up with a heaviness in his chest. "I don't want you to handle it," he said softly, his voice tinged with anguish. "I can't bear to see you caught in the crossfire, (Y/N)."

She stood up too, desperation etched on her face as she reached out to him once more. "Please, Calcharo," she begged, her voice trembling. "Don't leave me… I am begging you. Please…”

He turned away, unable to meet her pleading gaze. "I love you," he admitted hoarsely, pain lacing every word. "But this love... it's hurting you. It's not fair to you."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she took a step closer, her hands reaching out as if to hold onto him, to anchor him in place. "I don't care about fair," she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "I care about us. About what we have."

Calcharo closed his eyes briefly, the ache in his chest unbearable. “You might want me, (Y/N) … but I am not what you need. You deserve a righteous person by your side who can protect your innocence and kindness. That is not me.”

She gasped softly, a sob escaping her as she stumbled backward, her hands covering her mouth in disbelief. "No," she choked out, her whole-body trembling with the weight of his words. "Please don't do this..."

Calcharo’ s own voice wavered as he took a step closer, his hand hovering in the air as if torn between reaching out to comfort her and knowing he had to leave. "I love you," he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with unshed tears. "But this... this is the only way."

(Y/N) watched him, her entire being trembling with the weight of his words, with the finality of his decision. "Calcharo, please," she begged, her voice breaking as fell on the floor. "Don't leave me. I can't... I can't do this without you."

Calcharo stood before her, his heart breaking with every tear that streamed down her face. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to take her in his arms, to comfort her, to take back his words and pretend this moment never happened. But he knew he couldn't. Not for her sake. Not now.

"I've spoken to someone in Jinzhou," he said quietly, his voice trembling slightly. "They've arranged housing for you. It is safe there and you can start afresh. You… you need to leave the Lawless Zone.”

(Y/N)'s sobs grew louder, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she struggled to comprehend the magnitude of his words. "No," she cried out, her voice raw with anguish. "Please, Calcharo..."

Calcharo’ s heart shattered into a million pieces at her words, but he pressed on, knowing it was the only way to protect her. "My people will protect you until then," he continued, his voice cracking with emotion. "But this... this is the last you'll see of me."

She collapsed onto the floor, her body convulsing with grief. "No, no," she sobbed, her voice raw with agony. "I can't... I can't do this without you."

Calcharo closed his eyes against the pain, struggling to maintain his composure. "I hope you find somebody else," he whispered, his voice barely audible over her cries. "Someone who will love you like nobody else." His words hung heavy in the air, a bitter admission of his own shortcomings. "I hope he gives you something real, someone who can put your well-being first." he continued, his voice breaking. "And I wish nothing but the best for you."

He knelt beside her, his hand hovering over her trembling form, wanting to touch her, to soothe her, but holding back. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice thick with regret. "For all the pain, the hurt, the worry... I never wanted this for you. You’re the only person in this world that I cannot see get hurt because of my deeds." Her cries echoed in the room, reverberating off the walls as he apologized. "Thank you for welcoming me every time with an open heart."

He leaned forward, brushing a gentle kiss against her forehead, a silent farewell filled with a lifetime of love and regret. "Goodbye," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over her sobs.

With great effort, Calcharo stood up, his legs heavy as he turned away from her. Each step felt like a knife in his heart, tearing him apart as he walked toward the door. As he crossed the threshold, a single tear escaped his eye, and he quickly brushed it away, his face composed into its usual stoic mask.

He glanced back one last time, memorizing the sight of her curled on the floor, her heartache echoing in the empty room. It was the last time she would see him, but he promised himself he would always watch over her from afar, keeping her safe until she no longer needed his ghostly presence.

She would find someone to love her, he knew. She had so much love to give. And despite the ache in his own heart, he would be happy for her when that day came. Despite the agony that consumed him, Calcharo found a bitter solace in knowing that she would eventually smile again, even if it wasn't because of him. But for now, he bore the weight of their separation, the ache of leaving her behind. She would move on, and he would fade into memory. For her sake, he would bear the pain of being a ghost in her life, a memory of a love that was both profound and tragically unfulfilled.

And as he disappeared into the harsh sunlight of the Lawless Zone, he carried with him the weight of her sorrow and the echo of her cries, a haunting melody that would stay with him long after he had faded into the shadows.

[fictionally-driven]

Beneath the Surface - Mortefi's POV

Pairing: Mortefi x gn! reader Word count: 4066 words

Trigger warnings: Injury mention, stress, implied violence, anxiety, mention of medicines, injections.

Plot: (Y/N) risks everything to ensure the success of Mortefi's project, only to find themselves facing the consequences of their actions.

Author Note: This is our beloved researcher's POV of this fic

The laboratory buzzed with a constant hum, a symphony of machinery that Mortefi found both soothing and stimulating. The air was crisp with the scent of antiseptic —an atmosphere Mortefi insisted upon to maintain the sterile environment necessary for their work. Mortefi moved with purpose, his keen eyes observing the work around him. His laboratory was his sanctuary, a place where precision and intellect reigned supreme.

Across the room, (Y/N) worked diligently, carefully connecting wires in the complex weapon system they were developing. Mortefi admired their dedication and skill, appreciating the rare blend of competence and creativity they brought to the team. As (Y/N) reached for another wire, Mortefi’s voice escaped before he could stop himself.

"Careful with that connection," he said, his tone sharper than intended. "If you cross those wires, we might end up with a very expensive paperweight instead of a weapon."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Mortefi bit his tongue. Why did he say that? He knew (Y/N) was one of the best teammates he had ever worked with, seldom giving him any reason to lose his calm. Yet, habits were difficult to break. He saw how his words affected them, the way they swallowed hard and focused even more intently on the task at hand.

Mortefi sighed inwardly, his mind racing with reflections. He was aware of how demanding he could be, how his insistence on perfection sometimes bordered on harshness. But it was difficult to balance the high standards he set for himself with the expectations he placed on others. Despite this, (Y/N) had always risen to the challenge, their innovative thinking often leading to breakthroughs that even Mortefi hadn’t anticipated.

His thoughts drifted back to the early days of this project, when they had first conceptualized the weapon. (Y/N)’s suggestion to integrate a hybrid capacitor system had been a stroke of genius. Mortefi had been impressed, though he hadn’t shown it outwardly. Instead, he had simply incorporated their idea, making adjustments and improvements, as was his way. Mortefi’s eyes softened as he continued to watch (Y/N) work. He knew he owed much of their progress to their unwavering dedication. It wasn’t just their technical skills that made them invaluable; it was their ability to think outside the box, to see possibilities where others saw limitations.

“Why did you choose the 7V capacitor instead of the 10V?” he asked, attempting to moderate his tone, though it still carried a hint of challenge.

They looked up, meeting his gaze, doubt evident in their tone. "I... I thought it would optimize the energy efficiency for the smaller components,"

Mortefi raised an eyebrow, still not entirely convinced. “Efficiency at the cost of stability is a gamble. Rework it with the 10V and recalibrate. We can’t afford any mishaps in the field.”

After issuing the instruction, Mortefi turned and moved to his own workstation, grumbling to himself about scaring (Y/N) away. Every day, he feared that his demeanor would drive them away, as it had with many others before. He had never cared about it much, but with (Y/N), he didn’t want that to happen. He was trying to change, to be less harsh, but it often seemed to backfire, making him come off as even more severe.

Mortefi knew that other researchers were trying to recruit (Y/N) to their own projects. He’d overheard conversations in passing, hints of offers and promises of less demanding work environments. He often wondered why they chose to remain and work with him. Was it out of a sense of duty? Or did they genuinely see something in his vision that kept them motivated?

His eyes darted to (Y/N) as they continued to work on the weapon, noticing their furrowed brows and the intense focus on their face. Mortefi wanted to ease their mind, to offer some reassurance, but he didn’t know how. Speaking further, he feared, would only make things worse.

As he adjusted the settings on his own equipment, he couldn’t help but steal glances at (Y/N). Their dedication was unwavering, and he felt a surge of admiration for their resilience. Despite his often harsh exterior, Mortefi held a deep respect for them. He appreciated how they had embraced their shared vision and worked tirelessly to bring it to fruition.

Yet, here he was, struggling to bridge the gap between his demanding nature and the need to show appreciation. He sighed, feeling a familiar pang of frustration. He wanted to tell (Y/N) how much he valued their contributions; how crucial they were to the success of their work. But the words always seemed to get lost in translation, coming out as critiques instead of praise.

Mortefi’s thoughts were interrupted by the beeping of his monitor, signaling a successful calibration. He looked over at (Y/N) again, who was diligently reworking the connections as instructed. He saw the tension in their shoulders, the careful precision in their movements, and he felt a pang of regret. Mortefi’s fingers flew over the holographic interface, but his mind was elsewhere. He replayed the moment over and over in his head, wishing he could take back his harsh words. But he couldn’t.

He sighed, feeling the weight of his own expectations pressing down on him. He knew he was difficult to work with, that his standards were nearly impossible to meet. But he couldn’t afford to lower them. Not when the stakes were this high. Still, he didn’t want to push (Y/N) away. He needed their brilliance, their creativity. And, perhaps more than that, he needed their presence in his lab, their steadying influence on his often fiery temper.

Mortefi sighed again, a deep, weary sound that echoed in the quiet of his mind. He knew he had a long way to go, but for now, he would do what he did best: work tirelessly, driven by the hope that his actions would speak louder than his words.

-----

Mortefi sat in the dimly lit meeting room, his frustration simmering beneath the surface like molten lava in the heart of a volcano. The air was thick with tension, each word exchanged between the researchers feeling like a spark threatening to ignite the powder keg of his patience. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the table, trying to rein in the tempest raging within him.

"We need to place sensors in the affected region," Mortefi insisted, his voice a low rumble that cut through the heated debate like a knife. "The data is crucial for the weapon's calibration."

"But it's too dangerous!" one of the senior researchers protested, their voice tinged with fear. "We can't risk our equipment or personnel in that corrosive water."

Mortefi's gaze hardened, his frustration boiling over like a cauldron on the brink of eruption. "Then we need to devise a solution, and quickly. Ideas?" he demanded, his tone brooking no argument.

“We could design a remote sensor deployment system,” a researcher suggested tentatively, their voice barely rising above a whisper. “Something that can be launched and retrieved without direct contact. But it would take a few more weeks at least to develop and test it.”

Mortefi's eyes narrowed, his mind racing as he weighed the risks and rewards of such a plan. "Yes, but how do we know it will not be affected by the corrosive water?" another researcher interjected, their skepticism echoing the doubts that gnawed at Mortefi's own thoughts.

His frustration threatened to consume him, a raging inferno threatening to consume everything in its path. "We have to find a solution," he growled, his voice tinged with desperation. "Delays are unacceptable."

But as the meeting continued without resolution, Mortefi's frustration reached its breaking point. With a curt nod, he stormed out of the room, his expression dark and stormy. Back in the confines of the lab, Mortefi's agitation simmered like a pot ready to boil over. Sparks danced at his fingertips, the small flames flickering with the promise of something far more dangerous. His movements were frenetic, his fingers flying over the holographic interfaces with a desperation born of necessity.

But beneath the facade of furious activity, Mortefi knew he was merely venting his frustration. The solution eluded him, slipping through his grasp like sand through an hourglass. The weight of responsibility pressed down on his shoulders like a leaden cloak, threatening to suffocate him with its burden.

As he worked, his mind raced, grappling with the enormity of the task before him. The Tacet Discords in the afflicted region posed a threat that could not be ignored. And yet, without the necessary data, calibrating the new weapon would be an exercise in futility. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed (Y/N)’s worried expression. Of course, they were worried. They’d worked so hard and now it seemed like it wasn’t going to be coming to fruition before it was too late.

As Mortefi's frustration surged like a rising tide, he couldn't help but feel the weight of responsibility bearing down on him with crushing force. The thought of letting (Y/N) down, of failing to deliver on the promise of their shared vision, gnawed at him like a relentless beast. As their supervisor, Mortefi felt a profound sense of duty towards (Y/N), a responsibility to nurture their talents and guide them towards success. But in this moment of setback, he couldn't shake the nagging doubt that he was falling short of that duty. Despite their tireless efforts, despite the countless hours they'd poured into their work, it seemed as though their efforts were being thwarted at every turn.

He was angry—at the situation, at the obstacles standing in their way, at himself for not being able to find a solution. But beneath the anger lurked a deep-seated sense of disappointment, a feeling of inadequacy that threatened to consume him whole.

He knew (Y/N) looked up to him, trusted him to lead them towards success. And yet, here he was, unable to provide the answers they so desperately sought.

But even as doubt gnawed at his resolve, Mortefi refused to succumb to despair. He couldn't afford to dwell on his shortcomings, not when there was still work to be done. With a weary sigh, he forced himself to push aside his doubts and refocus his energies on finding a solution.

-----

Days had passed since Mortefi's frustration reached its peak, yet the weight of his failure still hung heavy around him like a suffocating shroud. He buried himself in his work, seeking solace in the cool glow of the holographic interface as he delved deeper into the intricacies of the battlefield simulation. On the other end of a holographic call, General Jiyan's stoic visage flickered to life, the lines of responsibility etched deep into his features. Mortefi couldn't help but feel a pang of familiarity as the two men exchanged banter, their camaraderie a welcome respite from the turmoil that raged within.

But as the conversation turned to matters of strategy and optimization, Mortefi's focus sharpened, his mind racing through complex algorithms and theoretical frameworks. With practiced ease, Mortefi presented his analytical data to Jiyan, the holographic interface coming to life with a flurry of data points and statistical analyses. He outlined the intricacies of their weapon optimization, his voice a steady cadence amidst the whirlwind of information.

Impressed, Jiyan nodded approvingly, acknowledging Mortefi's expertise with a rare compliment. "Impressive work, Mortefi," Jiyan remarked, his voice betraying a hint of admiration. "You've truly outdone yourself this time."

"It's not just me," Mortefi admitted, his voice soft with sincerity. "My colleague, (Y/N), their analysis and insights have been instrumental in our progress."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Jiyan's lips, his gaze softening with understanding. "I've never seen you speak of someone so fondly before," he remarked, his tone laced with curiosity.

Mortefi's smile widened, a rare display of warmth amidst the cold confines of the lab. "They're brilliant," he confessed, his admiration for (Y/N) evident in his voice. "Their dedication and expertise have been invaluable to our efforts."

But as Mortefi spoke, his attention was drawn to the email notification blinking insistently in the corner of his screen. With a sense of foreboding settling over him like a shroud, Mortefi opened the message, his heart sinking as he read the contents within.

The color drained from Mortefi's face as he processed the contents of the email. (Y/N) had embarked on a dangerous mission to place the sensors in the heart of the Waveworn Phenomenon, risking their life for the sake of their project. The words blurred before his eyes, Mortefi's mind raced, his thoughts a whirlwind of fear and desperation as he grappled with the gravity of (Y/N)'s sacrifice.

"Mortefi?" Jiyan's voice cut through the haze of Mortefi's thoughts, his concern palpable even through the digital connection. But Mortefi's attention was elsewhere, his whole being consumed by the fear of what might be happening on the other side of the screen. A pit formed in Mortefi's stomach, a sense of dread settling over him like a suffocating shroud. He felt his whole body emitting hot, fiery sparks, his mind racing with a tumult of emotions.

"Mortefi!" Jiyan's voice rose in urgency, snapping Mortefi back to reality with a jolt. But even as he tried to focus on the general's words, Mortefi's mind was elsewhere, his thoughts consumed by the image of (Y/N) putting themselves in harm's way for the sake of their project.

"Is everything alright?" Jiyan continued, concern evident in his eyes.

But Mortefi could barely hear Jiyan over the roaring in his ears, his mind consumed with worry for (Y/N). He rambled about the situation to Jiyan, about the project and about (Y/N)’s email. “Jiyan, I am asking… no, I need you to send a set of Midnight Rangers to the area. Now.” he demanded; his voice tight with urgency. "We need to find (Y/N) before it's too late."

Jiyan's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing in determination. "I will dispatch the Rangers right away," he assured Mortefi, his voice steady and resolute. “But you need to calm down, Mortefi.”

Mortefi's chest heaved with each labored breath, his whole body trembling with fear and rage. "I can't just sit here and do nothing," he protested, his voice thick with emotion. “They’re out there doing this because I couldn’t come up with a timely solution!” His flames grew stronger as he spoke.

"Mortefi, listen to me," Jiyan's voice was firm, commanding Mortefi's attention once more. "I'll send a set of Midnight Rangers to the area immediately. We'll locate (Y/N) and ensure their safety."

But Mortefi's hands trembled, his whole body emitting hot, fiery sparks as the fear threatened to consume him whole. "You don't understand," he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking with emotion. "They're out there, risking everything for us. I can't... I can't lose them."

"We'll find them, Mortefi," Jiyan promised, his tone steady and reassuring. “But you’re currently at risk for overclocking. You're not helping anyone if you lose control."

Mortefi's breath caught in his throat, the weight of his own desperation pressing down on him like a vice. “You’re right.” He nodded. Jiyan was right and he had to be rational. But he wasn’t going to sit in his lab while (Y/N) was out there actively risking their life. “Keep me informed about any information you receive related to them.”

As he ended the call, Mortefi made a reckless decision himself. He couldn't stay behind. He had to see (Y/N), to make sure they were alright. He quickly began arming himself, his movements hurried but precise. His fingers flew over the equipment, securing weapons and tools. His pistols, meticulously crafted and fine-tuned, slipped into their holders with familiar ease. He grabbed additional gear—explosives, a portable scanner and grapple.

Despite his efforts to remain calm, Mortefi's flames flickered wildly, a reflection of his inner turmoil. He knew he was at major risk of overclocking, but he couldn't let that stop him. The thought of (Y/N) in danger was a tormenting presence in his mind, a relentless specter that refused to be ignored. Why was this affecting him so much? He knew Jiyan was a man of his word and would find (Y/N), yet Mortefi couldn't sit back.

He had to see them. He had to make sure they were alright.

As he set out towards the area where (Y/N) was currently at, his thoughts tormented him. What if it was already too late? What if the Tacet Discords had already attacked them? (Y/N) was not a fighter despite being a resonator. Would they be able to fend off the TDs? Why did they feel compelled to do this? Had he pushed them too hard, making them feel the need to risk their safety for this project?

The anguish gnawed at him, a relentless ache in his chest. Each step he took felt like a march through thick mud, his mind racing with possibilities and fears. He replayed every interaction with (Y/N), wondering if he had driven them to this with his harsh words and impossible standards. The pit in his stomach deepened, a black hole of dread that threatened to swallow him whole.

The landscape around him grew increasingly desolate as he approached the Waveworn Phenomenon, the air thick with tension. The sky was a murky gray, heavy with the promise of rain. The ground beneath his feet was rough and uneven. Mortefi's senses were on high alert, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of (Y/N) or the Tacet Discords.

He activated his portable scanner, the device emitting a series of beeps as it analyzed the surrounding area. The data streamed across the holographic display, but Mortefi's attention was split, his thoughts constantly drifting back to (Y/N). What if they had been injured or worse? The images in his mind were vivid and horrifying, each one more terrible than the last.

The area where (Y/N) had set off to seemed forever away, just out of his reach. Mortefi pushed himself to walk faster, his legs burning with the effort, but it wasn't enough. The weight of his fears pressed down on him, making each step feel heavier than the last.

His terminal beeped with a message from an unknown contact. Heart pounding, he opened the message to find it was from a Midnight Ranger. The Ranger, along with his team, had found (Y/N) and were headed toward an encampment nearby. The coordinates for the encampment flashed on his screen, and without hesitation, Mortefi set course for the location.

Relief washed over him, mingling with a fresh wave of anxiety. They had found (Y/N), but the message offered no details about their condition. Were they injured? Were they safe? Mortefi's heart hammered in his chest loudly. The journey to the encampment felt like an eternity. The rough terrain seemed to conspire against him, each step a struggle against the elements. His flames flickered and sparked, scales on his body seemed to expand by the hour. His breath came in ragged gasps, the flames at his fingertips flickering with anxiety.

As he neared the coordinates, the encampment came into view. It was a makeshift shelter, hastily assembled but sturdy enough to withstand the elements. Mortefi's heart pounded in his chest, his fear and anticipation mounting with each step. His eyes darted around, searching frantically for any sign of (Y/N). The tension in the air was palpable, every nerve in his body on high alert.

A Midnight Ranger approached him cautiously, recognizing the volatile state Mortefi was in. "Mortefi?" the Ranger called out gently, holding up a hand to stop him. "Please, you need to calm down. Sir, your flames are getting everywhere."

Mortefi barely registered the words, his eyes wild with desperation. "Where are they?" he demanded, his voice a raw edge of fear and anger. "Where's (Y/N)?"

The Ranger stepped closer, trying to project calm. "They're here, but you need to take care of yourself first. You're at risk of overclocking. If you lose control, you could hurt them."

A medic hurried over, a look of concern on their face. "Sir, you need to stabilize. Please, let us help you before you see (Y/N)."

Mortefi's flames flickered wildly, his body emitting intense heat. He knew the medic was right, but the thought of (Y/N) lying somewhere injured was tearing him apart. "I can't wait," he protested, his voice cracking. "I need to see them now."

The medic shook their head firmly. "If you go in like this, you could do more harm than good. Please, take these." They handed Mortefi a set of vials containing a cooling serum and weak sedative. "These will help you stabilize."

Reluctantly, Mortefi took the vials, his hands trembling. He injected the serum into his arm, feeling the cool liquid spread through his veins. The flames that had been flickering uncontrollably began to subside, the heat within him slowly dissipating. He followed the medic to a small, makeshift tent where he was instructed to sit.

"Good," the medic said, watching him closely. "Now, follow my instructions. Breathe slowly, in and out. Focus on the cooling sensation, let it calm you."

Mortefi obeyed, his breath coming in slow, measured gasps. His thoughts were still a chaotic storm of fear and guilt, but the physical symptoms of overclocking began to fade. The medic continued to monitor him, occasionally checking his vital signs and administering small doses of additional medicines as needed.

Once his flames were under control, the medic nodded in approval. "You're doing better," she said. "Now we can talk about (Y/N)."

Mortefi's heart clenched at the mention of their name. "How are they?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The medic's expression grew somber. "Their injuries are severe," she said. "Second-degree burns, lesions on different parts of their body, multiple lacerations, and severe exhaustion. It will take time for them to heal. When we found them, they were delirious from the pain and poison. They kept begging for it to be over, and they kept repeating your name until we sedated them."

Mortefi felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under him. The flames within him dimmed to a mere flicker, extinguished by the weight of his guilt and sorrow. He hung his head, his shoulders shaking with the effort to hold back tears. "This is my fault," he whispered. "I pushed them too hard. I drove them to this."

The medic placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "They’re stable now, but it will take time for them to heal. They are stronger than you think. We’ll shift them to the hospital in a few hours.”

He stood up; his legs shaky but determined. "I need to see them," he said quietly.

The medic led him to the back of the encampment where a makeshift infirmary had been set up. The sight of (Y/N) lying there, hooked up to various medical devices, made Mortefi's chest tighten. He approached slowly; his steps heavy with the weight of his guilt. (Y/N) looked so fragile, their body covered in bandages and their face pale.

Mortefi sank into a chair beside the bed, his heart aching with every beat. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I never meant for this to happen." He shook his head, the tears finally spilling over. "Of all the people," he choked out, "you were the last person I wanted to see hurt.”

As he sat there, holding their hand, Mortefi felt a sense of resolve settle over him. He would do whatever it took to help (Y/N) recover. And when they did, he would be honest about his feelings, about how much they meant to him. "I'm here," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "And I'm not going anywhere. When you wake up, we'll face this together. I'll make things right, I promise."

The encampment was quiet, the only sound the soft beeping of monitors and the gentle rustle of the wind outside. Mortefi sat by (Y/N)'s side, holding their hand as if it were a lifeline. The medic's words echoed in his mind; a reminder of the pain (Y/N) had endured. They had repeated his name, even in their delirium. Mortefi sat there, watching over (Y/N) as they slept, his mind a storm of emotions. He would make things right. He had to. Because losing (Y/N) was not an option. Not now, not ever.

Wuwa Masterlist

[fictionally-driven]

✿ “Flowers for me?” ✿

Just a note that I have yet to beat WuWa yet ;w; so there’s probably going to be some out of characterness in this but I’m gonna try to make sure it’s canon to character…

Parings: Jiyan / Male!Rover x (GN) Reader 🫶 (Separate)

Headcanons / Oneshot / Drabble / Series

Content warnings: None! Fluff! Although there is a bit of Jealous Rover in here

Plot: In which you buy flowers for them! ( Along with a few silly hcs of them getting you flowers )

Male Rover

✿ ~ He’s a busy man, often hurrying around the city and the land in general, helping people… although he’ll always be back in your arms before the day ends and he’ll most often bring flowers with him. Occasionally he’ll buy them from wherever he can find them but most times it’s picked from the ones he finds while out and about.

✿ ~ There was a sale on the flowers today at the flower shop… and after some thinking, you had selected a bouquet of various yellow flowers, the variety of colors reminding you of his golden eyes.

✿ ~ So buy it and head home, making sure it’ll remain fresh then you spend the rest of the day going about your tasks. By the time the day finishes, you’re waiting outside the home, holding the bouquet close, waiting for the whirlwind of a man to come by.

✿ ~ And it doesn’t take long for him to appear.

You’re waiting outside, the sun beginning to slowly creep down the sky, crawling towards the horizon and painting the city of Jinzhou in various hues of pinks, oranges, and purples. The scent of the flowers you’ve purchased rests in the air and fills up your nose, the noises of the city settling down infiltrating your ears as you wait patiently for your love…

Then, the familiar sound of swift footsteps hits your ears, shoes clicking against concrete. You place the flowers down beside you, turning your head just in time to be scooped up by familiar arms that lift you up, twirling you around before carefully setting you down… and there he is, your Rover standing there like an excited puppy.

"Hi there!" He chirps, leaning close to press his lips against your forehead, the warm feeling making a smile rest on your face.

"I brought you these," Rover hums as he straightens up, moving to display his chosen flowers, a swirling variety of pink flowers, some Pecok flowers and Belle poppy flowers, a few other kinds, some of them a little more damaged then others, telling of the length he had carried them with him for.

"Thank you, Rover," You smiled, taking the flowers from him and giving them a sniff for a moment before turning to grab your own bouquet.

As you turned around, his eyes quickly locked on to the flowers… there was a small look of… almost disappointment? "Did someone else give you those?" Ah, it wasn’t disappointment but rather a bit of jealousy.

"No," You hummed, turning to hold out the flowers to him, holding the ones he had grabbed for you close to your chest, "These are for you."

You have to stifle a giggle at the way his eyes widen slightly, looking at the flowers in his hands, then back at you for a moment… and repeat for a moment before he snaps out of it, "I… Thank you, (Y/N)!"

Your gaze softens slightly, you can’t help it. His happiness almost feels infectious, giving a soft sniff to the flowers in his hands then looking up at you and beaming, his delight making your heart flutter as you reach out to gently ruffle his hair, "C’mon, lets put these in vases."

Jiyan

✿ ~ Similar to Rover, he too is a rather busy man. It’s not often you get to see him. Often on the battlefield, working hard to protect Jinzhou from TD’s, it makes it difficult to get much time with you. Although when he does, he values it greatly. Often times he’ll bring bouquets of flowers when he comes, most times as an apology for going so long without visiting.

✿ ~ One time, you asked what his flower was while cuddled close to him, your eyes watching his as he thought about it for a moment before giving a a response, you made sure to remember it, writing it down the next morning just so you wouldn’t forget and tucking away the note.

✿ ~ You were sure you keep track of when his next visit was, preparing the gift for him with quite a bit of excitement, unable to help it. You wondered how he would react to it while you were purchasing the bouquet… you waited quite excitedly for him, holding the flowers close at he arrived.

The sun peaked in the sky, casting golden rays into the city. It was growing noisier around as the Jinzhou also reached its peak in activity. Children tugging their parents around eagerly, lovers with hands connected as they wandered the streets, the hubbub of people's conversations filling the air, fresh food somewhere around and the sweet floral smell of the flowers in your hands giving a scent to the air. 

Over everything, the scent of familiar flowers hit you, your eyes fluttering open to see Jiyan heading towards you, a loving look resting in his eyes as you both lowered the flowers away from your forms, rushing to meet him halfway. Your arms encircled around his form, nuzzling into his chest as his arms circled around you, leaning down to place a kiss to your forehead, smiling.

“Hello, my love,” He murmured, briefly letting go of you to show the flowers he had gotten, a variety of blue and purple hues, mixed together in a beautiful way, the scent familiar, "I got these for you."

"Thank you," You murmur, placing a kiss on his cheek as you take the flowers from them, holding them close and giving them a small sniff, catching the familiar scents that made you remember the first time he had brought you such flowers.

You looked up, noticing his curious expression to the ones you had bought, hesitating for a moment before speaking, "Did someone get you those?" He asked, looking up from the flowers to your gaze with... a hint of fear, like he was scared someone had stolen your heart while he was gone. 

"Oh, no," You chirped, smiling at him for a moment, shaking your head and easing his concerns, holding out the bouquet for him, "I bought them for you... you mentioned your favorite flowers last time, so I thought I'd get you some..."

His eyes widened slightly, a pink tint coming to rest on his cheeks as he carefully took the flowers from you, holding them close. "Really..?" You didn't think you'd get over that expression as he looked at the flowers, then you, a soft, warm gaze on you, "Thank you... I love you."

"I love you too... Lets head home and get these secure, mm?" You questioned, smiling at him and reaching to take his hand.

Thank you for reading! 🫶

Link to divider

[fictionally-driven]

You Deserve Better

Pairing: Calcharo x f!reader Word count: 4020 words

Trigger warnings: Injury mention, stress, anxiety, implied relationship, angst, heartbreaks

Plot: Calcharo, burdened by his dark past and aware of the danger he poses to (Y/N), is unable to see how his choices hurt her. To ensure that she gets the life she deserves, Calcharo makes an impossible choice.

Author Note: I am not paying for anyone's therapy and I apologize in advance for hurting y'all :3 This fic was inspired by the song You Deserve Better by James Arthur

The door creaked open with a hesitant groan; its sound amplified in the dead silence of the house. Calcharo stepped inside, every movement deliberate, every step weighed with the exhaustion that clung to him like the grime and dried blood matted against his skin. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and iron, mingling with the faint aroma of alcohol wafting from the living room.

He paused, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. Calcharo moved with practiced stealth, mindful not to disturb the peace. Yet, as he stepped into the living room, a sharp scent of alcohol pricked his senses, cutting through the familiar mustiness of home.

In the living room, he saw her—(Y/N). Her head was bowed, shoulders trembling with quiet sobs. A nearly empty bottle of wine lay cradled in her lap, her fingers gripping it like a lifeline. The sight pierced through Calcharo’ s hardened exterior. His heart clenched painfully at the sight. He had been supposed to return two days ago, but complications had delayed him. The mission had been brutal, and communication had been impossible. He knew she worried, but seeing her like this, shattered and vulnerable, was worse.

The sound of his footfall drew her attention. Her head snapped up, and the relief that washed over her face was instantaneous. "(Y/N)," he breathed, the single word heavy with unspoken apologies and unexpressed emotions.

For a heartbeat, she simply stared, as if ensuring he was real and not a figment of her desperate mind. Then, in an instant, she was on her feet, the bottle forgotten as it clattered to the floor. She crossed the space between them in a few quick strides, flinging herself into his arms with a force that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

"Oh, thank God," she murmured against his chest, her voice trembling. "I was so worried... I couldn't reach you... I feared the worst..." The grime and blood smeared onto her clothes, but she didn't seem to care. All that mattered was that he was here, alive.

Calcharo held her close, his arms encircling her with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the brutality of his profession. He could feel her trembling, her body wracked with the remnants of her sobs. He rested his chin on top of her head, closing his eyes as he soaked in her presence. For a moment, he allowed himself to forget the bloodshed, the danger, and just be here, with her.

"I'm here," he murmured, his voice roughened by exhaustion. "I'm here, (Y/N)."

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands cupping his face. Her thumbs traced the lines of dirt and blood, her eyes scanning his features as if reassuring herself that he was truly there, in one piece.

"I thought I'd lost you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Two days, Calcharo... I didn't know if you were ever coming back."

He could see the toll those two days had taken on her—dark circles under her eyes, her face pale and drawn. The weight of his absence was etched into every line of her expression.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words falling heavy and sincere. "The mission... it took longer than expected.”

(Y/N) nodded in understanding, her eyes softening with acceptance. "Have you eaten yet?" she asked.

Calcharo opened his mouth to respond, but she already knew the answer. "Of course, you haven't," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "I'll whip something up quickly. You should shower and get cleaned up in the meantime."

She always did this—pushing aside her own worries to care for him. She was a good woman, far too good for a man like him. He'd put her through situations like this too many times already, and every time, she was patient, loving, unwavering. He simply nodded, retreating to the shower to clean the grit off him while she headed to the kitchen.

The shower hissed to life, and as the hot water cascaded over him, he could smell her shampoo, her soap—those familiar, comforting scents that grounded him, reminding him that he was back home. He scrubbed the grime and blood off his skin, but he couldn't scrub away the memories, the guilt, the deeds he'd done. The water turned pink as it swirled down the drain, a cruel reminder that some stains never truly fade.

Patting himself dry, he slipped into a pair of pants and draped a towel over his shoulders. The mirror reflected a man weary beyond his years; his eyes shadowed with memories too dark to recount. With a heavy sigh, he left the bathroom, the comforting scent of her products still lingering on his skin. He couldn't delay any longer. He needed to check on (Y/N).

Walking into the kitchen, he found her standing by the stove, her hands moving deftly as she prepared a simple meal. Despite her woozy state from the alcohol, she was focused, determined to take care of him. Calcharo approached quietly, his presence announcing itself only when he was close enough to touch her. He took over the cooking process without a word, gently nudging her aside.

Her eyes traversed his form, widening as they fell upon a gnarly cut on his forearm. "Calcharo, you're hurt," she gasped, her voice tinged with a mixture of concern and reprimand. She clicked her tongue, rushing to get the medical kit.

"Let me see," she said, her tone shifting to the professional calm of a medic. (Y/N) was a former medic, and dealing with injuries was second nature to her. She laid out the supplies with a precision born of habit, her hands moving swiftly but with a tenderness that belied the severity of the wound.

Calcharo watched her work in silence, the ache in his chest deepening as he realized how much he relied on her strength, her compassion. She cleaned the wound methodically, her touch gentle yet firm.

"It's deep," she murmured, her voice tinged with concern as she applied antiseptic with careful precision. "You should have taken care of this sooner."

"I didn't notice," Calcharo replied quietly, his gaze fixed on her face. "I was... distracted."

She glanced up at him, her eyes searching his as if trying to read the depths of his soul. "I worry about you," she admitted softly, her fingers wrapping gauze around his arm to secure the dressing. "Every time you go out there..."

Calcharo’ s heart clenched at her words, the weight of her worry pressing down on him. He reached out, cupping her cheek gently with his clean hand, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "I know," he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “I am sorry, love…”

She didn't protest. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes closing briefly as if seeking solace in his warmth. For a moment, they simply stood there, bound together by unspoken words and shared experiences.

Calcharo knew. He knew in the depths of his soul that his profession, his life as the leader of the Ghost Hounds, was a poison seeping into (Y/N)'s veins. It wasn't just the worry etched on her face every time he left, nor the fear that gnawed at her when he returned battered and broken. By being with him, by loving him, she willingly walked a path fraught with danger. She put herself at risk, entwined her fate with his, despite the inevitable peril that shadowed his every step.

And yet, she didn't seem to mind. She stood beside him, unwavering in her support. She saw goodness in him where he saw only shadows. She believed in him, whispered words of reassurance that he was a good man, despite the blood on his hands and the darkness in his heart.

But Calcharo knew better. He had seen good men—General Jiyan, Mortefi—men with strong moral compasses who fought for justice and righteousness. They were the kind of men who did what was right, not just what was profitable. Unlike him.

As they cooked in silence, (Y/N) hummed a soft tune under her breath, a melody that spoke of innocence and hope. Calcharo couldn't help but contrast her purity with the darkness that clung to him. She was kind, selfless in a way he could never be. Since her arrival, many members of the Ghost Hounds relied on her medical expertise, freely given without any thought of profit. It was a stark contrast to his own dealings, where every transaction was a negotiation, every job a calculation of risk and reward.

The smell of alcohol lingered on her breath, a subtle reminder of her own struggles, her own ways of coping with the weight of their reality. Calcharo glanced at her, a pang of guilt tightening his chest. She deserved better than this life, than him. He wanted to protect her, shield her from the darkness that threatened to consume them both. But how could he, when he was the very embodiment of that darkness?

He finished preparing the meal mechanically, his movements precise but lacking his usual efficiency. Each chop of vegetables, each stir of the pot, felt like a ritual to stave off the inevitable conversation looming between them.

As they sat down to eat, she launched into stories about the Lawless Zone they inhabited, her voice animated despite the weariness that lined her features. Calcharo listened intently, his attention divided between her words and the weight of his own thoughts.

She spoke of the baker who had mastered the art of baking in makeshift ovens, of children who startled learning how to use grappling hooks to navigate the treacherous terrain. Her anecdotes painted a picture of resilience and adaptation in a place where survival was a daily battle. She found joy in the small victories of others, weaving tales that brought warmth to their otherwise harsh reality.

Calcharo ate in silence, marveling at how effortlessly she embraced life in the Lawless Zone. In this unforgiving environment where alliances shifted like sand in the wind, where trust was a luxury and betrayal a constant threat, (Y/N) saw good in everyone. It was a trait that set her apart, a reminder of the innocence she carried despite the injustice that had led her here.

But he knew the truth of her exile, the injustice that had ripped her from a life of healing and service. Some faceless bureaucrats in the New Federation had condemned her for a crime she didn't commit, tarnishing her reputation and casting her out. Yet, despite the bitterness that could have consumed her, she continued to trust, continued to give of herself without hesitation. The bitterness of the betrayal still lingered, a wound that hadn't fully healed. Yet, despite everything, she had found it in herself to trust again—to trust him.

As they cleaned up after dinner, (Y/N) moved to tidy the living room while Calcharo washed the dishes with a methodical precision. The clink of porcelain against porcelain echoed in the silence, a counterpoint to the tumultuous thoughts racing through his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him, she deserved peace, she deserved better.

When they finally retired for the night, exhaustion weighed heavily on Calcharo, but sleep eluded him. He lay in bed beside (Y/N), her head nestled against his chest, her breathing steady and peaceful. His mind replayed the events of the day—the worry in her eyes when she saw his injury, the tenderness of her touch as she tended to him, the way she effortlessly navigated their tumultuous existence with grace and compassion. She trusted him, believed in him, despite the darkness that tainted his soul.

But he knew the truth. He was a man haunted by his past, burdened by the choices he had made and the lives he had taken. (Y/N) deserved better than the life he could offer her—a life steeped in danger, where every day was a battle for survival. She deserved peace, safety, and the chance to heal from the wounds inflicted upon her. The weight of his own inadequacies pressed down on him; a suffocating presence that threatened to consume him whole. He closed his eyes, willing himself to find solace in (Y/N)'s embrace, in the warmth of her love. Yet, despite her comforting presence beside him, sleep remained elusive.

As the hours slipped by, Calcharo stared into the darkness, wrestling with his demons. He knew he had to protect her, shield her from the inevitable storm that was to come for him. Beside him, (Y/N) stirred in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Calcharo tightened his embrace around her, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her back. He wished he could shield her from the nightmares that haunted him, from the harsh realities of their world. But he knew he couldn't.

As dawn painted the sky in soft hues of orange and pink, Calcharo lay awake beside (Y/N), his mind churning with resolve and sorrow. He knew what he needed to do, though he lacked the strength to follow through. The abyss stared back at him—a reminder of the darkness that had consumed him long ago. He had always known that staying in the kill-or-be-killed business was never the path to redemption. Despite numerous attempts to leave this life behind, each endeavor had failed. The Ghost Hounds relied on him, and so did the people of the Lawless Zone. They needed his leadership, his expertise in navigating the treacherous underworld they called home. He couldn't abandon them, not after everything he'd done, not after the lives he'd already taken, not after the lines he’d crossed and the enemies he’d made.

But she was different. (Y/N) deserved a life far removed from the danger and uncertainty that defined their existence. She deserved peace, safety—a chance to reclaim the innocence that had been unjustly stolen from her. There was no salvation for him, no redemption from the sins he had committed. But there was hope for her—hope in a future away from the Lawless Zone, away from him.

As the sun continued its ascent, casting long shadows across the room, Calcharo made his decision. He would hurt her one last time, knowing it would break her heart. But he had to do it—for her sake, because he knew she would never make that decision herself. Quietly, he disentangled himself from her embrace, careful not to disturb her peaceful slumber. He watched her for a moment, the curve of her cheek illuminated by the gentle morning light. She looked so serene in her sleep. Her chest rose and fell with her soft breaths.

With a heavy heart and a sense of grim determination, Calcharo quietly began packing his belongings. Each item he placed into his bag felt like another piece of himself being removed from their shared space. The room that once held their laughter and whispered confessions now echoed with the hollowness of impending separation.

He folded his clothes with methodical precision, placing them neatly into the duffel bag. His fingers lingered over small trinkets—a worn-out book she had gifted him, a bracelet she had made from scavenged materials—that held memories of happier times. Yet, these very memories weighed on him now, reminders of what he was about to do. Calcharo erased every trace of his presence in the house, wiping down surfaces, gathering stray belongings, and leaving the space eerily devoid of his essence. It was a painful process, akin to erasing a part of himself that had intertwined with hers over time. The ache in his chest grew with each passing moment, the reality of his decision settling heavily upon him.

Once everything was packed, he sat in the living room, waiting. The Ghost Hounds had swiftly removed his belongings from outside, leaving no visible trace of his imminent departure. He glanced at the door, knowing that soon she would awaken to a home that felt emptier, colder, without him. Hours passed like slow-moving shadows before (Y/N) stirred awake, her footsteps padding softly as she entered the living room, still half in the realm of dreams. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips as she greeted him with a murmured "Good morning."

Her smile faltered as she took in the expression on his face—the somber set of his jaw, the sadness that clouded his eyes. Concern knit her brows together as she approached, sensing something amiss in the air.

"Calcharo, what's going on?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with worry.

He gestured for her to take a seat beside him, his own features drawn with a mixture of resolve and sorrow. "I... I need to talk to you," he began, his voice rough with emotion. He paused, struggling to find the right words, knowing no syllable would make it easier.

(Y/N) sat down slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. Her concern deepened, a flicker of fear darting through her expression. "Calcharo, please," she implored softly, reaching out to touch his arm, seeking reassurance in the warmth of his skin. "You're scaring me. What's happened?"

Calcharo took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable pain he would inflict. He met (Y/N)'s worried gaze, her touch still warm against his arm, and he knew he had to be resolute.

"I... We can't do this anymore," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not right for you to be with me."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened in disbelief, her grip tightening on his arm. "Calcharo, no," she protested, her voice trembling. "Please, don't do this. We can work through whatever it is. I love you.”

He shook his head, his own voice choked with emotion. "You deserve someone better than me," he insisted, his tone firm yet laced with pain. "Someone who can give you stability, peace... a life without constant fear and danger."

Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over as she fought against his words. "But I don't want someone else," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "I want you. I can adapt, I can learn. I can handle it."

Calcharo’ s heart clenched at her words, his resolve faltering for a moment. He gently detached her hand from his arm, standing up with a heaviness in his chest. "I don't want you to handle it," he said softly, his voice tinged with anguish. "I can't bear to see you caught in the crossfire, (Y/N)."

She stood up too, desperation etched on her face as she reached out to him once more. "Please, Calcharo," she begged, her voice trembling. "Don't leave me… I am begging you. Please…”

He turned away, unable to meet her pleading gaze. "I love you," he admitted hoarsely, pain lacing every word. "But this love... it's hurting you. It's not fair to you."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she took a step closer, her hands reaching out as if to hold onto him, to anchor him in place. "I don't care about fair," she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "I care about us. About what we have."

Calcharo closed his eyes briefly, the ache in his chest unbearable. “You might want me, (Y/N) … but I am not what you need. You deserve a righteous person by your side who can protect your innocence and kindness. That is not me.”

She gasped softly, a sob escaping her as she stumbled backward, her hands covering her mouth in disbelief. "No," she choked out, her whole-body trembling with the weight of his words. "Please don't do this..."

Calcharo’ s own voice wavered as he took a step closer, his hand hovering in the air as if torn between reaching out to comfort her and knowing he had to leave. "I love you," he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with unshed tears. "But this... this is the only way."

(Y/N) watched him, her entire being trembling with the weight of his words, with the finality of his decision. "Calcharo, please," she begged, her voice breaking as fell on the floor. "Don't leave me. I can't... I can't do this without you."

Calcharo stood before her, his heart breaking with every tear that streamed down her face. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to take her in his arms, to comfort her, to take back his words and pretend this moment never happened. But he knew he couldn't. Not for her sake. Not now.

"I've spoken to someone in Jinzhou," he said quietly, his voice trembling slightly. "They've arranged housing for you. It is safe there and you can start afresh. You… you need to leave the Lawless Zone.”

(Y/N)'s sobs grew louder, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she struggled to comprehend the magnitude of his words. "No," she cried out, her voice raw with anguish. "Please, Calcharo..."

Calcharo’ s heart shattered into a million pieces at her words, but he pressed on, knowing it was the only way to protect her. "My people will protect you until then," he continued, his voice cracking with emotion. "But this... this is the last you'll see of me."

She collapsed onto the floor, her body convulsing with grief. "No, no," she sobbed, her voice raw with agony. "I can't... I can't do this without you."

Calcharo closed his eyes against the pain, struggling to maintain his composure. "I hope you find somebody else," he whispered, his voice barely audible over her cries. "Someone who will love you like nobody else." His words hung heavy in the air, a bitter admission of his own shortcomings. "I hope he gives you something real, someone who can put your well-being first." he continued, his voice breaking. "And I wish nothing but the best for you."

He knelt beside her, his hand hovering over her trembling form, wanting to touch her, to soothe her, but holding back. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice thick with regret. "For all the pain, the hurt, the worry... I never wanted this for you. You’re the only person in this world that I cannot see get hurt because of my deeds." Her cries echoed in the room, reverberating off the walls as he apologized. "Thank you for welcoming me every time with an open heart."

He leaned forward, brushing a gentle kiss against her forehead, a silent farewell filled with a lifetime of love and regret. "Goodbye," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over her sobs.

With great effort, Calcharo stood up, his legs heavy as he turned away from her. Each step felt like a knife in his heart, tearing him apart as he walked toward the door. As he crossed the threshold, a single tear escaped his eye, and he quickly brushed it away, his face composed into its usual stoic mask.

He glanced back one last time, memorizing the sight of her curled on the floor, her heartache echoing in the empty room. It was the last time she would see him, but he promised himself he would always watch over her from afar, keeping her safe until she no longer needed his ghostly presence.

She would find someone to love her, he knew. She had so much love to give. And despite the ache in his own heart, he would be happy for her when that day came. Despite the agony that consumed him, Calcharo found a bitter solace in knowing that she would eventually smile again, even if it wasn't because of him. But for now, he bore the weight of their separation, the ache of leaving her behind. She would move on, and he would fade into memory. For her sake, he would bear the pain of being a ghost in her life, a memory of a love that was both profound and tragically unfulfilled.

And as he disappeared into the harsh sunlight of the Lawless Zone, he carried with him the weight of her sorrow and the echo of her cries, a haunting melody that would stay with him long after he had faded into the shadows.

[fictionally-driven]

You Deserve Better

Pairing: Calcharo x f!reader Word count: 4020 words

Trigger warnings: Injury mention, stress, anxiety, implied relationship, angst, heartbreaks

Plot: Calcharo, burdened by his dark past and aware of the danger he poses to (Y/N), is unable to see how his choices hurt her. To ensure that she gets the life she deserves, Calcharo makes an impossible choice.

Author Note: I am not paying for anyone's therapy and I apologize in advance for hurting y'all :3 This fic was inspired by the song You Deserve Better by James Arthur

The door creaked open with a hesitant groan; its sound amplified in the dead silence of the house. Calcharo stepped inside, every movement deliberate, every step weighed with the exhaustion that clung to him like the grime and dried blood matted against his skin. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and iron, mingling with the faint aroma of alcohol wafting from the living room.

He paused, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. Calcharo moved with practiced stealth, mindful not to disturb the peace. Yet, as he stepped into the living room, a sharp scent of alcohol pricked his senses, cutting through the familiar mustiness of home.

In the living room, he saw her—(Y/N). Her head was bowed, shoulders trembling with quiet sobs. A nearly empty bottle of wine lay cradled in her lap, her fingers gripping it like a lifeline. The sight pierced through Calcharo’ s hardened exterior. His heart clenched painfully at the sight. He had been supposed to return two days ago, but complications had delayed him. The mission had been brutal, and communication had been impossible. He knew she worried, but seeing her like this, shattered and vulnerable, was worse.

The sound of his footfall drew her attention. Her head snapped up, and the relief that washed over her face was instantaneous. "(Y/N)," he breathed, the single word heavy with unspoken apologies and unexpressed emotions.

For a heartbeat, she simply stared, as if ensuring he was real and not a figment of her desperate mind. Then, in an instant, she was on her feet, the bottle forgotten as it clattered to the floor. She crossed the space between them in a few quick strides, flinging herself into his arms with a force that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

"Oh, thank God," she murmured against his chest, her voice trembling. "I was so worried... I couldn't reach you... I feared the worst..." The grime and blood smeared onto her clothes, but she didn't seem to care. All that mattered was that he was here, alive.

Calcharo held her close, his arms encircling her with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the brutality of his profession. He could feel her trembling, her body wracked with the remnants of her sobs. He rested his chin on top of her head, closing his eyes as he soaked in her presence. For a moment, he allowed himself to forget the bloodshed, the danger, and just be here, with her.

"I'm here," he murmured, his voice roughened by exhaustion. "I'm here, (Y/N)."

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands cupping his face. Her thumbs traced the lines of dirt and blood, her eyes scanning his features as if reassuring herself that he was truly there, in one piece.

"I thought I'd lost you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Two days, Calcharo... I didn't know if you were ever coming back."

He could see the toll those two days had taken on her—dark circles under her eyes, her face pale and drawn. The weight of his absence was etched into every line of her expression.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words falling heavy and sincere. "The mission... it took longer than expected.”

(Y/N) nodded in understanding, her eyes softening with acceptance. "Have you eaten yet?" she asked.

Calcharo opened his mouth to respond, but she already knew the answer. "Of course, you haven't," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "I'll whip something up quickly. You should shower and get cleaned up in the meantime."

She always did this—pushing aside her own worries to care for him. She was a good woman, far too good for a man like him. He'd put her through situations like this too many times already, and every time, she was patient, loving, unwavering. He simply nodded, retreating to the shower to clean the grit off him while she headed to the kitchen.

The shower hissed to life, and as the hot water cascaded over him, he could smell her shampoo, her soap—those familiar, comforting scents that grounded him, reminding him that he was back home. He scrubbed the grime and blood off his skin, but he couldn't scrub away the memories, the guilt, the deeds he'd done. The water turned pink as it swirled down the drain, a cruel reminder that some stains never truly fade.

Patting himself dry, he slipped into a pair of pants and draped a towel over his shoulders. The mirror reflected a man weary beyond his years; his eyes shadowed with memories too dark to recount. With a heavy sigh, he left the bathroom, the comforting scent of her products still lingering on his skin. He couldn't delay any longer. He needed to check on (Y/N).

Walking into the kitchen, he found her standing by the stove, her hands moving deftly as she prepared a simple meal. Despite her woozy state from the alcohol, she was focused, determined to take care of him. Calcharo approached quietly, his presence announcing itself only when he was close enough to touch her. He took over the cooking process without a word, gently nudging her aside.

Her eyes traversed his form, widening as they fell upon a gnarly cut on his forearm. "Calcharo, you're hurt," she gasped, her voice tinged with a mixture of concern and reprimand. She clicked her tongue, rushing to get the medical kit.

"Let me see," she said, her tone shifting to the professional calm of a medic. (Y/N) was a former medic, and dealing with injuries was second nature to her. She laid out the supplies with a precision born of habit, her hands moving swiftly but with a tenderness that belied the severity of the wound.

Calcharo watched her work in silence, the ache in his chest deepening as he realized how much he relied on her strength, her compassion. She cleaned the wound methodically, her touch gentle yet firm.

"It's deep," she murmured, her voice tinged with concern as she applied antiseptic with careful precision. "You should have taken care of this sooner."

"I didn't notice," Calcharo replied quietly, his gaze fixed on her face. "I was... distracted."

She glanced up at him, her eyes searching his as if trying to read the depths of his soul. "I worry about you," she admitted softly, her fingers wrapping gauze around his arm to secure the dressing. "Every time you go out there..."

Calcharo’ s heart clenched at her words, the weight of her worry pressing down on him. He reached out, cupping her cheek gently with his clean hand, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "I know," he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “I am sorry, love…”

She didn't protest. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes closing briefly as if seeking solace in his warmth. For a moment, they simply stood there, bound together by unspoken words and shared experiences.

Calcharo knew. He knew in the depths of his soul that his profession, his life as the leader of the Ghost Hounds, was a poison seeping into (Y/N)'s veins. It wasn't just the worry etched on her face every time he left, nor the fear that gnawed at her when he returned battered and broken. By being with him, by loving him, she willingly walked a path fraught with danger. She put herself at risk, entwined her fate with his, despite the inevitable peril that shadowed his every step.

And yet, she didn't seem to mind. She stood beside him, unwavering in her support. She saw goodness in him where he saw only shadows. She believed in him, whispered words of reassurance that he was a good man, despite the blood on his hands and the darkness in his heart.

But Calcharo knew better. He had seen good men—General Jiyan, Mortefi—men with strong moral compasses who fought for justice and righteousness. They were the kind of men who did what was right, not just what was profitable. Unlike him.

As they cooked in silence, (Y/N) hummed a soft tune under her breath, a melody that spoke of innocence and hope. Calcharo couldn't help but contrast her purity with the darkness that clung to him. She was kind, selfless in a way he could never be. Since her arrival, many members of the Ghost Hounds relied on her medical expertise, freely given without any thought of profit. It was a stark contrast to his own dealings, where every transaction was a negotiation, every job a calculation of risk and reward.

The smell of alcohol lingered on her breath, a subtle reminder of her own struggles, her own ways of coping with the weight of their reality. Calcharo glanced at her, a pang of guilt tightening his chest. She deserved better than this life, than him. He wanted to protect her, shield her from the darkness that threatened to consume them both. But how could he, when he was the very embodiment of that darkness?

He finished preparing the meal mechanically, his movements precise but lacking his usual efficiency. Each chop of vegetables, each stir of the pot, felt like a ritual to stave off the inevitable conversation looming between them.

As they sat down to eat, she launched into stories about the Lawless Zone they inhabited, her voice animated despite the weariness that lined her features. Calcharo listened intently, his attention divided between her words and the weight of his own thoughts.

She spoke of the baker who had mastered the art of baking in makeshift ovens, of children who startled learning how to use grappling hooks to navigate the treacherous terrain. Her anecdotes painted a picture of resilience and adaptation in a place where survival was a daily battle. She found joy in the small victories of others, weaving tales that brought warmth to their otherwise harsh reality.

Calcharo ate in silence, marveling at how effortlessly she embraced life in the Lawless Zone. In this unforgiving environment where alliances shifted like sand in the wind, where trust was a luxury and betrayal a constant threat, (Y/N) saw good in everyone. It was a trait that set her apart, a reminder of the innocence she carried despite the injustice that had led her here.

But he knew the truth of her exile, the injustice that had ripped her from a life of healing and service. Some faceless bureaucrats in the New Federation had condemned her for a crime she didn't commit, tarnishing her reputation and casting her out. Yet, despite the bitterness that could have consumed her, she continued to trust, continued to give of herself without hesitation. The bitterness of the betrayal still lingered, a wound that hadn't fully healed. Yet, despite everything, she had found it in herself to trust again—to trust him.

As they cleaned up after dinner, (Y/N) moved to tidy the living room while Calcharo washed the dishes with a methodical precision. The clink of porcelain against porcelain echoed in the silence, a counterpoint to the tumultuous thoughts racing through his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him, she deserved peace, she deserved better.

When they finally retired for the night, exhaustion weighed heavily on Calcharo, but sleep eluded him. He lay in bed beside (Y/N), her head nestled against his chest, her breathing steady and peaceful. His mind replayed the events of the day—the worry in her eyes when she saw his injury, the tenderness of her touch as she tended to him, the way she effortlessly navigated their tumultuous existence with grace and compassion. She trusted him, believed in him, despite the darkness that tainted his soul.

But he knew the truth. He was a man haunted by his past, burdened by the choices he had made and the lives he had taken. (Y/N) deserved better than the life he could offer her—a life steeped in danger, where every day was a battle for survival. She deserved peace, safety, and the chance to heal from the wounds inflicted upon her. The weight of his own inadequacies pressed down on him; a suffocating presence that threatened to consume him whole. He closed his eyes, willing himself to find solace in (Y/N)'s embrace, in the warmth of her love. Yet, despite her comforting presence beside him, sleep remained elusive.

As the hours slipped by, Calcharo stared into the darkness, wrestling with his demons. He knew he had to protect her, shield her from the inevitable storm that was to come for him. Beside him, (Y/N) stirred in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Calcharo tightened his embrace around her, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her back. He wished he could shield her from the nightmares that haunted him, from the harsh realities of their world. But he knew he couldn't.

As dawn painted the sky in soft hues of orange and pink, Calcharo lay awake beside (Y/N), his mind churning with resolve and sorrow. He knew what he needed to do, though he lacked the strength to follow through. The abyss stared back at him—a reminder of the darkness that had consumed him long ago. He had always known that staying in the kill-or-be-killed business was never the path to redemption. Despite numerous attempts to leave this life behind, each endeavor had failed. The Ghost Hounds relied on him, and so did the people of the Lawless Zone. They needed his leadership, his expertise in navigating the treacherous underworld they called home. He couldn't abandon them, not after everything he'd done, not after the lives he'd already taken, not after the lines he’d crossed and the enemies he’d made.

But she was different. (Y/N) deserved a life far removed from the danger and uncertainty that defined their existence. She deserved peace, safety—a chance to reclaim the innocence that had been unjustly stolen from her. There was no salvation for him, no redemption from the sins he had committed. But there was hope for her—hope in a future away from the Lawless Zone, away from him.

As the sun continued its ascent, casting long shadows across the room, Calcharo made his decision. He would hurt her one last time, knowing it would break her heart. But he had to do it—for her sake, because he knew she would never make that decision herself. Quietly, he disentangled himself from her embrace, careful not to disturb her peaceful slumber. He watched her for a moment, the curve of her cheek illuminated by the gentle morning light. She looked so serene in her sleep. Her chest rose and fell with her soft breaths.

With a heavy heart and a sense of grim determination, Calcharo quietly began packing his belongings. Each item he placed into his bag felt like another piece of himself being removed from their shared space. The room that once held their laughter and whispered confessions now echoed with the hollowness of impending separation.

He folded his clothes with methodical precision, placing them neatly into the duffel bag. His fingers lingered over small trinkets—a worn-out book she had gifted him, a bracelet she had made from scavenged materials—that held memories of happier times. Yet, these very memories weighed on him now, reminders of what he was about to do. Calcharo erased every trace of his presence in the house, wiping down surfaces, gathering stray belongings, and leaving the space eerily devoid of his essence. It was a painful process, akin to erasing a part of himself that had intertwined with hers over time. The ache in his chest grew with each passing moment, the reality of his decision settling heavily upon him.

Once everything was packed, he sat in the living room, waiting. The Ghost Hounds had swiftly removed his belongings from outside, leaving no visible trace of his imminent departure. He glanced at the door, knowing that soon she would awaken to a home that felt emptier, colder, without him. Hours passed like slow-moving shadows before (Y/N) stirred awake, her footsteps padding softly as she entered the living room, still half in the realm of dreams. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips as she greeted him with a murmured "Good morning."

Her smile faltered as she took in the expression on his face—the somber set of his jaw, the sadness that clouded his eyes. Concern knit her brows together as she approached, sensing something amiss in the air.

"Calcharo, what's going on?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with worry.

He gestured for her to take a seat beside him, his own features drawn with a mixture of resolve and sorrow. "I... I need to talk to you," he began, his voice rough with emotion. He paused, struggling to find the right words, knowing no syllable would make it easier.

(Y/N) sat down slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. Her concern deepened, a flicker of fear darting through her expression. "Calcharo, please," she implored softly, reaching out to touch his arm, seeking reassurance in the warmth of his skin. "You're scaring me. What's happened?"

Calcharo took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable pain he would inflict. He met (Y/N)'s worried gaze, her touch still warm against his arm, and he knew he had to be resolute.

"I... We can't do this anymore," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not right for you to be with me."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened in disbelief, her grip tightening on his arm. "Calcharo, no," she protested, her voice trembling. "Please, don't do this. We can work through whatever it is. I love you.”

He shook his head, his own voice choked with emotion. "You deserve someone better than me," he insisted, his tone firm yet laced with pain. "Someone who can give you stability, peace... a life without constant fear and danger."

Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over as she fought against his words. "But I don't want someone else," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "I want you. I can adapt, I can learn. I can handle it."

Calcharo’ s heart clenched at her words, his resolve faltering for a moment. He gently detached her hand from his arm, standing up with a heaviness in his chest. "I don't want you to handle it," he said softly, his voice tinged with anguish. "I can't bear to see you caught in the crossfire, (Y/N)."

She stood up too, desperation etched on her face as she reached out to him once more. "Please, Calcharo," she begged, her voice trembling. "Don't leave me… I am begging you. Please…”

He turned away, unable to meet her pleading gaze. "I love you," he admitted hoarsely, pain lacing every word. "But this love... it's hurting you. It's not fair to you."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she took a step closer, her hands reaching out as if to hold onto him, to anchor him in place. "I don't care about fair," she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "I care about us. About what we have."

Calcharo closed his eyes briefly, the ache in his chest unbearable. “You might want me, (Y/N) … but I am not what you need. You deserve a righteous person by your side who can protect your innocence and kindness. That is not me.”

She gasped softly, a sob escaping her as she stumbled backward, her hands covering her mouth in disbelief. "No," she choked out, her whole-body trembling with the weight of his words. "Please don't do this..."

Calcharo’ s own voice wavered as he took a step closer, his hand hovering in the air as if torn between reaching out to comfort her and knowing he had to leave. "I love you," he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with unshed tears. "But this... this is the only way."

(Y/N) watched him, her entire being trembling with the weight of his words, with the finality of his decision. "Calcharo, please," she begged, her voice breaking as fell on the floor. "Don't leave me. I can't... I can't do this without you."

Calcharo stood before her, his heart breaking with every tear that streamed down her face. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to take her in his arms, to comfort her, to take back his words and pretend this moment never happened. But he knew he couldn't. Not for her sake. Not now.

"I've spoken to someone in Jinzhou," he said quietly, his voice trembling slightly. "They've arranged housing for you. It is safe there and you can start afresh. You… you need to leave the Lawless Zone.”

(Y/N)'s sobs grew louder, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she struggled to comprehend the magnitude of his words. "No," she cried out, her voice raw with anguish. "Please, Calcharo..."

Calcharo’ s heart shattered into a million pieces at her words, but he pressed on, knowing it was the only way to protect her. "My people will protect you until then," he continued, his voice cracking with emotion. "But this... this is the last you'll see of me."

She collapsed onto the floor, her body convulsing with grief. "No, no," she sobbed, her voice raw with agony. "I can't... I can't do this without you."

Calcharo closed his eyes against the pain, struggling to maintain his composure. "I hope you find somebody else," he whispered, his voice barely audible over her cries. "Someone who will love you like nobody else." His words hung heavy in the air, a bitter admission of his own shortcomings. "I hope he gives you something real, someone who can put your well-being first." he continued, his voice breaking. "And I wish nothing but the best for you."

He knelt beside her, his hand hovering over her trembling form, wanting to touch her, to soothe her, but holding back. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice thick with regret. "For all the pain, the hurt, the worry... I never wanted this for you. You’re the only person in this world that I cannot see get hurt because of my deeds." Her cries echoed in the room, reverberating off the walls as he apologized. "Thank you for welcoming me every time with an open heart."

He leaned forward, brushing a gentle kiss against her forehead, a silent farewell filled with a lifetime of love and regret. "Goodbye," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over her sobs.

With great effort, Calcharo stood up, his legs heavy as he turned away from her. Each step felt like a knife in his heart, tearing him apart as he walked toward the door. As he crossed the threshold, a single tear escaped his eye, and he quickly brushed it away, his face composed into its usual stoic mask.

He glanced back one last time, memorizing the sight of her curled on the floor, her heartache echoing in the empty room. It was the last time she would see him, but he promised himself he would always watch over her from afar, keeping her safe until she no longer needed his ghostly presence.

She would find someone to love her, he knew. She had so much love to give. And despite the ache in his own heart, he would be happy for her when that day came. Despite the agony that consumed him, Calcharo found a bitter solace in knowing that she would eventually smile again, even if it wasn't because of him. But for now, he bore the weight of their separation, the ache of leaving her behind. She would move on, and he would fade into memory. For her sake, he would bear the pain of being a ghost in her life, a memory of a love that was both profound and tragically unfulfilled.

And as he disappeared into the harsh sunlight of the Lawless Zone, he carried with him the weight of her sorrow and the echo of her cries, a haunting melody that would stay with him long after he had faded into the shadows.

[fictionally-driven]

Beneath the Surface - Mortefi's POV

Pairing: Mortefi x gn! reader Word count: 2715 words

Trigger warnings: Injury mention, stress, implied violence, anxiety, mention of medicines, injections.

Plot: (Y/N) risks everything to ensure the success of Mortefi's project, only to find themselves facing the consequences of their actions.

Author Note: This is our beloved researcher's POV of this fic

The laboratory buzzed with a constant hum, a symphony of machinery that Mortefi found both soothing and stimulating. The air was crisp with the scent of antiseptic —an atmosphere Mortefi insisted upon to maintain the sterile environment necessary for their work. Mortefi moved with purpose, his keen eyes observing the work around him. His laboratory was his sanctuary, a place where precision and intellect reigned supreme.

Across the room, (Y/N) worked diligently, carefully connecting wires in the complex weapon system they were developing. Mortefi admired their dedication and skill, appreciating the rare blend of competence and creativity they brought to the team. As (Y/N) reached for another wire, Mortefi’s voice escaped before he could stop himself.

"Careful with that connection," he said, his tone sharper than intended. "If you cross those wires, we might end up with a very expensive paperweight instead of a weapon."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Mortefi bit his tongue. Why did he say that? He knew (Y/N) was one of the best teammates he had ever worked with, seldom giving him any reason to lose his calm. Yet, habits were difficult to break. He saw how his words affected them, the way they swallowed hard and focused even more intently on the task at hand.

Mortefi sighed inwardly, his mind racing with reflections. He was aware of how demanding he could be, how his insistence on perfection sometimes bordered on harshness. But it was difficult to balance the high standards he set for himself with the expectations he placed on others. Despite this, (Y/N) had always risen to the challenge, their innovative thinking often leading to breakthroughs that even Mortefi hadn’t anticipated.

His thoughts drifted back to the early days of this project, when they had first conceptualized the weapon. (Y/N)’s suggestion to integrate a hybrid capacitor system had been a stroke of genius. Mortefi had been impressed, though he hadn’t shown it outwardly. Instead, he had simply incorporated their idea, making adjustments and improvements, as was his way. Mortefi’s eyes softened as he continued to watch (Y/N) work. He knew he owed much of their progress to their unwavering dedication. It wasn’t just their technical skills that made them invaluable; it was their ability to think outside the box, to see possibilities where others saw limitations.

“Why did you choose the 7V capacitor instead of the 10V?” he asked, attempting to moderate his tone, though it still carried a hint of challenge.

They looked up, meeting his gaze, doubt evident in their tone. "I... I thought it would optimize the energy efficiency for the smaller components,"

Mortefi raised an eyebrow, still not entirely convinced. “Efficiency at the cost of stability is a gamble. Rework it with the 10V and recalibrate. We can’t afford any mishaps in the field.”

After issuing the instruction, Mortefi turned and moved to his own workstation, grumbling to himself about scaring (Y/N) away. Every day, he feared that his demeanor would drive them away, as it had with many others before. He had never cared about it much, but with (Y/N), he didn’t want that to happen. He was trying to change, to be less harsh, but it often seemed to backfire, making him come off as even more severe.

Mortefi knew that other researchers were trying to recruit (Y/N) to their own projects. He’d overheard conversations in passing, hints of offers and promises of less demanding work environments. He often wondered why they chose to remain and work with him. Was it out of a sense of duty? Or did they genuinely see something in his vision that kept them motivated?

His eyes darted to (Y/N) as they continued to work on the weapon, noticing their furrowed brows and the intense focus on their face. Mortefi wanted to ease their mind, to offer some reassurance, but he didn’t know how. Speaking further, he feared, would only make things worse.

As he adjusted the settings on his own equipment, he couldn’t help but steal glances at (Y/N). Their dedication was unwavering, and he felt a surge of admiration for their resilience. Despite his often harsh exterior, Mortefi held a deep respect for them. He appreciated how they had embraced their shared vision and worked tirelessly to bring it to fruition.

Yet, here he was, struggling to bridge the gap between his demanding nature and the need to show appreciation. He sighed, feeling a familiar pang of frustration. He wanted to tell (Y/N) how much he valued their contributions; how crucial they were to the success of their work. But the words always seemed to get lost in translation, coming out as critiques instead of praise.

Mortefi’s thoughts were interrupted by the beeping of his monitor, signaling a successful calibration. He looked over at (Y/N) again, who was diligently reworking the connections as instructed. He saw the tension in their shoulders, the careful precision in their movements, and he felt a pang of regret. Mortefi’s fingers flew over the holographic interface, but his mind was elsewhere. He replayed the moment over and over in his head, wishing he could take back his harsh words. But he couldn’t.

He sighed, feeling the weight of his own expectations pressing down on him. He knew he was difficult to work with, that his standards were nearly impossible to meet. But he couldn’t afford to lower them. Not when the stakes were this high. Still, he didn’t want to push (Y/N) away. He needed their brilliance, their creativity. And, perhaps more than that, he needed their presence in his lab, their steadying influence on his often fiery temper.

Mortefi sighed again, a deep, weary sound that echoed in the quiet of his mind. He knew he had a long way to go, but for now, he would do what he did best: work tirelessly, driven by the hope that his actions would speak louder than his words.

-----

Mortefi sat in the dimly lit meeting room, his frustration simmering beneath the surface like molten lava in the heart of a volcano. The air was thick with tension, each word exchanged between the researchers feeling like a spark threatening to ignite the powder keg of his patience. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the table, trying to rein in the tempest raging within him.

"We need to place sensors in the affected region," Mortefi insisted, his voice a low rumble that cut through the heated debate like a knife. "The data is crucial for the weapon's calibration."

"But it's too dangerous!" one of the senior researchers protested, their voice tinged with fear. "We can't risk our equipment or personnel in that corrosive water."

Mortefi's gaze hardened, his frustration boiling over like a cauldron on the brink of eruption. "Then we need to devise a solution, and quickly. Ideas?" he demanded, his tone brooking no argument.

“We could design a remote sensor deployment system,” a researcher suggested tentatively, their voice barely rising above a whisper. “Something that can be launched and retrieved without direct contact. But it would take a few more weeks at least to develop and test it.”

Mortefi's eyes narrowed, his mind racing as he weighed the risks and rewards of such a plan. "Yes, but how do we know it will not be affected by the corrosive water?" another researcher interjected, their skepticism echoing the doubts that gnawed at Mortefi's own thoughts.

His frustration threatened to consume him, a raging inferno threatening to consume everything in its path. "We have to find a solution," he growled, his voice tinged with desperation. "Delays are unacceptable."

But as the meeting continued without resolution, Mortefi's frustration reached its breaking point. With a curt nod, he stormed out of the room, his expression dark and stormy. Back in the confines of the lab, Mortefi's agitation simmered like a pot ready to boil over. Sparks danced at his fingertips, the small flames flickering with the promise of something far more dangerous. His movements were frenetic, his fingers flying over the holographic interfaces with a desperation born of necessity.

But beneath the facade of furious activity, Mortefi knew he was merely venting his frustration. The solution eluded him, slipping through his grasp like sand through an hourglass. The weight of responsibility pressed down on his shoulders like a leaden cloak, threatening to suffocate him with its burden.

As he worked, his mind raced, grappling with the enormity of the task before him. The Tacet Discords in the afflicted region posed a threat that could not be ignored. And yet, without the necessary data, calibrating the new weapon would be an exercise in futility. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed (Y/N)’s worried expression. Of course, they were worried. They’d worked so hard and now it seemed like it wasn’t going to be coming to fruition before it was too late.

As Mortefi's frustration surged like a rising tide, he couldn't help but feel the weight of responsibility bearing down on him with crushing force. The thought of letting (Y/N) down, of failing to deliver on the promise of their shared vision, gnawed at him like a relentless beast. As their supervisor, Mortefi felt a profound sense of duty towards (Y/N), a responsibility to nurture their talents and guide them towards success. But in this moment of setback, he couldn't shake the nagging doubt that he was falling short of that duty. Despite their tireless efforts, despite the countless hours they'd poured into their work, it seemed as though their efforts were being thwarted at every turn.

He was angry—at the situation, at the obstacles standing in their way, at himself for not being able to find a solution. But beneath the anger lurked a deep-seated sense of disappointment, a feeling of inadequacy that threatened to consume him whole.

He knew (Y/N) looked up to him, trusted him to lead them towards success. And yet, here he was, unable to provide the answers they so desperately sought.

But even as doubt gnawed at his resolve, Mortefi refused to succumb to despair. He couldn't afford to dwell on his shortcomings, not when there was still work to be done. With a weary sigh, he forced himself to push aside his doubts and refocus his energies on finding a solution.

-----

Days had passed since Mortefi's frustration reached its peak, yet the weight of his failure still hung heavy around him like a suffocating shroud. He buried himself in his work, seeking solace in the cool glow of the holographic interface as he delved deeper into the intricacies of the battlefield simulation. On the other end of a holographic call, General Jiyan's stoic visage flickered to life, the lines of responsibility etched deep into his features. Mortefi couldn't help but feel a pang of familiarity as the two men exchanged banter, their camaraderie a welcome respite from the turmoil that raged within.

But as the conversation turned to matters of strategy and optimization, Mortefi's focus sharpened, his mind racing through complex algorithms and theoretical frameworks. With practiced ease, Mortefi presented his analytical data to Jiyan, the holographic interface coming to life with a flurry of data points and statistical analyses. He outlined the intricacies of their weapon optimization, his voice a steady cadence amidst the whirlwind of information.

Impressed, Jiyan nodded approvingly, acknowledging Mortefi's expertise with a rare compliment. "Impressive work, Mortefi," Jiyan remarked, his voice betraying a hint of admiration. "You've truly outdone yourself this time."

"It's not just me," Mortefi admitted, his voice soft with sincerity. "My colleague, (Y/N), their analysis and insights have been instrumental in our progress."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Jiyan's lips, his gaze softening with understanding. "I've never seen you speak of someone so fondly before," he remarked, his tone laced with curiosity.

Mortefi's smile widened, a rare display of warmth amidst the cold confines of the lab. "They're brilliant," he confessed, his admiration for (Y/N) evident in his voice. "Their dedication and expertise have been invaluable to our efforts."

But as Mortefi spoke, his attention was drawn to the email notification blinking insistently in the corner of his screen. With a sense of foreboding settling over him like a shroud, Mortefi opened the message, his heart sinking as he read the contents within.

The color drained from Mortefi's face as he processed the contents of the email. (Y/N) had embarked on a dangerous mission to place the sensors in the heart of the Waveworn Phenomenon, risking their life for the sake of their project. The words blurred before his eyes, Mortefi's mind raced, his thoughts a whirlwind of fear and desperation as he grappled with the gravity of (Y/N)'s sacrifice.

"Mortefi?" Jiyan's voice cut through the haze of Mortefi's thoughts, his concern palpable even through the digital connection. But Mortefi's attention was elsewhere, his whole being consumed by the fear of what might be happening on the other side of the screen. A pit formed in Mortefi's stomach, a sense of dread settling over him like a suffocating shroud. He felt his whole body emitting hot, fiery sparks, his mind racing with a tumult of emotions.

"Mortefi!" Jiyan's voice rose in urgency, snapping Mortefi back to reality with a jolt. But even as he tried to focus on the general's words, Mortefi's mind was elsewhere, his thoughts consumed by the image of (Y/N) putting themselves in harm's way for the sake of their project.

"Is everything alright?" Jiyan continued, concern evident in his eyes.

But Mortefi could barely hear Jiyan over the roaring in his ears, his mind consumed with worry for (Y/N). He rambled about the situation to Jiyan, about the project and about (Y/N)’s email. “Jiyan, I am asking… no, I need you to send a set of Midnight Rangers to the area. Now.” he demanded; his voice tight with urgency. "We need to find (Y/N) before it's too late."

Jiyan's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing in determination. "I will dispatch the Rangers right away," he assured Mortefi, his voice steady and resolute. “But you need to calm down, Mortefi.”

Mortefi's chest heaved with each labored breath, his whole body trembling with fear and rage. "I can't just sit here and do nothing," he protested, his voice thick with emotion. “They’re out there doing this because I couldn’t come up with a timely solution!” His flames grew stronger as he spoke.

"Mortefi, listen to me," Jiyan's voice was firm, commanding Mortefi's attention once more. "I'll send a set of Midnight Rangers to the area immediately. We'll locate (Y/N) and ensure their safety."

But Mortefi's hands trembled, his whole body emitting hot, fiery sparks as the fear threatened to consume him whole. "You don't understand," he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking with emotion. "They're out there, risking everything for us. I can't... I can't lose them."

"We'll find them, Mortefi," Jiyan promised, his tone steady and reassuring. “But you’re currently at risk for overclocking. You're not helping anyone if you lose control."

Mortefi's breath caught in his throat, the weight of his own desperation pressing down on him like a vice. “You’re right.” He nodded. Jiyan was right and he had to be rational. But he wasn’t going to sit in his lab while (Y/N) was out there actively risking their life. “Keep me informed about any information you receive related to them.”

As he ended the call, Mortefi made a reckless decision himself. He couldn't stay behind. He had to see (Y/N), to make sure they were alright. He quickly began arming himself, his movements hurried but precise. His fingers flew over the equipment, securing weapons and tools. His pistols, meticulously crafted and fine-tuned, slipped into their holders with familiar ease. He grabbed additional gear—explosives, a portable scanner and grapple.

Despite his efforts to remain calm, Mortefi's flames flickered wildly, a reflection of his inner turmoil. He knew he was at major risk of overclocking, but he couldn't let that stop him. The thought of (Y/N) in danger was a tormenting presence in his mind, a relentless specter that refused to be ignored. Why was this affecting him so much? He knew Jiyan was a man of his word and would find (Y/N), yet Mortefi couldn't sit back.

He had to see them. He had to make sure they were alright.

As he set out towards the area where (Y/N) was currently at, his thoughts tormented him. What if it was already too late? What if the Tacet Discords had already attacked them? (Y/N) was not a fighter despite being a resonator. Would they be able to fend off the TDs? Why did they feel compelled to do this? Had he pushed them too hard, making them feel the need to risk their safety for this project?

The anguish gnawed at him, a relentless ache in his chest. Each step he took felt like a march through thick mud, his mind racing with possibilities and fears. He replayed every interaction with (Y/N), wondering if he had driven them to this with his harsh words and impossible standards. The pit in his stomach deepened, a black hole of dread that threatened to swallow him whole.

The landscape around him grew increasingly desolate as he approached the Waveworn Phenomenon, the air thick with tension. The sky was a murky gray, heavy with the promise of rain. The ground beneath his feet was rough and uneven. Mortefi's senses were on high alert, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of (Y/N) or the Tacet Discords.

He activated his portable scanner, the device emitting a series of beeps as it analyzed the surrounding area. The data streamed across the holographic display, but Mortefi's attention was split, his thoughts constantly drifting back to (Y/N). What if they had been injured or worse? The images in his mind were vivid and horrifying, each one more terrible than the last.

The area where (Y/N) had set off to seemed forever away, just out of his reach. Mortefi pushed himself to walk faster, his legs burning with the effort, but it wasn't enough. The weight of his fears pressed down on him, making each step feel heavier than the last.

His terminal beeped with a message from an unknown contact. Heart pounding, he opened the message to find it was from a Midnight Ranger. The Ranger, along with his team, had found (Y/N) and were headed toward an encampment nearby. The coordinates for the encampment flashed on his screen, and without hesitation, Mortefi set course for the location.

Relief washed over him, mingling with a fresh wave of anxiety. They had found (Y/N), but the message offered no details about their condition. Were they injured? Were they safe? Mortefi's heart hammered in his chest loudly. The journey to the encampment felt like an eternity. The rough terrain seemed to conspire against him, each step a struggle against the elements. His flames flickered and sparked, scales on his body seemed to expand by the hour. His breath came in ragged gasps, the flames at his fingertips flickering with anxiety.

As he neared the coordinates, the encampment came into view. It was a makeshift shelter, hastily assembled but sturdy enough to withstand the elements. Mortefi's heart pounded in his chest, his fear and anticipation mounting with each step. His eyes darted around, searching frantically for any sign of (Y/N). The tension in the air was palpable, every nerve in his body on high alert.

A Midnight Ranger approached him cautiously, recognizing the volatile state Mortefi was in. "Mortefi?" the Ranger called out gently, holding up a hand to stop him. "Please, you need to calm down. Sir, your flames are getting everywhere."

Mortefi barely registered the words, his eyes wild with desperation. "Where are they?" he demanded, his voice a raw edge of fear and anger. "Where's (Y/N)?"

The Ranger stepped closer, trying to project calm. "They're here, but you need to take care of yourself first. You're at risk of overclocking. If you lose control, you could hurt them."

A medic hurried over, a look of concern on their face. "Sir, you need to stabilize. Please, let us help you before you see (Y/N)."

Mortefi's flames flickered wildly, his body emitting intense heat. He knew the medic was right, but the thought of (Y/N) lying somewhere injured was tearing him apart. "I can't wait," he protested, his voice cracking. "I need to see them now."

The medic shook their head firmly. "If you go in like this, you could do more harm than good. Please, take these." They handed Mortefi a set of vials containing a cooling serum and weak sedative. "These will help you stabilize."

Reluctantly, Mortefi took the vials, his hands trembling. He injected the serum into his arm, feeling the cool liquid spread through his veins. The flames that had been flickering uncontrollably began to subside, the heat within him slowly dissipating. He followed the medic to a small, makeshift tent where he was instructed to sit.

"Good," the medic said, watching him closely. "Now, follow my instructions. Breathe slowly, in and out. Focus on the cooling sensation, let it calm you."

Mortefi obeyed, his breath coming in slow, measured gasps. His thoughts were still a chaotic storm of fear and guilt, but the physical symptoms of overclocking began to fade. The medic continued to monitor him, occasionally checking his vital signs and administering small doses of additional medicines as needed.

Once his flames were under control, the medic nodded in approval. "You're doing better," she said. "Now we can talk about (Y/N)."

Mortefi's heart clenched at the mention of their name. "How are they?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The medic's expression grew somber. "Their injuries are severe," she said. "Second-degree burns, lesions on different parts of their body, multiple lacerations, and severe exhaustion. It will take time for them to heal. When we found them, they were delirious from the pain and poison. They kept begging for it to be over, and they kept repeating your name until we sedated them."

Mortefi felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under him. The flames within him dimmed to a mere flicker, extinguished by the weight of his guilt and sorrow. He hung his head, his shoulders shaking with the effort to hold back tears. "This is my fault," he whispered. "I pushed them too hard. I drove them to this."

The medic placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "They’re stable now, but it will take time for them to heal. They are stronger than you think. We’ll shift them to the hospital in a few hours.”

He stood up; his legs shaky but determined. "I need to see them," he said quietly.

The medic led him to the back of the encampment where a makeshift infirmary had been set up. The sight of (Y/N) lying there, hooked up to various medical devices, made Mortefi's chest tighten. He approached slowly; his steps heavy with the weight of his guilt. (Y/N) looked so fragile, their body covered in bandages and their face pale.

Mortefi sank into a chair beside the bed, his heart aching with every beat. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I never meant for this to happen." He shook his head, the tears finally spilling over. "Of all the people," he choked out, "you were the last person I wanted to see hurt.”

As he sat there, holding their hand, Mortefi felt a sense of resolve settle over him. He would do whatever it took to help (Y/N) recover. And when they did, he would be honest about his feelings, about how much they meant to him. "I'm here," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "And I'm not going anywhere. When you wake up, we'll face this together. I'll make things right, I promise."

The encampment was quiet, the only sound the soft beeping of monitors and the gentle rustle of the wind outside. Mortefi sat by (Y/N)'s side, holding their hand as if it were a lifeline. The medic's words echoed in his mind; a reminder of the pain (Y/N) had endured. They had repeated his name, even in their delirium. Mortefi sat there, watching over (Y/N) as they slept, his mind a storm of emotions. He would make things right. He had to. Because losing (Y/N) was not an option. Not now, not ever.

Wuwa Masterlist