#lore night in bound

[retrokid616]

OH FUCKS ME ITS FEARNES DAD!

[loregoddess]

some rambling thoughts about Unicorn Overlord and the angels and how they're written under the cut (lots of endgame spoilers), because I haven't been able to stop thinking about some things since finishing the game

So, I've been watching some of the other maiden rite dialogue and endings for UO, and some of them are insane. Like. Alain can marry Dinah--their paired ending says she becomes the new queen, so he definitely marries her, and presents to all of Cornia he beautiful wife, who is also Literally A Fox.

But! despite having very romantic rites with say, Raenys or Umerus, he does not marry them in his paired ending (they both return to Albion and just. Live their lives. no marriage implied, like, Alain's got more romantic "but not married" endings with some of the male characters than he does any of the angels).

Fascinating implications honestly. I had suspected that the bestrals were willing to live in family units with humans (as implied by Ramona, Morard, and Yunifi being a family unit, batshit backstories aside; and also the entire orphanage side quest). Like sure, there aren't any like, half-bestral half-human offspring in the game unlike the confirmed "half-elves exist, and a lot of humans are hot for elves", but the bestrals are shown to live in family units with human members. And while no one (aside? from? Alain? sir?) is hot for the bestrals (at least I didn't find any NPCs who were like, "hot damn" about the bestrals), we also don't see any human characters fawning over the angels (whatever Sharon and Ochlys have aside, I'll get to them in a sec).

And like, in-game the angels (technically "the winged", I know angel is a specific term but bear with me here) are all religiously and culturally treated as like, literal divine messengers of the heavens. But we also learn from the sage in Albion that they aren't divine in any way, they're literally just humans with wings, the result of an ancient magical lab experiment that apparently went wrong.

So it's like? The idea that they're divine messengers was definitely made-up, probably by the first pontifex, to give the winged a place to exist safely in society, but! But also this ends up getting warped in the most fascinating ways bc it leads to the "present day" culture(s) in the game, where other races are jealous of the angels but generally get along with them, but also, most importantly, view them as divine. Even though there are like, winged children and families, and they're clearly just people with wings, no one treats them that way, and while this leads to some of the angels being really arrogant (Ochlys's parents thinking humans are lesser beings), it also puts all the angels in a really weird spot.

Like, Ochlys loves Sharon bc Sharon treats her like a person, and doesn't revere her with reverence to the point of isolation (which seems to be how most humans treat angels), and so we get the idea that generally, a lot of angels are isolated from all the other races because they are viewed as divine. And this also places some absolutely insane expectations on the angels themselves, like, if they're divine messengers of the heavens, then they're supposed to be perfect, they're supposed to embody and represent everything that is the heavenly divine, they're not allowed to be people.

But the thing is, Baltro knows damned well (as do all the ancient Zenoiran souls) that the angels aren't divine anything, they're a failed magical experiment that got propped up on an isolated pedestal, who've have been acting the part of divine messengers bc that's what's expected of them, that's all they've ever know, it's so ingrained in the culture after 800 years that no one even questions it. But the angels are people with flaws and emotions that can be manipulated, and that is exactly what Baltro and the other Zenoiran forces do. Baltro doesn't even need the mind-control magic, because the way the culture of Fevrith treats the angels makes them extremely easy to manipulate by toying with their emotions and how they view themselves and how humans view them.

Take Umerus for example. Umerus throws aside all her values in a desperate attempt to save her brother's life, because she loves him, he's the last family she has left, and she'd even turn her blade on her oldest friend and anyone else if it meant a chance at saving him. And when Alain and Scarlett are able to save her brother for her and free her from Zenoiran influence, she ends up so guilt-ridden over her actions because she went against everything that her culture and everyone in the world has told her she is--divine and perfect and holy--because she's failed at being "an angel", so she's wracked with immense guilt that she can't escape.

Had any other character (human, elf, or bestral) been in Umerus's position, their actions wouldn't have been questioned, others would have been like "well, of course you'd act that way in that situation, that makes sense" and all would be forgiven, and while Alain and Scarlett are able to forgive Umerus (bc they treat and see her as a person), Umerus can't forgive herself, because she doesn't seem to see herself as a person, only as an angel who failed at being an angel.

And like, it's like this for almost all the angels in the Albion section. Fodoquia is ready to die fighting Zenoira right up till his own people make a sacrifice of his son, and then Zenoira uses his grief and rage to control him until Alain shows up (Fodoquia's admittedly faster to forgive himself, but he never truly bent to Zenoira's will and it seems he felt justified in a lot of his resentment towards the people who killed his son, even if he also feels guilt in his lost faith in them).

Sanatio is presented with a dead pontifex and the promise that all of Albion and the theocracy that upholds it will fall into utter chaos if he ever lets people know that the pontifex is dead. Baltro uses Sanatio's faith like puppet strings to make Sanatio mislead all of the orthodoxy, and Sanatio hates himself for it afterwards because he's not only an angel, but one of the highest ranking angels in the orthodoxy, he's supposed to be divine, to be above being manipulated and toyed with, and he failed that. And all the reasons why he failed are totally understandable and would have been forgiven so quickly had he been literally anything except an angel (and again, Alain and Scarlett don't hold any of Baltro's manipulation against Sanatio), but Sanatio can't forgive himself, he can't see his actions as anything outside of horrific and sinful bc that's all the culture around the angels has taught him.

And on the flipside we get Raenys, who is so devoted to trying to be the paragon of an angel, to protect others and uphold what is right, that her actions are nearly self-destructive, because she would die rather than fail.

Ochlys is the only angel in the entire game who seems even remotely well-adjusted, and that seems to be because she cut ties with her parents and their ideals, and also decided she was going to do whatever she pleased in her job rather than listen to her boss. And she met and spent an immense amount of time with Sharon, who treated her like a person from the start and gave Ochlys a chance to see herself as a person, rather than just as a divine angel.

And yet! Alain can't marry any of them. He can marry elves and bestrals, and of course other humans, but not the angels. The culture around the angels is such that even though his rite dialogue with Raenys ends with them kissing, he can't marry her, bc she is an angel, she is the divine, and I honestly don't know if a marriage between an angel and someone of literally any other race would be allowed, because it'd probably be viewed as sacrilege of some sort, because people aren't supposed to fall in love with something divine, they're supposed to revere it, but never bring it down to their level, because the angels--to what seems to be the cultural norms of all Fevrith--aren't people in their own right.

And I dunno, I got off topic, I was just gonna make a joke post about the fact that Alain could take a fox-woman as his queen, but not a human woman with some wings. But the fact is I've had a lot of thoughts about Albion and the angels, and how subtly the writing shows the culture around them, and like. It's so interesting, but also tragic, and hrm, the writing in the game, man. The writing gets me.

[the-cimmerians]

It's 2024. I have been participating in fandom for 40 years. This is a ramble commemorating some history I've experienced along the way.

In 1984, I attended my first convention, and made a beeline for the one long row of covered tables in the Dealer's Room that was, according to the whispered lore of my friends, 'the one'. "um", I said, very suavely and coherently, except for how it was totally the opposite of those things, "I'm here for the... for the, uh. For-"

"Come around here," the man behind the table said with exhausted ennui, so I went around, and he lifted up the table skirt next to him and pointed to rows and rows of boxes underneath the line of tables. "It's all under here."

It was all under there. Along with about five older ladies with glasses, graying hair, cardigans. Flipping through slash zines and chatting in whispered voices like old friends (which of course they were). I noticed one of them had the good sense to be wearing kneepads. I was still too young and ablebodied to need kneepads when crawling on a carpeted floor, but I immediately found her preparedness skills to be both impressive and hot. "You're new," one of the ladies whispered to me--a bit warily, which made sense. "Are you sure you're in the right place?"

In the faint light (the kneepads lady had also come prepared with a flashlight, additional practicality hotness points for her) I grabbed a comb-bound book with a heavy line art piece on the cover, featuring a musclebound Captain Kirk getting righteously and enthusiastically plowed by a stern-yet-ebullient Spock. "This," I said, pointing helpfully at the cover, like I was trying to make myself understood in a language I had only the vaguest knowledge of. "I'm here for this."

Outside at the convention, most of the attendees were wearing large homemade circular pins that shrieked 'K/S is BS!!!'1. But underneath the table, we reveled in the forbidden.

***

In 1985, I fell very hard for Starsky & Hutch fandom. Which was simply referred to at the time as 'the other fandom', because there were only two. We were upstarts. Many fannish elders predicted that it was just a phase.

***

The 'circulating library' was a massive stack of barely-legible pages that smelled strongly of mimeograph ink. When you were on the list, you would write stories while you waited for your turn, and when the big box was mailed to you, you would read everything (new finds, old favorites), add your own sloppily-typed or hastily-mimeographed stories, and then mail the whole thing to the next person. For me, at the time, it was an extremely expensive indulgence--but my favorite one.

***

By 1990, slash fandom had grown enough that I no longer knew everyone in it, which was both thrilling and a bit daunting. A young woman at a convention waited for me after a panel I was part of (I think it was 'writing impactful smut' or something like that), and said she had a question she didn't want to ask in a group setting. I'd heard that before. I said that's fine, go ahead and ask; and she came out with: "Why do you have to be gay?"

I blinked. "Is... that a problem?"

She looked annoyed. "Yes, because your stories are on all the recommendation lists and in all the top zines, but if you're gay and I read something you wrote and I get hot from it that makes me gay, and I'm not gay."

"Wow." I grinned, I couldn't help it. It probably made me look very predatory-dyke-about-to-score-a-toaster. Whatever, it was enough to make her back away from me fast.

When I thought about it later that night, I wondered what it would be like not to be the only queer person in slash fandom.

***

By 1997, slash started appearing on the internet. Many fannish elders claimed it was the death knell of slash fandom, or dismissed it as 'just a phase'.

***

Anyway, I wrote all this for myself as a commemoration of sorts, but if you took the time to read it--thank you. Love you, fandom. I always will.

1 In those days, m/m fandom was known as 'slash', which grew from the fannish shorthand where 'K&S' meant a story of Kirk and Spock having adventures or tribulations or what have you, and 'K/S' meant a story of Kirk and Spock getting it on (Kirk divided by Spock or Spock into Kirk--it was mathy fannish humor and I was into it then and I still am now). Slash was decidedly unpopular in the fannish world in 1984, and there was a concerted effort to force slash authors, artists, and fans out of 'mainstream' fannish public life. Hence, under the table.

[shiverhohojiro]

I think that everyone has at least one tidbit of Splatoon Canon Lore Information that they are perfectly well aware of, and also disregard entirely.

[saintobio]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓. (final part to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑.)

in the painful memory of what once was, sylus learns that love can't be bound where it was never meant to stay.

♱ pairings. sylus, fem!reader

♱ genre. angst, smut, boss/assistant, 18+

♱ tags. sylus's pov, reader is not l&ds!mc, sylus might be ooc, main story spoilers, razor's dance spoilers, nightplumes spoilers, lots of timeskip, fast-paced, unrequited love, profanity, petnames (kitten, sweetie), espionage, jealousy, brief smut, mentions of pregnancy/impregnation kink, mentions of accidents, suicide attempt, injuries, blood, usage of guns, usage of knife, killings, death, my own theories incorporated into the lore, sylus groveling bcos yall want him to

♱ notes. 9.5k wc. l&ds!mc is referred to here as 'diana'. THIS IS A REPOST of the original post i accidentally deleted. i already posted this several hours ago, so if you’re seeing this new one again, blame my dumbass 🤧 oh well life is life.

Sylus had a part of him that wished things could be different. 

Ever since he turned away and left you that night at the alleyway, he didn’t really realize the chain of events his decision would set into motion. He simply underestimated how strongly your threats were backed by the grudge you had on him for bringing the hunter girl from Linkon into his base.

After all, you were just an assistant of his. And her, she was everything to him. It wasn’t just about the Aether Core, too—their bond stretched back into his distant past, into another planet where two of them ruled before the inhabitants of Philos came to ruin everything. Him and Diana had a connection he couldn’t sever no matter how much you had come to mean to him. And he spent years, centuries even, just to search for her. 

So, how could a mere assistant he had known for less than a decade have such entitlement to her role in his life? 

Eventually, days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. With your prolonged absence from the Onychinus base, Sylus’s business transactions and illicit deals had become increasingly unruly. He had grown too dependent on you as his right-hand woman, relying on your meticulous management to ensure all his illegal activities ran smoothly. Yet now, without your oversight, things were falling apart.

And while he was contemplating how to fill the void your absence had created, the office door slammed open. A subordinate soon rushed in, breathless and wide-eyed. “Boss, she’s betrayed us!” Luke exclaimed. “She’s gone to the Hunter’s Association. We got word that she was a high-ranking intelligence agent there!”

“A.K.A a spy!” yelled the other twin, Kieran, who looked equally hurt at your betrayal. “She fooled all of us. And here, we treated her like family.” 

That was how Sylus learned that you had left the N109 Zone, seeking refuge in Linkon City, and had exposed critical intel on Onychinus. At the time, rage naturally exploded within him. Didn’t he take good care of you while you were here? He had given you everything, trusted you, and you had thrown it all away. Four years of falling into his trap. Four years of being his partner in crime, his right-hand woman, his lover. People even saw you as the modern day Bonnie & Clyde. Sylus couldn’t understand the root of your betrayal, couldn’t imagine how letting you slip away from his grasp would cost him so much in return.

When you vowed to do everything in your power to kill Diana, was this just a part of your grand scheme? What other machinations were you orchestrating in your pursuit of revenge?

“She’s a wild animal on loose.” Sylus looked up at the twins, maintaining a calm yet ruthless mien as he sat on the couch. He might be idly tossing a coin like he didn’t care, but inside his brain was chaos ensuing. “Where’s she now? Any news?”

It was Luke who shrugged in response. “She hasn’t been seen anywhere, boss-man.”

“We suspect the Association is hiding her,” Kieran added. 

The hunter girl, Diana—the very girl you were jealous of, was sitting next to Sylus throughout the conversation. Their hands were connected by a strong energy linkage that was seemingly ignited by the Aether Cores in their bodies. They couldn’t separate themselves even if they wanted to. And God forbid you would have lost your mind tenfold had you seen their situation right now. 

“That g-girl,” gasped the hunter girl, eyes wide in bewilderment at what she was hearing. “Sylus, your assistant. She did all that? She was a spy from the Hunter’s Association?” 

Luke tilted her head at the girl, his beaked mask mocking her. “Oh, miss hunter! Haven’t you heard about the HIS? You should know them better than us.” 

“Well.. what is the HIS?” 

“Hunter Intelligence Services.” Sylus was the one who answered, releasing a deep sigh while rubbing his temples. “They’re top secret. Regular hunters wouldn’t have known about them, because they only deal with people like me.” 

Diana looked between him and the twins, rubbing her wrist before moving closer to the boss of Onychinus. Her close proximity allowed him to smell her familiar sweet scent. “Is she… after me? But I don’t understand. If she’s part of the Hunter’s Association too, then shouldn’t we be colleagues?”

Kieran cleared his throat. “Ever since you came—”

“Place a bounty on her head,” Sylus interrupted the twins, and also ignored the question of the girl next to him. She didn’t need to learn the history behind you and him, or why you chose to target her. “Make sure to bring Y/N back to me. Alive.” 

“Roger that, boss!” 

It was his last desperate attempt to draw you back to him. Now that you had the Hunter’s Association protecting you, Sylus knew that locating you wouldn’t be as simple. Otherwise, he would have easily captured Diana long ago. He convinced himself that the bounty was to punish you, but deep down, he knew it was because he couldn’t bear to lose you to his enemies completely.

~~

It took you a year to return to the N109 Zone.

Did you forget he had eyes and ears everywhere? He was the boss of that infamous No-Hunt Zone. Even if you leaked intel about his residences and the Onychinus base to the Hunter’s Association, Sylus still had a few tricks up his sleeve. He had hideouts in places that even you weren’t aware of, and the residents of the N109 Zone were loyal to him. Too loyal that they wouldn’t give any information to anyone no matter the consequences. 

And how foolish were you to forget about Mephisto’s existence?

“Caw! Caw!”

The mechanical crow’s eyes glowed with the same red hue as Sylus’s as it landed on his arm, projecting visions of you entering the underground fight club disguised in an Onychinus uniform. It was almost farcical that you thought you could infiltrate a place Sylus frequented unnoticed.

But then, the vision shifted to you speeding on a motorcycle with a truck in hot pursuit. Sylus quickly recognized the truck’s decals—it was the hitman he often employed for dealing with his enemies, now terrorizing you in a high-speed chase. Without hesitation, Sylus grabbed his leather jacket and mounted his own bike, racing to your location in sixth gear.

He arrived just a minute too late. And what was meant to be a dramatic reunion turned into a scene of you lying unconscious and injured on the road, while the hitman grinned nearby with an expression of triumph. If it hadn’t been for your helmet, Sylus would have been met with the gruesome sight of your shattered skull.

“Mr. Sylus!” the hitman exclaimed, jumping out of his truck with arms outstretched in petty victory. “Can I get the $500,000,000 in cash?”

As Sylus’s gaze fell on your unconscious, injured body sprawled on the ground, a surge of anguish overwhelmed him in ways he couldn’t understand. But it was quickly replaced by seething rage—rage that made him summon his black-red mist, enveloping the hitman in its dark tendrils.

“I said not to harm her,” Sylus growled, his red eye glowing ominously against the desolate highway backdrop. “You failed your task.”

“P-Please, Mr. Sylus! I thought you—”

Without another word, Sylus scooped you up in his arms while his mist dealt with the hitman behind him. The hitman’s desperate cries were soon drowned out by the expanding tendrils, which tightened around him until he was engulfed. Then, in a violent burst, the mist exploded, reducing the hitman and everything around him to dust.

Sylus brought you to his underground hideout immediately after. And an unfamiliar—or perhaps strange—pang tugged at his heart as he gently laid you in bed, his gaze lingering on the road rash you obtained from the crash. The injuries were severe, with patches of skin nearly stripped away in the most brutal fashion he could think of. He could only imagine the burning pain you had to endure as soon as you skidded along the gravel, and Sylus felt his own frustrations knocking at the door knowing that he didn’t have the power to extend his fast-healing abilities to you.

“Tch. My kitten’s reckless as always, riding without the proper gear,” Sylus grumbled, looking at your unconscious body. “You’ve never been one to follow the rules, have you?”

To make up for his inability to save you on time, he applied a potent medicinal ointment all over your body and placed you in an anesthetized state while you healed. His mist enveloped you like a protective shroud the entire time you laid in bed unconscious. Every single day, Sylus tended to your wounds, changing your clothes and bandages, and applying the ointments over your bare body. He even took special care to ensure the twins did not enter your room without his permission. 

Despite the care he showed, a persistent question echoed in his mind: Why am I doing this for you? You were his enemy, a traitor, and a woman who had betrayed him. It didn’t make sense. 

That afternoon, feeling suffocated from this internal conflict, Sylus decided to leave you in the care of Luke and Kieran while he went to Linkon. He knew he needed space to grapple with the feelings that were driving him to care for you in the first place.

He needed to see the real woman he should be caring for. 

Because you had not only exposed intel on Sylus and Onychinus to the Hunter’s Association, you also asked for them to isolate Diana so she would have no way to see or contact him. Who knew that mere feelings of jealousy would spark you to do such trivial things? 

Frankly, you were insane. You were dark and twisted like him. 

But in a way, it only underscored how similarly deranged the two of you were. Perhaps, in your madness, there was a strange compatibility—one that Sylus found unsettlingly fitting. The suggestion of you two being more a suitable pair than he and Diana gave him an unease that he couldn’t simply shake away. 

It should be her. Her. Just her and her alone. He dedicated his whole life into finding her, yet you came into his life to ruin the foundations he had built to meet the person he was supposedly destined for. He had repeated it over and over in his mind like a broken record—the voices in his head telling him to let you go, to hurt you, to make you suffer. 

However, as he stood across the pedestrian crossing, watching Diana from afar, a realization hit him like a cold gust of wind. There she was, oblivious to his presence on the other side, but the spark that once ignited in his heart whenever he saw her was gone. Now, his pulse remained steady and his heart stayed still.

With a wary glance around, mindful of any watchful eyes, he decided to pick up his phone and ring hers. It was a good thing he was able to seamlessly blend into the crowd, with his practiced nonchalance making him invisible among the throng of people. After all, he was Sylus Qin, the mastermind of Onychinus—disguise was second nature to him.

“Sylus?” Her voice came through the line, tentative and filled with a mix of emotions as she scanned the faces on the other side of the crossing.

“According to the conditions set by the Hunter’s Association, we shouldn’t be meeting again.” His voice was steady, almost detached, as he kept the phone pressed to his ear. “Or if not, you will be marked as a Tenebra.” 

Her eyes eventually found him amidst the walking crowd, keeping an expression on her face that showed both longing and forlornness. “Not the first time someone has been marked a Tenebra because of you,” she managed to slip in a snarky remark in her worried expression. “Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?” 

“Are you worried about me?” he nonchalantly asked, watching as she stepped off the curb when the light turned green. Each step was a step closer to him, but nothing changed the pace of his own heartbeat like it should have. Nothing stirred within him as it once did.

“You have the audacity to use a phone when you’re right in front of me,” she snapped, frustration flaring as she yanked the phone from his grasp. Without hesitation, she grabbed his arm, dragging him along with her to escape the dangers of being seen in public. They ended up in an alleyway, a place hidden from prying eyes, an irony that made Sylus chuckle under his breath. The alleyway. Why has that become such a memorable place to him? “Sylus, what’s so funny? I was so scared something happened to you! You couldn’t even call me back or text me the past few days?”

He remained expressionless as he observed her outburst. Strange. In her frantic worry, she reminded him of you, and it was a discomfiting parallel that sent chills down his spine. “I said I’d need to disappear from your life completely, so I have to tie up loose ends,” he began, each word seemingly a dagger to her heart. “We haven’t been able to resonate either way, sweetie. There’s no reason for us to keep meeting.” 

“No!” she adamantly denied the thought, pulling him into an embrace. “No, you’re not allowed to disappear just like that! We need to find a way to get—”

“It’s a dangerous gamble to be caught in my world,” he said in a low voice. 

But she was stubborn. “I’m already caught in it! So, please, Sylus, take me with you. Take me to the N109 Zone or wherever you’re hiding. I want to be where you are.” And in spite, she uttered words that made Sylus think twice about his perception of you. “It’s her fault that this is all happening. She’s a traitor to you and to the Association. Her loyalty isn’t with anyone but herself, Sylus. She’s the one who needs to disappear!”

~~

Back at his hideout, Sylus was careful to ensure that Diana remained oblivious to your presence in another room. He was already grappling with how to manage the situation—torn between the woman he loved and the woman he had wronged who, ironically, were both now under the same roof. The thought of you two crossing paths was a nightmare he didn’t want to deal with, so he gave strict orders to the twins, notorious for their loose lips and loud mouths, to keep Diana far from you.

Because when Sylus returned to your room, he knew you were awake. The dark classical music playing from the vinyl record had likely stirred you from unconsciousness. It had been nearly a week since the crash, but thanks to his meticulous care, your wounds had mostly healed, leaving only faint scars behind.

“You can’t hide from me forever.” Sylus hovered over you to whisper into your ear, summoning his protective black-red mist to slowly release you. “Wake up, kitten. We have unfinished business.” 

When you finally opened your eyes after what felt like an eternity, Sylus told himself it was natural to feel relieved, that it was only right for his heart to soften at the sight of you returning to consciousness. But as you awoke, the voices in his head—the damned, relentless voices—grew louder, mocking him, provoking him, and luring him into darker thoughts. His right eye began to glow like a flickering candle, and when he saw the fear on your face, the words that followed weren’t his own. They were driven by the unforgiving side of him he couldn’t control, a side that thrived on your terror. The beast that couldn’t be tamed. 

She’s a traitor.

Punish her. 

Hurt her. 

Devour her. 

While in a heated, dramatic exchange with you, Sylus was spewing words he didn’t mean. He was doing actions without regard. He was mocking your pain. Your jealousy. Your heartbreak. The drive to hurt you was strong in his head, but he fought desperately against it. The demon inside him that tried to consume his every thought. He tried to battle his own self just to protect you. 

“I betrayed you because of her!” 

His laughter died down, but the amusement in his eyes only deepened, replaced by the wicked smile on his face that enjoyed seeing you suffer. “It’s always been about her, hasn’t it? You see me with her, and you can’t stand it. It eats at you, makes you act out.”

You tried to move away, but Sylus pressed his foot firmly on your wrist. She betrayed you, Sylus. Punish her. 

“I’ve seen your struggle,” he continued, his voice soft but laced with corrupt satisfaction. “The way you watched me with her, the way it gnaws at you. It’s almost poetic, really.”

It wasn’t until you reached for the gun on his nightstand, pointing it at yourself, that Sylus snapped out of his dark trance. The horror in his eyes was a stark contrast to the sorrowful shine in yours as you stood there, sobbing in front of him. Each word you spoke was tailed with the pain of a heart shattered by everything he had done and said. 

“...All I wanted was your love,” you choked out with tears cascading down your face, “I j-just wanted you to love me. I turned my back on the H.A. for you. I left all my friends and family for you.” Your breathing was still for a moment, but your heart had already been blown into smithereens. “All I had was you. I loved you. I devoted all my body and soul into loving you, Sylus. Why c-can’t I have even a little bit in return?”

Even as his gaze softened and a flicker of regret passed across his face, you had already made your decision when your finger tightened on the trigger. The recoil jolted your wrist, but before the bullet could find its mark, Sylus’s hand shot out and expertly deflected your aim. Instead of ending your life, the bullet shattered a window, ricocheting off the glass and disappearing into the night.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Sylus roared, his voice a thunderous mix of fury and disbelief.

You were barely responding to him as he cupped your cheeks and forced your lachrymose eyes to lock into his crimson ones. It was as though you had already resigned yourself to reality, that ending your own life would have been a better option than being with the man you hopelessly loved. 

“Y/N,” Sylus tried to shake you awake, desperate for you to look into his eyes. “Y/N! Enough. Let’s end this game.” 

“...I was never playing one with you.”

Sylus was overwhelmed by a profound, indescribable pain that pierced his chest. It was a pain that mirrored yours but was infinitely more intense. “I warned you many times before to never fall in love with me,” he said in a low, softened voice, “It’s for the best, and it’s what will keep you safe. Why don’t you listen?” He longed to pull you into his arms, but the crushing reality was that he only now realized how deeply he cared for you. It was devastating that his awakening had come at the cost of your near-suicide, forced by a love he was unable to return.

Was it truly too late for him to come to terms with his feelings for you? Was it too late to accept that he had fallen in love with you rather than the woman he believed he was meant to be with?

His answer came in the form of a gut-wrenching realization. It manifested in the frantic voice of Diana—the woman he believed he loved, piercing through the haze of his thoughts by yelling, “Sylus, step back!”

“No!” he shouted, his black-red mist swirling to intercept the bullet.

But his efforts came too late. The bullet had already been set in motion, and it tore through the side of your head. 

It penetrated your skull with a cruel precision, not just once but twice. And the warmth of your blood seeped through his fingers as he caught your head before you fell onto the floor. 

Sylus’s mind raced with the enormity of what had just happened. His face grew ashen as he looked at your bloodied head and lifeless eyes, a wave of acid welling up his chest until he couldn’t breath. But the reason for his suffocation was because of his own guilt and grief. It was at the force of a sledgehammer when he was hit with the admission that he had always been in love with you. All along, despite your tangled mess, it was you who had captured his heart in this world.

His chest tightened, his breaths coming in ragged, broken bursts, while he held you close in his arms. And your last three words, your very last words of “I… love… you…” as you stared despairingly at him was icing on this bitter cake. 

No… no! 

He couldn’t fucking accept it. He was losing his mind, he was going insane. He was plunging into madness. Utter hysteria. “Y/N, please,” he begged, his voice breaking as your eyes, once full of life and light, were now glazed over with the sheen of death. “Don’t leave. No, I can’t let this happen!” For the first time in a long time, he once again felt hot tears leaving his eyes. It was an emotion so rare it only ever showed toward the people he deeply cared about. “I love you too,” he struggled to say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what I said back there.”

Sylus held you close, disregarding the blood staining his clothes while he was consumed by agony and regret. He had driven you to this, pushed you away, and then drawn you back into his orbit only to lose you forever. 

Though he may have conquered your heart, in doing so, he had only destroyed the both of you. The memory of your love and the warmth of your touch would haunt him for the rest of his days. And as he held your lifeless body, he knew that he would never be whole again.

But it shouldn’t be too late. No, it shouldn’t! He didn’t know if it was the hysteria or adrenaline kicking into him, but he had thought of an idea—no matter how immoral—that would return you back to him. He just couldn’t weigh which strong emotion he had to deal with first; should he grab the gun and shoot Diana out of anger? Or should he ignore her presence entirely and just focus on you?

Sylus chose to proceed with the latter as he carried you through the corridors of the base, his steps heavy with guilt and his shirt drenched in blood as you remained unconscious in his arms. The hunter girl had followed him in his spiritless steps, her eyes wide with confusion over his anguish.

“Sylus, why are you doing this?!” she demanded, grabbing his arm to halt his progress. “She would’ve killed you. That girl’s a traitor!”

Although he stopped in his tracks, he couldn’t really return her gaze. His eyes could only look at your lifeless ones. “That girl you shot in the head,” he spoke low and in despair, “is my woman.” 

Diana was horrified. “But… but you never said—” Before she could finish, the twins intervened, holding her back from pursuing Sylus further. “What about me?”

He had already turned away. “I’ll fulfill my promise to protect you from afar, but this is where our paths part. Do not come near me again.”

~~

Sylus stood over your unconscious body, his eyes bloodshot and tears-streaked, while his heart pounded with a mix of grief and desperation. He had summoned Philip and the finest surgeons he knew to his hideout, where you lay in a medical bed, exposed and vulnerable, as if you were a subject in a desperate experiment.

Philip arrived with a grim expression, his eyes scanning the scene with both skepticism and professional detachment. Sylus could barely contain his desperation as he demanded, “Do everything you can to save her. Even if it means infusing a high-grade protocore in her brain.” After all, he had plenty of that. Sylus had all the resources, protocores of the highest grade, each with their own purpose and capabilities.

Yet Philip hesitated, his face contorting with concern. “Mr. Sylus, you know I can’t do this. She’s gone. The best thing to do is accept—”

That was when Sylus’s composure cracked. He kicked the nearby chair out of rage, tears streaming down his face as he begged, “You’ve done it before. Do it again! Please, I need her to live!”

The sight of Sylus, usually so imposing and dominant, breaking down in front of him was shocking. Philip felt a pang of sympathy toward the Onychinus boss who was willing to do everything for a woman who was already dead. His hands trembled as he spoke, “I-I can try. But I’m warning you, Mr. Sylus… even if she survives this, there’s zero chance her memories will be the same. They may even become altered, and it will be out of our control.”

Sylus’s gaze never left you. “I don’t mind. Just do it.”

~~

Weeks later, Sylus found himself in a secluded alleyway, meeting with a deepspace hunter who was also an enemy of his from another planet. Of course, the atmosphere was tense as both men stood in front of each other, eye-to-eye, carrying a defensive stance from one another. 

They were never friends. But that day, they weren’t enemies either. 

“How’s she?” Xavier broke the silence first. 

Sylus answered with a low voice. “She hasn’t woken up, but she’s stable.”

“Why’d you ask to meet?”

“I want you to look after her,” the Onychinus leader began, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of desperation, “Speak to the Association about taking Y/N back and forgiving her for her betrayal. In return, I’ll step away from Diana’s life. She’s all yours. I just want Y/N to return to her normal life.”

Xavier’s expression was serious. “You’re forgetting you still have a bounty on your head.”

“And you’re forgetting you and your backtrackers destroyed the planet where I was living,” he replied in equal disdain, but only enough to trap Xavier into a wall of guilt and obligation.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Lumiere—or, in his current form, the deepspace hunter, Xavier. “The HIS will be easy to convince. But what if she wakes up and wants to go back to the N109 Zone?”

Sylus felt a tug of deep sadness pulling at his heart. “She won’t. Her memories of me are gone for good.” 

~~

If this was his karma for hurting you, then it was definitely the worst kind. 

Sylus maintained a distant watch over you after you returned to Linkon, observing from afar as you rejoined your life with the support of the Hunter’s Association and former colleagues. Each day, he sent Mephisto to monitor your whereabouts, carefully tracking your interactions and daily activities. The mechanical crow often returned with glimpses of your life, which Sylus scrutinized with intense focus as if he were watching a movie. Each glimpse offered him a sense of relief, happiness even, at knowing how easy you were settling back into your old life. 

You had been officially dismissed from the Hunter’s Association due to a medical condition that rendered you unfit for duty, but they continued to cover your pension and provided free lodging—likely thanks to Xavier’s persuasive influence over the Association. The official story was that you had been sent on a dangerous mission where a Wanderer had placed you in a life-threatening predicament. The narrative praised your honor and dedication to the end. There was no mention of Sylus, Onychinus, or the N109 Zone. No hint of the life you had once led or the truth behind your memory erasure. 

Yet, in a bitter twist of irony, perhaps the story you were told may not actually be farther from the truth.

After all, Sylus was the dangerous monster that sent you to that life-and-death situation.

But at least now, you were well cared for. So much so that Sylus fought to contain his jealousy whenever Mephisto’s eyes relayed visions of you sharing lunch with a physician named Dr. Zayne. He struggled to mask his irritation as he saw the man drape an arm around your shoulders while guiding you out of the hospital or wrapping a scarf around your neck to keep you warm. He would often even drive you home and send you gifts that were masked as tokens of “recovery.”

Bullshit.

Sylus clenched his fist, his thoughts of jealousy consuming him. My girl, he thought in despair, my beautiful girl is cherished by other men, while he remained imprisoned in the desolate shadows of the N109 Zone, longing for you.

Eventually, Sylus felt an overwhelming urge to see you in person. After discovering that you had taken a job at a café in Bloomshore District, he convinced himself that observing you from a distance wouldn’t cause harm. He just wanted to be near you, to ensure your safety, and to protect you from any potential threats.

As he sat on a nearby bench, Luke joined him with a comment. “Boss, you said we needed to disappear from her life.”

Kieran, taking a seat on Sylus’s other side, added, “Do you think she’d recognize us if we walked into that café? If she doesn’t, I’ll give her a hard time with my orders ‘til she remembers us!”

“Ha ha! Let’s do that!” 

“Boss, let’s go!” 

“Leave her be.” Sylus took a deep breath, adjusting his sunglasses and setting aside his newspaper—part of his disguise—as he watched you through the café window. He noticed the subtle traces of familiarity in your actions, but the connections that once bound you were now distant memories. “...I’m just here to make sure no one’s bothering her.”

The truth was, he wrestled with his emotions each time he visited the café you were working at. He wanted to approach you, to speak to you, but he hesitated each time because of the fear of rejection and the pain of seeing you not remember him holding him back. There were so many what-ifs in his head that it drove him insane to think about. 

Because if anything, what if you were already seeing someone else? What if you were already in a relationship with that scumbag doctor from the Akso Hospital? 

It was petty jealousy that drove Sylus into stepping into the café. And the first time your eyes met since you resurrected, his heart initially froze, then raced uncontrollably. His heart swelled with hope as you looked up at him, but it was quickly replaced by the lack of recognition in your eyes the moment you spoke from the counter. 

“Hi. What can I get you?” you asked, treating him no differently than any other customer. 

Sylus was caught off-guard, but he knew he had to play the part. “I, uh, I’ll get an Americano. Large.” 

“Alright, sir. And your name, please?” you asked, following your routine without any real interest in the man before you. 

But in a way, this was a relief for Sylus. It confirmed that the protocore embedded in your head was functioning as intended, and that any dark memories from the past had been completely erased, even if it meant he was no longer part of your life. 

“Skye,” he said with a soft smile. “That’s my name.”

~~

There wasn’t a single day Sylus missed visiting the café. 

At first, he worried that his constant presence might seem odd, or that you might think of him as a stalker. But as the days passed, seeing you became an essential part of his routine. A day without catching a glimpse of you felt incomplete, almost maddening. Seeing you was like a drug he couldn’t get enough of.

Initially, you found his regular visits a bit strange, but gradually, the small interactions between you two evolved. Sylus began to appear at the café just when you needed him most—whether it was fixing a broken coffee machine, addressing rude customers, or simply offering a helping hand. These acts of kindness somehow transformed your view of him. What started as a customer-service relationship slowly became more personable, and in recent days, you often greeted him warmly and smiled whenever he walked in. If only you knew how badly it warmed his heart that he got to do things for you without making him feel like he was intruding in your life.

And to be honest, Sylus even felt like he might be—as Luke termed it—foolishly ”crushing” on you. 

“Who knew our boss-man could be a hopeless romantic~?”

There was a time when he visited the café, only to find out from your manager that you called in sick from work. Sylus knew where you lived, but going to your place uninvited was a different story. He had to put some boundaries no matter how worried he was for you. But that was when Mephisto became useful; the mechanical crow would simply fly off to your place and observe you from outside. Then, an idea to drop a box of medicines and chocolates at your balcony was something he had thought of at the last minute. 

Back in the N109 Zone, Sylus anxiously looked at his crow. “Are you sure she didn’t see you?” 

“Caw! Caw!” 

“Did she eat the chocolates?” he asked, exhaling a deep breath he didn’t think he was holding.

“Caw! Caw! Caaaw!” Mephisto responded, fluttering its wings as if to reassure him.

~~

And then, that day happened. 

The day Sylus finally gathered the courage to ask you out, fate had other plans. And what began as a simple gesture to offer you a ride home during a stormy night quickly escalated into something far more intense.

Because one moment, he was offering you a ride. The next, he found himself in your bed, having the most passionate sex he had ever had with someone. He wasn’t even sure if he could call it that, because it felt more like he was making love to you, even if to you, he was probably just an attractive guy you unexpectedly hooked up with. 

So, he had to make himself known. He had to hear his real name leaving your lips. “Sylus,” he breathed into your ear, hands tracing your curves, “Call me Sylus, kitten.” 

That night, he was an insatiable man who could only be satisfied by his woman. 

When he was buried far too deep inside you, he enjoyed the sight of ecstasy on your face and lavished at the sounds of your titillating moans with his every thrust. Not only did he miss the feeling of your walls tightening around his shaft, he also remembered how badly you used to want him to cum inside you. 

And so, he did just that. At his climax, he released hot spurts of seed into your womb, fulfilling a wish from the past that he used to deprive you of. 

But as the night progressed and the heat of the moment faded, the conversation shifted to a more profound and emotional terrain. Sylus wrestled with the urge to reveal the truth about his true identity—every painful detail and the secrets he kept from you. Yet, he knew that doing so would only complicate matters further and risk causing you more pain. The idea of hurting you again, after such a meaningful connection, was unbearable to him, especially now that you were still fragile as glass, ready to shatter at any moment. 

“Why do I get the feeling that I was the one who experienced a one-sided love before?” 

“No, you were loved. You were very loved. There was no one else,” he pressed, forcing you to believe the narrative with his rueful eyes staring back at you. “I was the one who wasn’t worthy of you… But I’d like to try and win your heart again this time. If you allow it.” 

“Sylus… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry for not recognizing you before. I just… I lost a chunk of my memories, and I don’t know if it’s been altered or what, but…” He caressed your back as you took a deep breath. “I’ll try to remember, okay?”

“Please don’t.” He shook his head, crestfallen as he thought of the past that was rightfully erased. “And there’s no need for apologies, sweetie. There wasn’t anything you did wrong.” 

~~

Your relationship with Sylus remained unclear since that night. And it seemed as though the roles had reversed—now he was the one left wondering where he stood in your life. Because on the surface, it did seem like you were willing to work on building a relationship with him again, but every encounter you two had were always physical rather than emotional. 

Sylus found himself at your apartment frequently, three or more times a week, engaging in intense, passionate encounters. He had lost track of how many times you two could do it in a single night, exploring every possible position, in every corner of your home. He had tried his hardest to make you feel like he was the only man who was more familiar with every inch of your body than anyone else. Yet, despite the physical closeness, he sensed that the emotional barriers between you remained intact.

No matter how deeply intertwined your bodies became, the walls around your heart remained firmly in place, and Sylus knew that there was a part of you he still couldn’t reach.

That, and the fact that he was still seeing you interact a little too closely with that doctor from Akso. 

It somehow didn’t surprise you when Sylus’s car showed up outside the hospital to pick you up, and you got on with a guarded look. 

“How’s it for my kitten today?” Sylus asked as he secured your seatbelt, his lips brushing against yours in a quick peck. “You didn’t mention you’d be at the hospital.”

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. “Oh, I just... didn’t think I needed to inform you of my whereabouts.”

Dammit. He knew you weren’t officially together, but it hurt more than he cared to admit. And it didn’t help that Sylus’s pride couldn’t naturally take it, so he probed more. “That doctor. He’s not your neurologist, is he? It seems a little inappropriate for him to always be around you like that.”

“Well, I’ve known Zayne for a long time,” you merely replied, eyes focused on the view outside rather than the driver of the car. “I’d also appreciate it if you'd be less territorial over me, Sylus. I know you said we have a history together, but I don’t remember a thing, so… I hope you won’t rush me.” 

The Sylus you knew back then would have been enraged. Who were you to order him around? Who were you to tell him what he should and shouldn’t do over someone he rightfully owned? But he was a changed man now, and it was all because of you. You were the beauty that tamed him into a powerless beast.

“I understand,” Sylus replied, swallowing his pride as his hands tightened around the steering wheel, focusing on the road ahead. “I apologize.”

He heard you sigh beside him, and a part of him wondered if it was out of sympathy. But before he could dwell on it, you spoke up, your tone more serious. “I was at the hospital today because I had a pregnancy scare.”

Sylus hit the brakes at the red light a bit too abruptly, his heart racing in excitement. “Are you?”

“No, thank God,” you breathed out in relief. “But... can you please stop doing it inside? I really don’t like it. It’s not smart for me to get pregnant by a man I barely know.”

His chest tightened in a way he couldn’t describe. The old you nearly begged him for a baby so he could be yours forever, but he was aware that this version of you right now was not the same. It never would be, and that was the price he had to pay for love. 

“I won’t do it again.” Once again, swallowing his pride. “I’m sorry.” 

You still invited him to sleep at your apartment that night, and your reason being to work on the memories of him you had lost. Time and time again did Sylus tell you it was better you didn’t remember them, but he could also understand your dilemma when you told him that you always felt like a piece of you was missing ever since that “accident”. 

“And this ugly scar on my temple,” you pointed it out, settling into your side of the bed. “What kind of Wanderer did I fight for me to get a traumatic brain injury?”

Sylus placed a tender kiss on your scar. “Perhaps it was a heartless monster more terrifying than a Wanderer.” 

Like me. 

“Oh, well.” You pulled the sheets over your body, suggesting you two would have no action tonight. “Good night, Sylus.” 

“...Sleep tight, kitten.” 

You didn’t need to worry, though, because he wouldn’t have touched you even if you had explicitly asked him to. After hearing your words that afternoon—about not wanting to get pregnant by him and asking him to stop being so territorial—Sylus felt the need to pull back and be more cautious in his actions toward you. Your words had cut deep, but he understood you were only protecting yourself from a man who was, essentially, still a stranger to you.

And despite the sting, he had promised himself that he would be patient for the only woman he cared about.

~~

However, that same night was a different story. 

No, it was actually way past midnight when Sylus woke up from an agonizing scream that pierced the silence of the night, chilling him to the bone. Instinctively, his hand reached out to the side of the bed where you should have been, but the sheets were cold and empty. And then panic gripped him, forcing him to leap out of bed, his mind racing with a single horrifying thought: the protocore.

He darted outside of your bedroom and deeper into your apartment space, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. The image of you, eyes wild and frenzied, ravaged by the effects of the protocore, haunted him.

What if it’s happening now? What if I lose her for good?

The horrifying thought of the protocore making you berserk like a wild Wanderer was always there.

His heart nearly stopped when he saw you on the kitchen floor, curled up, your body wracked with sobs. Relief washed over him to have found you, but it was fleeting, replaced by a deeper, more insidious fear. He tried to approach you cautiously, his voice soft as he placed his hands on your shoulders, “Sweetie, are you okay?”

You flinched at his touch, and when you turned to face him, the sight made his blood run cold. Your eyes, usually so warm, were now wide and filled with tears—tears of terror, of anger. And in your trembling hand, you held a knife, its blade gleaming in the low light as you pointed it directly at his throat.

“Don’t come any closer!” you cried, your voice breaking at every word. Sylus froze, his breath catching in his throat as your sudden hostility surprised him. The knife’s tip hovered dangerously close to his skin, but it wasn’t the threat of violence that shook him—it was the raw, unfiltered pain in your eyes.

“Kitten, let’s talk about it calmly.” His voice was laced with cautiousness. 

“Stop calling me that!” You swallowed hard, your grip on the knife tightening. “You! I had a nightmare... about you. But it felt real, like a memory. You were torturing me at your base, laughing... and then, you shot me in the head.”

Sylus’s heart dropped into his stomach at hearing your altered memory. He felt his soul tear apart at the edges as he stared into your tear-streaked face. “It was just a dream. It wasn’t real, kitten.”

But you weren’t listening. “But is it also not real? That you…” You uttered each word with a threatening voice, “are the boss of Onychinus?”

The question hit him like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to answer, but the words were stuck in his throat and refused to form. He was trapped. The situation felt like a dead end—he could deny that your dream was a real memory, but admitting he was the leader of Onychinus would only validate that lie.

His silence alone was an answer to you. And your expression crumbled into one of betrayal at that. “You lied to me! You’ve been lying to me this whole time. How am I supposed to believe anything you say now?”

The anger in your voice enforced the stillness of Sylus’s breath. He knew he had no saving grace from this situation, but still, he took a step closer, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Y/N, I never wanted to hurt you—”

“Get out!” you screamed, the knife shaking in your hand. The sight of you so broken, so shattered, tore him apart. “Get the hell out of my sight! I don’t wanna see you ever again, you monster!”

But Sylus couldn’t leave—not like this, not when you were hurting because of him. So in his desperation, he lunged forward, grabbed your wrist, and forced the knife into his own chest. The sharp pain radiated through him as he plunged the blade in and stabbed himself repeatedly, his face twisted in agony, but not from the physical pain. This was nothing compared to the torment of knowing he was the source of your suffering. Again. 

“Even if I can’t die,” he choked out, his voice ragged as he tried to absorb the stinging ache in his chest, “I’ll take all of this pain away from you.”

His own blood soaked his fingers, staining your hands as he released his grip on the knife. It fell on the floor as he stepped back, his heart aching more than his wounds ever could, but those wounds easily healed. The pain of losing you again, on the other hand, would never heal.

He looked at you one last time, seeing his monstrous reflection from your frightened eyes, before turning away. Sylus walked out of the apartment with heavy steps, feeling his soul crushed from your antagonism. He knew he had lost you—perhaps forever—and the realization was more than he could bear.

~~

A haze of cigarette smoke and the clink of glasses filled the air of the bar. Sylus sat alone at the counter, his new glass of whiskey untouched as he stared blankly into the amber liquid. The sting of alcohol was nothing compared to the numbness that had settled in his heart after that agonizing night with you. Every swallow of the hard liquor was a desperate attempt to drown out the torment of recent events, but the pain lingered, and it was damn persistent and unforgiving.

As he poured himself another drink, the muffled sounds of conversation around him blended into a dull roar. That was until a familiar voice cut through the haze—someone he wished he hadn’t come across.

“Sylus?” 

He looked up, squinting against the dim light, to see Diana standing before him. He hadn’t seen him for the past year or so. And surely, her presence was unexpected, but he felt a sudden tinge of irritation at the sight of her. While her, she looked both apprehensive and determined, as if she had just made a hard decision to confront him. 

“H-How have you been?” she asked the question as a conversation starter, but Sylus could see the faint hint of unease in her eyes.

He then straightened up, and his posture became stiff and defensive. “I told you it’s not wise for us to cross paths,” he said curtly, his voice slurred from the alcohol but still holding a note of finality. He didn’t want to engage, not with her, not tonight.

On the one hand, Diana’s eyes flickered with an emotion he couldn’t quite place—regret, perhaps. “I… I wanted to say sorry for what happened with Y/N. I didn’t realize how much she meant to you. Xavier… told me everything. About you and her.”

The apology was genuine, but the mention of your name was a fresh wound, and he felt the anger and sadness surge again, bubbling beneath his carefully maintained exterior. He wanted to lash out, to blame her for everything, but he swallowed the words, knowing it wouldn’t change a thing. In the end, this was all his doing and he couldn’t point fingers over the mess that he alone had created.

Sylus tried to stand up, the room spinning slightly as he steadied himself. “I’m leaving.”

But Diana stepped closer, her hand reaching out as if to stop him. He simply brushed past her, his movements unsteady but undeniably distancing from her. The desire to remain composed was slipping away, replaced by the harsh reality he faced every day since you were taken from him.

He made his way to the exit, pushing through the bar’s heavy door with a forceful shove. Sylus’s next move was to lean against the wall outside as the cool winter breeze blew on his face. 

“Boss.” Kieran’s voice held a note of concern as he and his twin steadied Sylus by wrapping his arms around their shoulders. “We’ll take you home.”

Luke glanced at his brother with a sad glint in his eyes before leading Sylus toward the car. “Maybe it’s time to let her go, boss.”

~~

February nights were the coldest. And it was supposedly the day for lovers, too. 

Unlike the couples that littered the riverside, Sylus stood alone, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. His dark coat offered little protection against the biting wind, but he stayed committed, his gaze fixed on the empty expanse before him. Four hours had passed since he had sent you the message, and each minute he stood there waiting for you felt like an eternity. The biting cold gnawed at him, but he was determined to wait even if he’d end up getting frostbite. It was the least he could do.

The frozen river’s surface glistened with a thousand points of light as the moon cast its silver glow over the landscape. And for the next thirty minutes that passed, he was still alone. 

She won’t be coming, said the voice in his head. Give up. 

As he prepared to leave, the ache of disappointment settled in his chest, and his heart skipped a beat as he recognized you, standing cautiously across him, your eyes wide and filled with both curiosity and trepidation. The sight of you, despite waiting in the cold for hours, instantly warmed his freezing body. 

“Thank you for coming.” He took a deep breath, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke. “I won’t keep you long.” 

You maintained your distance, wary of his next move. “Why did you want to meet?” 

With a slow, deliberate motion, he began to peel the scarf from around your neck, and he felt a prick in his heart seeing you flinch. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

He waited until you allowed him to proceed, his fingers brushing against your skin in a touch that was both gentle and reverent. You looked at him with confusion, the chilly air fought by the warmth of your breath. Sylus was just carefully replacing the scarf with the necklace he had given you long ago, the red Beryl crystal catching the light and sending soft, radiant glimmers into the night. 

Do you even recognize it? 

“I’m just returning a gift, kitten.”

As he fastened the clasp behind your neck, he pressed a tender kiss to the nape of your neck, his lips lingering for a moment before he straightened. That small gesture of his was actually carried by the depth of his affection and regret. And, if you may, it was his silent apology for all that he did to you.

“Sylus…” 

His red eyes shimmered, intensified by the bloodshot whites. Sylus stared at your face with a mixture of love and ruefulness clouding his expression. He was looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. And he struggled to hold back the tears that threatened to spill, with his voice breaking as he feathered the snowflakes that rested on your hair. “Take care of yourself. Always lock your doors at night and stay warm.” He took the scarf Zayne gave you, and pulled out a new one from his coat. It was a silly scarf with kitten prints all over it, that he soon carefully wrapped around your face and neck. “Wear that whenever you can.” 

Your own eyes were large and rimmed with tears as though you were also hurting inside. “Why are you saying this?” you asked, keeping the weakness inside. “You sound like you’re saying goodbye.” 

Sylus’s gaze was suddenly directed back to the river, but it was only because he had to avoid looking at your eyes or he would lose it. “The Association managed to track me here in Linkon and they’re still after me. I just managed to escape, but I can’t stay here,” he explained calmly, “I only came back to this city because of you… But now, I have to disappear, so don’t worry about having me around. I won’t bother you anymore.”

Your eyes widened in shock, and the tears that had been pooling your eyes finally spilled over. “Are you crazy?” you cried, seemingly unable to comprehend the words he was spewing. “You’re leaving me?”

Sylus’s heart broke at the sight of your tears, but he had to restrain any weakness by giving in. Instead, he reached out, and his hand trembled as he wiped a tear from your cheek. “I love you, Y/N.” He wanted to be the first one to say it this time. “Even if you regain all your memories of me—good or bad—I want you to know that I regret every pain I caused you. Even if you hate me, I’ll still love you. Today, tomorrow, and in our next lives.”

Sylus took one last, lingering look at you, his eyes filled with a sorrowful haze that nearly blinded his vision. He turned slowly, walking away from the river’s edge, with each step causing distance from the love he was leaving behind.

And you, you stood there, the necklace around your neck feeling heavy as you watched him disappear into the night. A surge of emotion overwhelmed you, and without thinking, you sprinted towards him. You took quick, long strides just to reach him, pulling him into a tight embrace, and crashing your lips against his in a bittersweet kiss.

Both of you cried as the kiss deepened, and you were encasing each other’s lips in a tight lock. The intensity of your emotions poured out in this poignant, intimate moment. And frankly, Sylus had never been this emotional. No one had ever seen this fragile side of him that he had always kept hidden. After all, what dominant, cruel boss of Onychinus would spill tears over a woman?

But they wouldn’t understand it. They never would. 

When you finally pulled away, your eyes were red and swollen from tears. “Be careful,” you sniffled, barely unable to catch the breath you needed for the next. “Keep in touch if you can. And when I’m ready, I’ll find you.”

Sylus’s eyes were also filled with tears, but he managed a forlorn smile as he nodded. He reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle despite the heaviness of the moment. “I’ll wait,” he promised softly, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes.”

“Until we meet again.”

As he stepped back, the distance between you seemed impossibly vast, but the promise in your eyes and the love in his heart made the separation bearable, if only just. And when Sylus turned away, his heart was heavy but full of the hope that one day, you would find each other again. That one day, this distant love would become a cherished memory that you would look back on as you grow old and wrinkled, yet insurmountably happy and content with the life you had lived. With or without him.

PREVIOUS PART

[hotchscoffeecup]

“Power Struggle”

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Reader

Rating: M

Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 7.2k

Summary: For months, you and SSA Aaron Hotchner have been toeing the boundary between romance and your careers. When the unsub that's been killing women in Michigan by way of replicating Zeus' punishments from Greek mythology takes you as his next victim, it's up to Hotch and the rest of the BAU team to find you before it's too late. Hurt/comfort and angst with happy ending.

Tags: graphic depictions of violence, reader kidnapped by unsub, blood, implied SA, nudity, electrocution, scarring, hospitals

“You’re telling me someone is out here killing people to recreate, what? Greek legends?” Sheriff McCullen’s brow pinches as he shakes his head.

“Legends are stories often loosely based on a real person or event to teach us a lesson. Mythology is based on supernatural or sacred lore and explains why things came to be. It’s a common mistake.” Reid speaks quickly and methodically, as if reciting from a textbook. “It’s straight out of the mythos,” he explains, his voice tinged with something akin to excitement as he approaches the whiteboard where photos of the victims had been pinned up for review. Using a ballpoint pen as a pointer, he taps the first image of the first victim. “Regina Manford, she was found tied to a boulder in Craig Lake State Park with her liver removed. Animal predation showed birds had pecked at her while she was still alive. In Greek mythology, Zeus did this to Prometheus to exact revenge on him after he stole fire to give to man.”

Reid moves on to the next victim, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he did so. “Sarah Walters was found bound to an old water wheel that had been set on fire. Greek Mythology suggests this is a copy of Zeus’ punishment for Ixion.”

“And what did he do to deserve that?” asks the sheriff.

Reid’s lips form a tight line. “He was invited into Zeus’ home on Olympus. After attempting to seduce his wife, Hera, Zeus punished him by binding him to a wheel of fire cursed to spin forever toward the underworld. She might’ve smiled or even looked at him, and in his delusion believed she was a seductress deserving of punishment.”

“So, what? This guy sees himself as some sort of god?”

“We believe that is his delusion, yes,” answers Emily. “Each victim also bore signs of sexual trauma, this is something Zeus is also renowned for in the mythology. Our unsub thinks he’s infallible and that these women’s lives and deciding when and how these women live and die is his divine right.”

“Do we know if there will be more victims?” asks one of the detectives.

You step forward from your place between Morgan and Hotchner. “Given the number of victims Zeus punished within the mythology, we can assume he is not finished. These kills are two weeks apart. It’s been twelve days since the last body was found. We can only assume he’s currently hunting for his next victim. And when he finds one, he convinces her to go to a second location. It's once they leave the primary location that he attacks. In each case, the victim suffered a blow to the head, leaving a uniquely shaped gash in her forehead. This suggests that he strikes them with a distinct blunt object or even a ring that’s on his hand.”

“We need every man out on the streets,” Hotch states, his eyes hard as he scans the group of law enforcement gathered to receive the profile. “He stalks his victims in the city, often on the weekends when night life is busiest. He’s charming. He has no problem approaching women because he views himself as a deity and carries himself with the arrogance and confidence of one. He’s white, in his early to mid 30s, good looking, charming, and likely has a career that would’ve provided him with medical training.”

A female detective with short blonde hair sticks her pencil in the air. “How do we know that?”

“The incisions made on Regina’s body were clean, precise, and showed no signs of hesitation,” explains Rossi. “The M.E. also informed us that the hepatic artery was clamped off, meaning,” Rossi hesitates before continuing on, “meaning Regina Mansford was alive as her liver was being cut from her body.”

An uncomfortable murmuring breaks out. Hotch raises a hand, silencing them. Your mouth goes dry and you swallow, hoping your team doesn’t notice the way your eyes dilate when you look at him and the silent way in which he can command a room.

“This is why we need every available officer on the streets. Increase units in the downtown area. Have plain clothes officers on the streets. That’s where we’ll be. Thank you.” Hotch tucks his head and sweeps out of the bullpen, the rest of the team trailing after him into the conference room.

“Where do you want us?” asks Morgan as you shut the door to the conference room.

“Reid, I want you here working the geographical profile. See if there’s anything we missed that could bring us closer to a precise location where he’s kidnapping his victims. Rossi and JJ, I want you to go back to Sarah’s apartment and see if we missed anything that tells us where she was exactly on the night she was kidnapped. Derek and Emily take the north side of downtown.” He inclines his head toward you. “You and I will take the south side.��

His eyes linger on yours a moment longer than they ought to have. You dip your head and swiftly exit the room, jacket in hand as you prepare to brave not only the frigid Michigan cold but working one one-on-one with Hotch. This had been going on for months; subtle looks, brief touches where his fingers would slide over yours while passing off a case file…yet a part of you still wasn’t sure if it would ever go any further than that. You spend so much of your time with the team, it would be so easy to mistake one gesture for something that it wasn’t. Yet you knew that wasn’t true. You know behavior. You’re trained to recognize the subtlest of shifts in demeanor and body language and you know exactly what is going on.

You jump as someone pushes through the front door of the precinct. Emily’s gentle laugh disrupts your rumination. “Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She moves to stand closer to you as she zips her jacket. “The guys went to grab the cars.”

You nod and shove your hands in your pockets.

Emily arches a perfectly manicured brow. “What’s up?”

You school your expression and feign nonchalance. “Nothing, I just want to catch this guy before he hurts anyone else.”

Emily’s brow furrows and then straightens, a glimmer of knowing in her eye. “Something tells me there’s a different guy on your mind.”

Your heart skips a beat and you nearly choke on the crisp winter air. “What? I don’t—“ Your words falter as Derek and Hotch arrive, the SUVs humming to a gentle stop at the curb.

Emily eyes you, a sly smile curving one side of her red lips. “We’ll talk later.” She winks and steps forward to open the passenger side door, sliding inside and disappearing into the dark interior.

As you turn to move toward the SUV, Hotch is there, opening the door for you. The gesture surprises you, but it shouldn’t. He’d been doing little things like this for weeks now. You nod your head in thanks and as you turn your body to slide past him, his hand catches your hip. Your breath hitches in your throat as his fingers glide against the small of your back, guiding your movement into the vehicle.

His hard eyes meet yours as he shuts the door and you’re grateful for the shadows inside the car as you feel your face flush bright red. Hotch slides into the driver’s seat with ease. He shifts the car into gear and pulls onto the road, heading in the direction of downtown.

After a few minutes, you open your mouth to disrupt the silence, but his cell rings. Hotch answers and places it on speaker as JJ’s voice floats through the receiver, “Hotch, we think we’ve got something at Sarah Walters apartment.”

“What’s that?” you ask.

“There’s a sticky note in her trash can,” a garbled sound echoes through the speaker as she shifts the phone. The sound of paper crinkles as she reads, “Tony’s at 9, does that mean anything? Has Garcia come across a Tony in any of her research into the victims’ lives? Maybe an Anthony?”

An image of a neon sign flashes across your mind’s eye. “It’s a bar,” you say matter-of-factly.

“A bar?”

“I remember seeing the sign on our drive-in. It’s a bar on the south side of downtown. That could be where he’s meeting these women.”

“We’re only a few blocks away, we’ll head there now. Thank you, JJ.” He hangs up and slips the phone into his jacket pocket.

“How do you want to play this?” you ask.

“We go in, make observations, see if we can identify anyone that matches the profile.”

You smirk and a small laugh escapes your lips.

“Something funny?” Hotch asks, his voice low in his throat.

You purse your lips, pausing before you proceed. “If we go in looking like feds, we’ll scare this guy away.” You tilt your head, considering. “Well, one of us anyway.”

A slight twitch in his brow is the only indication your words have just barely gotten under his skin. “Touched a nerve, sir?”

As the traffic light ahead blinks red, he eases the car to a stop. He breathes out slowly, the amber glow of the stoplight reflecting in his eyes. In less than two heartbeats, he thrusts the car into park and with both hands clasps your face, drawing you in to kiss you with such fervor white spots dot your vision. It takes a moment to process the heat of his mouth on yours and the way his tongue slides between your lips, and before you can truly reciprocate the light turns green and he pulls back, his breathing ragged against your mouth as his forehead touches yours. “Be careful when and how you choose to call me sir.”

Before you can exhale, his eyes are on the road again and you’re driving deeper into downtown.

“Understood,” and then you add, almost imperceptibly, “sir.”

A small smile quirks at the corner of his lips, but he says nothing more as you approach your destination.

It's nearing 9:30pm when you pull up on the street parallel to Tony’s. People trickle in and out of the bar in groups of twos and threes; most are young, in their mid to late twenties.

“Right,” you say as you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to exit the vehicle. “Stay here.”

“Excuse me?” Hotch asks, reaching over your lap and grabbing your wrist to stay your hand from popping the door open. Your breathing stills and he just barely turns his face toward yours. “Since when do you give me orders?”

Unsure where the confidence to challenge him comes from, you lean in near his ear. You swallow once before speaking. “I think you like taking them.” Feeling incredibly brazen, you nip at his ear once and as the unexpected gesture disarms him; flick your wrist out of his grasp and pop the door open. You slide out of the car and are immediately greeted by the frigid January air eliciting goosebumps up and down your arms. Extending an arm overhead to hang on to the frame of the SUV; you lean down into the cab of the vehicle. “I’ve got you right here,” you say as you tap the hidden earpiece. “Let me know if you see anyone from the outside that fits the profile.”

Hotch eyes you and there’s a fierceness in his gaze. You wonder if he’s thinking of how he’ll ultimately retaliate for your little role reversal now that he’s gone and upped the ante in this little game of cat and mouse. “See you soon,” you wink and slam the door shut.

As you approach the bar, you make sure your coat is buttoned in a way that hides your sidearm and credentials from sight. The bouncer doesn’t even pretend to ask for an ID as you approach and move through the front door with ease. As you cross through the threshold, your senses are assaulted by the smell of beer on tap, the sharp tang of liquor, grease, and an amalgamation of perfumes and colognes.

Immediately you begin scanning the room. You note the layout of the bar: three exits for patrons, the one you just came in through, one near the bathrooms for cigarette smokers, and an emergency exit on the far right wall near to the kitchen. There are three pool tables all of which are occupied as well as three dart boards along the far wall. Groups of friends engage one another and dates carry on without a hitch. You approach the bar, which is centered along the far wall. Stools line the high countertop and behind the bar, two women work to fulfill the never-ending drink orders. You approach the bar and slide into one of the empty seats, relaxing your shoulders as you do so, and order a rum and coke that you don’t plan on drinking.

After a moment the bartender drops a cocktail napkin in front of you and places the drink on top. You thank her and stir the contents of the drink with the swizzle stick popped inside.

“Is this seat taken?” an unfamiliar voice causes the hair on the back of your neck to prickle and you know immediately that it’s him.

Painting on a saccharine sweet smile, you turn toward the voice. A white man, standing at about 6’2”, is smiling down at you. The neon lights behind the bar reflect in his blue-gray eyes and his honey blonde hair falls in soft waves to his shoulders. “Please,” you say demurely and gesture toward the seat. You tell him your name and continue smiling.

“Ronan Carlson,” he introduces himself as he slides in beside you and adjusts the lapels on his leather jacket, a fake Rolex peeking out from his sleeve. He’s preening, you think to yourself. The bartender approaches from behind the bar and he smiles, the curve of his lips the opening act of his charming performance. “I’ll have what she’s having, thank you.” He pulls a roll of cash from the inner pocket of his jacket, flips through several bills, and pulls a $100 bill free before sliding it across the counter to her.

The bartender’s eyes widen in surprise and he winks at her. She nods her thanks and turns to make his drink.

“That was very kind of you,” I say, stirring my drink for the thirteenth time.

He shrugs and tips the baseball cap he’s wearing down over his eyes and you know it’s to obstruct the view the cameras have of him. “It’s only money, and I think I may have made her night.” He inclines his head toward the bartender whose head is bent close to the other woman’s. She’s smiling wide and shows her the $100 bill.

Internally, you roll your eyes hard, but externally you smile and look at him from beneath your lashes. “You must have a great job, what do you do for work?”

His hand flexes as he sets his drink down on the counter and you note the two chunky platinum rings he wears on his right hand. There are symbols etched into them offset by different colored stones, but you don’t want him to catch you staring as he answers, “I’m in business for myself these days,” he says with no further explanation. “Though I used to be in the military.”

You feign surprise, though you were hopeful he’d continue to divulge information. “The military, wow. Let me guess,” you pause and allow your eyes to slowly scan him from head to toe. You remember the profile. “Army…medic.”

“Reign it in,” you hear Hotchner’s voice through the earpiece. “Be mindful of how much you reveal to him. Don’t let him know you know more about him than he’s letting on.”

You watch him assess you and your read into him. One blonde brow creeps up toward his hairline and that wicked smile curves his lips again. “Excellent guess, how do you figure?”

Leaning on to your forearms, you push your drink aside and slide your hand over his and you don’t miss the way his fingers tense at your touch.

“It’s the hands,” you say coyly. “You look like you know how to handle yourself.” He relaxes under your touch and a heat ignites in his eyes that makes your stomach churn, but you don’t let it show on your face. “You look like you know how to handle a lot of things.”

He licks his lips and turns the ring on his finger. “Tell you what,” he says as he picks up his drink. He places the glass to his lips and downs its contents. “Why don’t we get out of here?” He looks down at you from beneath dark lashes. “And I’ll show you just how much I can handle.”

You stand up and flash him a grin. “Let me quickly freshen up and I’ll meet you out front.”

His lips quirk into a smirk, “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

You smile as you slip away toward the bathroom. As you push through the crowd you inform Hotch that the unsub is on his way out.

“There’s a line growing out the door,” he answers over the earpiece. “Does the description match the profile?”

“To a T,” you answer as you push past a couple with their tongues in each other's mouths. The amount of patrons has increased dramatically over the last hour. The volume of the music makes it hard to hear through the earpiece. You push your way into the restroom and are surprised to find it empty. Fortunately, the outside noise is muffled. You begin to describe Ronan’s appearance and note the jacket and hat he’s wearing. “He’s wearing two oddly shaped rings,” you add. “I think it’s what’s caused the unusual injury to the victims’ faces.”

“I’ve got him. He’s cutting through the line toward the parking lot.” You hear the car door open and slam.

“Got it, I’ll be right there.”

“Good work,” Hotch says over the open line.

You smile to yourself as you unbutton your jacket, glad to be on the receiving end of his praise. For a split second you wonder what else you could be on the receiving end of if you continue to play this game with him. After the case, you remind yourself. Priorities. Priority number one is getting this sick bastard off the street, and he’s right here within your grasp. You shoulder the door as you reach for your gun, positioning your thumb over the rotating hood to dislodge your weapon from its holster.

Over the speakers, an employee is calling to celebrate someone’s birthday. The crowd is distracted and pushing toward the source of celebration. The bar erupts into an off key rendition of Happy Birthday but you don’t hear it as 30,000 volts of electricity course through your veins. Your muscles spasm and lock up as you fall forward. Pain radiates from your abdomen in waves that crash over you again and again. You try to tell your body what to do as strong arms catch you and pull you into a chest that smells like cigarette smoke, but your limbs don’t cooperate. You feel his nose root into your hair as his lips find your ear. “How’s that for capable?”

As he shoulders your weight and steers you out through the emergency exit you hear Hotch’s voice in your ear. “It’s not him!” There’s an edge of panic in his voice as he says your name. “Do you copy? It’s not him. He gave another man $500 to wear his hat and jacket into the parking lot. It’s not him. Do you have eyes on him?”

Dark spots the edges of your vision as he drags your dead body weight. You try to focus all of your ability on getting out any words that can signal to Hotchner what’s happening, any at all but your mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton.”

You hear the tinkling of keys and a door slide open. Pain rattles through your skull as he throws you into the back of whatever vehicle he’s operating. Pain slices through your wrists as zip ties slice through the skin there. Through tunnel vision you see him leering at you. He’s backlit by the streetlights.

As his fist flies toward you, you finally manage one word.

“Aaron.”

•

When you come to, the first thing you feel before the splitting pain in your head threatens to cleave your mind in two, is cold.

Your mouth is dry, but as you move to lick your lips you realize you can’t because there’s a gag in your mouth. You try to move your hands, but they’re bound too. Zip ties cut into each wrist, securing them at your sides on the legs of a wooden chair. When you try to shift the chair, you learn that it’s bolted to the floor and your legs are spread open; zip ties at your knees and ankles keep them apart. Except for your bra and underwear, you’re naked. He undressed you. You feel the wound from the stun gun before you glance down at your stomach and see the two bloody pinpricks in your abdomen. You feel your heart rate increase as panic begins to set in. Do not panic , you tell yourself as you take a steadying breath. The minute you start to panic, you’re dead. You close your eyes and piece together the last dredges of your memory.

Tony’s. Sitting at the bar. The unsub. Ronan. Hotch was in pursuit. And then there was just pain.

Hotch.

The pain in your skull is overwhelming and you’re not sure if you can feel the earpiece anymore.

“Hotch,” you attempt to say through the gag. “Hotch, do you read me?”

You close your eyes as hot tears brim along your lash line when there’s no response. The signal is out of range or the unsub found the earpiece and removed it.

A door creaks open on squeaky hinges and your eyes dart toward the source of the sound. Ronan walks through the door with a sick smile on his face. As he saunters toward you, he rolls the sleeves of his flannel up to his elbows. Without looking away from you, his arm drops to his side and he scoops a folding metal chair with one hand, carrying it with him as he edges closer to you.

You flinch as he cracks the chair down in front of you, forcing it open. He chuckles as he takes a seat. His eyes skirt the length of your body and you wish any limb were free to deliver a blow to his smug face.

He reaches into his back pocket and withdraws your badge. He flips it open and holds it up to your face, the way his eyes flit between you and your credentials makes your lip curl.

“An FBI agent,” he says slowly. He slaps your credentials shut against his denim-clad thighs. “Hot damn!” he shouts and whoops. He throws your badge to the wayside and it clatters against the cement floor. “I’m going to take my time with you.”

It could’ve been hours. It could’ve been minutes. The torture is unrelenting and the pain is unending. Your chest heaves as you brace yourself for the next surge of electricity. Ronan, if that’s even his real name, twists the knob on the amplifier and taps the jumper cable clamps in his hands together. He smiles when he hears the buzz of electricity between them. As he presses them into your thighs, you cry out in pain as the shockwaves paralyze your body and mind and the pain overwhelms you.

“YES!” he roars as he pulls them away from you. He’d taken his flannel off, but now he peels off his t-shirt, balls it up, and uses it to wipe the sweat off of his face.

With the voltage no longer coursing through your veins, you slump forward, chest heaving as your scrambled brain fights to stay alert.

He drops the cables and clasps your face in his hand, forcing your chin up to meet his wild eyes. “You just don’t quit, do you? You're special.” He strokes your cheeks with his thumbs as if he cherishes what he’s doing to you. “You are worthy of a god.”

When you come to Ronan is watching you. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands.

“She wakes,” he muses.

You glare at him and his brow pinches. He purses his lips together like he’s been stung, but his eyes are alight with amusement.

“You,” he says, gesturing up and down your body, “look beautiful.”

You don’t need to look down to know the number of bloodied burn wounds spanning the lengths of your legs. If you couldn’t keep track of any other thought, the count was all that kept you grounded. There were ten. Five on each leg. Your wrists and ankles bled from the way you’d pulled against them with every shock he delivered.

He reaches forward and this time you don’t flinch. He hooks two fingers into the gag and pulls it down over your chin, his fingers trailing your lips as he does so.

“Here,” he says, bringing a bottle of water to your lips. “Drink.”

You clamp your lips shut and turn your face away. He laughs and shakes his head. “Come on now, don’t refuse me. That’s not how you show gratitude when a god shows you mercy.”

You muster as much hatred into your stare as you focus your attention back on him. “Mercy?” you hiss, and your voice is hoarse from screaming against the gag. It hurts to speak. You pull against your restraints. “This is what you call mercy?”

“I’m only testing you to see if you’re worthy,” he says by way of explanation. "You've lasted longer than the others."

“Worthy of what?” you ask, but you already know the answer.

“To be my Hera.”

“How is what you’re doing to me, what you did to those other women, going to help you find her?”

“They weren’t worthy,” he answered. “They couldn’t take my power like you could, my lightning. They were false. They needed to be punished.”

He leans in, his lips close enough to yours that you can feel his smoky breath on your skin. “But you, you deserve to be rewarded.” Your skin bristles at his words. His lips find your jawline and you grimace as he drags them up the side of your face. When he pulls away, dried blood flakes onto his skin.

“Don’t be afraid,” he soothes as he smoothes your sweat-drenched hair away from your face. “You’ll enjoy it.”

Unable to suffer any more of his poisonous bullshit, you rear your head back and slam it forward. Pain explodes behind your forehead, but it’s worth it to hear the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking. He roars in pain and clutches his bleeding nose. White light blinds you as he backhands you and curses your name. His ring splits the skin of your cheek open. The force of the blow causes you to bite your lip and you feel your teeth cut into the chapped skin there. You spit blood at him, angering him further.

“You are false!” he screams, spittle flying from his mouth as he shoves the gag back into your mouth. “You are not her!” He moves to pick up the jumper cables, twisting the knob of the amplifier all the way up causing the bulbs overhead to flicker. You know this is it. If he touches you with those, it will kill you.

Bracing yourself for the killing blow, you go to the grave knowing you did not give in to this bastard.

It never lands.

Instead, three shots ring out and he’s falling to the floor dead at your feet. As the unsub’s body falls, Hotchner’s frame comes into view and a choked sob escapes your lips. He holsters his weapon and runs to you. Emily and Morgan are right behind him. Morgan passes Hotch a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and he makes quick work of the zip ties binding you to the chair. From the corner of your eye, you see Emily turn off the amplifier and check Ronan’s pulse.

Unable to hold yourself up, you fall forward into his ready arms, letting yours fall over his shoulders. Hotch drops to his knee to support your weight. “You’re okay,” he says as he pulls the gag free from your mouth and you sob into his chest. He smooths your hair back from your face, his eyes assessing the damage done to you. Blood stains his shirt, your blood.

“Morgan, your jacket.” Hotch orders.

Without hesitation, Morgan unfastens his bulletproof vest and unzips his jacket. He passes it to Hotch who drapes it around your shoulders in an attempt to preserve some of your modesty.

“I need a medic!” he shouts before directing his attention back to you.

Your eyes waver as you try to keep them open. You lock in on the depths of his warm brown eyes. “You’re going to be fine,” he says but his voice sounds far away.

“He wanted someone to be his Hera,” you say weakly.

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Hotch soothes.

You swallow and it hurts your throat to do so. Your lips crack open, “You found me.”

Hotch cradles your head against his chest. “Of course I did.”

You wince as the sound of a gurney crashes into the room, the metal wheels squealing as it draws near. Your head swims as you’re swept into the air and laid out on its cushiony bed. A light shines in your eyes and voices are overlapping. Blindly, you use what strength you have left to drop your hand off the side. Unable to focus your attention on where he is, you know he’ll hear you. “Don’t leave me.”

And as you lose consciousness, you feel his hand slip into yours.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

•

A steady beeping fills your ears as you slowly come to. Your eyes feel bruised and you don’t think you have it in you to open them, but you feel something around your wrists and bolt upright. Pain crashes over you in a wave. It was a dream. You’re still bound in that basement. The beeping increases, growing louder and faster. Someone says your name and you feel hands on your shoulders. You try to swing your fist and are surprised when your arm follows through and makes contact with flesh. Did you break through the zip ties? You hear your name again, clearer this time. A man. He’s asking you to stop, to relax.

“It’s me,” he repeats and says your name again. “You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.” He says your name again. “It’s me, it’s Aaron.”

You stop fighting and blink hard. Hotchner’s stern face comes into view, except there’s concern wavering in the depths of his brown eyes. His brow softens as you relax. A small smile turns the corners of his lips. “Hey there,” he says. A nurse rushes into the room and he raises a hand, “We’re fine, here. Thank you.”

The nurse looks at you and you nod. She looks unsure about leaving but ultimately relents. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.”

Aaron cups the back of your head in one of his hands and gently begins to lower you back down onto the pillows behind you. You allow him to guide you and feel the tension ease from your muscles as your back sinks into the surprisingly plush hospital pillow.

As the adrenaline wears off, you’re finally able to take stock of your injuries as the pain quickly makes itself known. You feel your pulse beating in your skull, pounding at your temples, eyebrow, and cheekbone. With shaky fingers, you touch the places where you remember the unsub striking you. You feel a thick bandage taped over your right eyebrow and steri-strips over your cheek. Your lip is swollen from where you bit it.

Bandages encircle your wrists and there’s an IV stuck in your hand. You’ve been dressed in a hospital gown and the sheets are drawn up to your waist covering the burn wounds. You don't have to see them to know how bad they look. The pain is telling enough.

“Is he dead?” you ask, lowering your hand back down to the bed.

Hotch’s lips form a tight line. “Yes.”

You blink back tears as that information sinks in. “Good,” you whisper in a choked voice. You blink and allow your head to loll to the side. A colorful bouquet of roses and carnations dotted with plastic ladybugs and butterflies sits in a clear vase on the side table.

You smile, “Garcia?”

Hotch smiles in turn. “It was tough to convince her to go home and get some sleep, but I promised her I wouldn’t leave you alone. Even then, it was still a hard-fought battle.”

You chuckle and wince as the movement irritates your injuries.

Hotch telegraphs his next move, and you know it’s to avoid startling you. He cups his hand over your uninjured cheek and strokes the skin there with his thumb.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he says, and his voice sounds tired and pained. “I should’ve gone inside with you.”

“Hotch, don’t.” You reach up and wrap your fingers around his wrist. “Don’t do that to yourself. He didn’t know I was with the FBI until after he took me. If you’d been there, he might’ve pegged us as law enforcement and taken off. He might still be out there and we’d be finding another dead woman in a matter of days. You know I’m right.”

Hotch closes his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh. “I could hear you.”

“What?” you whisper. You try to sit up and wince as the movement stings the wounds in your legs and abdomen. Hotch stands and helps adjust the pillows behind your back before sitting back down in the chair at your bedside.

“Not for very long. He drove out of range, but I heard him speaking to you. I heard the blows land. I heard your head smack against the floor when he threw you in the van.” He stops and shakes his head. “I felt so helpless. I was afraid. I couldn’t get to you, just like,” his voice catches in his throat. “just like I couldn’t get to Haley.”

Your heart breaks for him as he speaks. You reach for his hand and take it, squeezing it. “Aaron, you did get to me. You saved my life.”

He clears his throat and swallows. “Yes, but we were almost too late.”

“But you weren’t,” you state, your tone firm. “Aaron, look at me.”

He hesitates and inhales deeply before lifting his gaze to yours. The corners of his eyes soften as he meets yours and you smile. You gently tug his hand, “Come here.”

Hotch glances toward the door and then back at you, “The doctor—“

“Isn’t going to do shit,” you finish. “I’m the one that endured hours of torture. Pretty sure I’m allowed some close comfort.”

He lets out a shallow laugh. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Standing, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair. With one hand he loosens his tie until he’s able to pull it up and over his head. He tosses it onto the chair and circumnavigates the bed, assessing the best way to join you on the small mattress.

You groan as you slide over. Hotch reaches out to stop you but you silence him with a pointed look. “Mind the IV,” you say as you pat the space beside you.

Hotch acquiesces, using the tips of his fingers to raise the IV drip enough for him to slide into bed beside you. He slips an arm around you and drops the feed. It falls across his torso. The feel of his arm around you is comforting, like a security blanket, like safety. You relax into him, and rest your head on his chest. His lips brush against your bandaged brow.

“Not quite how I imagined we’d first be sharing a bed,” you joke softly as you nuzzle in deeper against the wide plane of his chest.

You feel him smile against your hair. “Only you could joke at a time like this.”

“If I can’t laugh at what’s happened, I’ll never be able to close my eyes at night.”

“Well, if that’s the case.” He rubs the bare skin of your arm in small circles. “I’ll be there until you can.”

You turn your head to look at him then, your heart full. This is happening. His eyes are on yours and you push yourself toward him ever so slightly. He closes the small gap between you and presses his lips to yours. It wasn’t hungry and primal like the kiss in the car. There would be plenty of time for that later. This kiss was light, tender…healing.

“Sir, I’m sorry. I tried to go home, I really did but as soon as I got there I—” Garcia’s voice abruptly cuts off. You look up and her initial look of surprise turns to one of abject joy.

You feel your cheeks flush as Emily and Morgan appear in the doorway behind her. Morgan’s eyes widen and Emily’s brow arches as a smile curves her lips.

“I, uh, brought backup.” Penelope giggles. She remembers she’s holding something. “And cookies! I couldn’t sleep, so I baked. I figured I could bribe you into going home and getting some sleep.” Her words leave her mouth at a mile a minute. “I thought you’d fight me on it, so I brought some muscle.” She gestures with a tilt of her head. “They’re the muscle.”

Morgan exhales and points a finger at you and Hotch. “Can someone explain to me what’s going on here?”

Emily elbows him and he drops his arm. She takes the tray from Garcia and walks it over to the side table where she places it next to the flowers. She winks at you as she turns back to Garcia and Morgan. “It’s about time,” she says.

Penelope laughs as she hooks her arm in Emily’s. “What's it been? Two, three months?”

Morgan guffaws. “Months?”

Penelope pats his face with a ring-adorned hand. “My sweet oblivious profiler. Come on, hot stuff.” She takes him by the hand and leads him from the room. Emily shakes her head and laughs. “Men.”

“Safe to say the team knows.”

Hotch releases a breathy laugh and kisses your forehead again. “I know what will be the first thing on the agenda at tomorrow’s debriefing.”

•

6 weeks. It had been 6 weeks since you’d pressed the elevator button that would bring you back to the office. The weight of your gun feels right where it sits upon your hip, your gait more familiar to you now than when it wasn’t holstered to your side. You nervously adjust the grip on your go bag. You’d packed and repacked it the night before.

This morning as you were getting out of the shower, you stared at yourself in the mirror. Your cheek had healed nicely though the skin on your brow that had been split by the unsub’s ring had scarred, severing the tail end of your eyebrow from the rest of it. The ligature marks around your wrists and ankles had healed and the skin was smooth once more. The stun gun had scarred your abdomen, but all that remained were two purple pinpricks of scar tissue no bigger than the size of an infant’s thumbnail.

Your legs are a different story. The front of your thighs are an array of mottled scar tissue. One burn had gone so deep that they’d needed to graft skin from your calf to salvage it. The wounds no longer hurt physically, but you’d woken up from nightmares on more than one occasion.

You were never alone though. Garcia worked remotely on secure laptops with VPNs as often as she was able. Rossi brought you home-cooked Italian at least twice a week and talked with you over numerous glasses of red wine. Reid brought black-and-white foreign existentialist films that you didn’t understand, but his enthusiasm as he watched made you happy all the same. Emily and Morgan brought coffee and donuts as often as they could and Hotch…if he wasn’t at the office or visiting Jack, he was with you. On several occasions, he brought Jack. Jack would sit on the bed beside you, playing with his toys, narrating the adventures of his action figures as Aaron stood in the doorway, smiling. At night, when you had woken in a cold sweat, Aaron was there with a washcloth to wipe it away. When the bandages had stuck to your burn wounds and it felt like your skin was being peeled apart, he got your pain medicine and helped change the dressings, holding you until the pain had passed.

You blink as the elevator dings, signaling you’ve reached your destination. You take a deep breath and smooth down the front of your blouse as the door opens wide. Everything looks the same, yet everything feels like it's changed as you approach the desk you occupy perpendicular to Emily’s. A smile crosses your lips as you see the Welcome Bac k card on your desk. Two vases of flowers sit behind the card. One is almost exactly like the one from the hospital so you know it’s from Garcia. The other, a bouquet of purple tulips, has a note attached to it. You open the note and read it.

Glad to have you back. Things haven’t been the same around here without you. -AH

Hotch. You should’ve known. You smile and tuck the note into your purse.

“Hey, hey, look who’s finally decided to get her ass back to work.” Morgan’s charming laugh is followed by Emily chastising him.

“Ignore him,” she says as she places a steaming mug of coffee on your desk.

“You’re a godsend,” you say by way of thanks and take a long drink. Two sugars, no milk, just the way you like. “Wow, Emily, that’s perfect. I needed this.”

“How come you don’t remember how I take my coffee?” Morgan asks pointedly.

She shrugs, “Chicks before dicks, Derek.”

You sputter and choke on your coffee.

“Look,” he says as he pats you on the back. “Her first day back and you’re gonna kill her.”

At that moment JJ passes by with a file in hand. She raises it in the air and gestures to the conference room. “We got a case.” She smiles at you warmly. “It’s good to have you back.”

Together, you, Morgan, and Emily enter the conference room where Reid, Hotch, and Rossi have already gathered. Once you’re all sat, JJ begins presenting the case. You review current victims and why the Sacramento Police Department has invited you onto the case

“Sacramento PD is expecting us this afternoon. We’ve got a long flight ahead of us. Wheels up in thirty, understood?”

A chorus of ‘yes sirs’ echo throughout the room. As the team gathers their belongings and moves to leave, you wait for Hotch to catch your eye. You wink at him before mouthing, “Yes, sir.”

[ghost-proofbaby]

IT WILL COME BACK (E.M.)

"honey, don't feed me - i will come back."

summary: when eddie came back from the upside down, he was different. and you finally come to realize just how different the man you saved truly is one night, when push comes to shove.

pairings: kas!eddie munson x reader

warnings: mentions of BLOOD (in sexual manner), mentions of BITING (in sexual manner), allusions to possible coercion (consent is still explicitly stated - trust me), mentions of death and trauma, mentions of eddie's canon death, taking a lot of creative liberty with expansive vampire lore across all media, mentions of murderous dreams? (eddie dreamt about killing reader idk), oral (f receiving), smut. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - 18+ ONLY.

wc: 7.7k+

a/n: i told y'all i'd write a serious biting/blood kink fic one day - today is the day. very lazily edited so beware.

When Eddie came back from the Upside Down, he was different.

There were subtle changes at first. Small, minute details that were easy to ignore. Everyone could turn a blind eye to them — everyone figured they would fade once the boy healed. His healing was first priority, and whatever lingered after could be dealt with.

Get Eddie better. Then question all that lingers.

A simple plan. A genius plan. A torturous plan.

The two of you had been friends, if you could even call it that, prior to it all. Teasing in the hallways, working on school projects here and there when in shared classes, he was your favorite (and only) dealer when you craved something to make sleep come just a little bit easier. He had been familiar — an old ghost you'd grown comfortable with, long before you’d seen those large and wet eyes looking back up at you in the boathouse. 

Long before he’d pieced together the puzzle pieces as to why you’d needed the weed to cancel out the nightmares. Long before he’d processed exactly what those nightmares entailed.

But then, you’d fought for him. You’d fought with him. And most importantly, you’d bled with him.

God, you had bled for him. 

Something admirable had blossomed in that short time. Eddie’s entire life had fallen apart, thread by frayed thread, and that new planted emotion had been the only solid thing to emerge for him to absolutely cling to. You were more than a fellow classmate to pass by in the hallways. You were more than his favorite customer, always weaponizing fluttering lashes and puckered lips for a discount he’d have given you regardless. 

You were a force to be reckoned with, and had ignited a hunger in him like no other.

That’s all he had thought it was when he’d awoken in his living room — not the distorted version but the real one — to you screaming for the others to help you as you’d sealed his wounds. That’s all he had thought it was when you’d come to visit him as wounds turned to scars, and stabbing pains turned to hungering pangs. So he had tried to bury it, listen to Harrington and Wheeler and Buckley when they told him to take time to readjust. He’d locked away that hunger and focused on his healing, just as everyone else had, and told himself it was just residual feelings. 

Residual feelings had been bound to happen after seeing someone bloody their hands, with your own blood, for your survival. 

And in his burial, he’d never considered a similar hunger igniting somewhere deep within you.

You visited far more often than you should have. Returning time and time again to change his bandages, taking on one too many shifts at the hospital during his unconscious spells and baring your teeth for anyone who got too close. The sweet blood on your hands hadn’t washed away in that first shower; you swore, if you looked closer, you could still see the stain of nearly losing him across your knuckles. 

Physical wounds were easier to heal than the internal ones. It was easier to lather on antibiotic lotion than it was to sleep soundly at night. Both of you came to realize that quickly in the weeks that followed Eddie’s return from the dead.

His nights were plagued with bad dreams, with thirst and cravings he couldn’t quite name. He’d wake up, burning up from the inside out with a fever that never existed. Tearing skin. Puncture wounds. Blood spilling across floors and his lips alike. He could never tell if the shivers that traced his spine had been from the cruel visions that had become his nightly visitors or if it was due to his perpetual drop in temperature that had worried Nancy since the very first night home from the hospital, that had concerned the nurses who piled blankets atop him during his week long sleep of recovery. 

Your nights were even less kind. Horrific memories were the demons that haunted you — remembering the way you had watched Eddie cut that sheet rope, remembering finding him bloodied on the ground, remembering the warmth of his blood seeping across your palms and how when your ear had turned just as heated with it as you pressed it to his chest. Only to hear nothing. Emptiness.

His heart had stopped for minutes. Plural.

It had been your steady rhythm, your desperate hands and your gasping breaths breathing into his lungs. You’d sunk your claws into him, caught them right between his ribs and had decided he couldn’t leave you.

Some nights, when you wake up screaming, you can still taste his blood on your lips. You sometimes still swore that when you’d checked for a pulse after that, you hadn’t heard anything. Still worried that Eddie Munson’s heart never really restarted and resumed beating. 

The worst was when you’d stare through the faded grey of  mornings plastering across your room’s walls, and could still remember that initial look in his blown out pupils, once honey brown swallowed in pure black as he’d taken his first breath on his own. 

Hunger.

You’d felt it, too. Shame riddled you on the nights you’d come down from the nightmares and remember it; it was as though the Universe had snapped back into place the moment you’d watched his chest first rise. A need so ardent to remain at his side. A chain clicking into place, binding both yourself and Eddie to one another, unaware of just what price had been paid to keep the boy that had laid under you in this world. Unaware of the hunger you had struck the match too that would become both your downfalls.

And so it had been buried. Something alive, even with your doubts of Eddie’s liveliness, and choking on dirt while six feet under. You and Eddie, two sides of the same coin, had decided to not speak of it. He never told you how he had come to be able to pinpoint your heartbeat in every shared room he entered, throat burning as his gaze always settled on you, and you never told him of the matching aches that had shamefully sparked within your chest and between your hips for him. 

A hunger to be near one another. A hunger to devour. Neither of you really understood the heaviness.

“How are you feeling today, Eddie?” Steve asks as he sits on the edge of the new bed in the new apartment in the new part of town the Munson men now occupy. 

Government money could go a Hell of a long way. Especially after your home had been devastated by the aftermath of alternate dimensions and unheard of evil being defeated.

“Fine,” is the only response Eddie can muster.

In reality, every time anyone came near him now, he burned. His throat tightened till it was surely raw, he swore his teeth sharpened until a mere slip of his tongue against his canines could bring the taste of metallic blood to his mouth. His entire body would tense with every person that walked through his door.

Control. Whatever was happening to him, Eddie needed to exercise control.

“Just fine?” Steve continues on, not catching the drift as he puts down the bag of things he’d bought at Eddie’s request. Basic things — painkillers, packs of cigarettes, a 6-pack. Some habits die harder and can’t be controlled, “You look like shit, Munson.” 

“Gee, thanks, Stevie.” 

Everyone had assumed the dark shadows beneath Eddie’s eyes would fade. They assumed his cheeks would eventually fill back out. They assumed he could wash away the ashen shade his hair now flatly flowed in. It was as if the life had been drained from Eddie since that day, and they had all assumed it would eventually flow back into him. 

It never did. Just as his new hunger lingered, so did the look of Death.

“Sorry, man,” Steve throws his hands up, shrugging a bit before he stands, “Just being honest. It’s the best policy.”

“Is it? Is it really?” 

If honesty was the best policy, Eddie could have filled the room with it. He could admit about the nightmarish wants, needs, he’d been keeping at bay. He could admit the way his irritation had been growing this last week every time another body, another friend, walked through his doorway and it wasn’t you. You, who had begun to plague the night terrors. You, who Eddie was beginning to crave far more than he had before he’d stared the afterlife down the barrel of the gun. 

Steve just looks at Hawkins’ newest zombie boy, sighing, “Look, I don’t know what’s got you pissed off-“

“The whole dying thing, for starters.”

“-or why you’ve insisted on being an asshole to all of us these last few weeks-“

“Again, I died.” 

“-but you’ve got everyone but me scared to visit you. We’re all scared of you biting our heads off, dude,” Steve finally finishes with a scowl. 

Everyone. It’s unspoken that you’re included in the generalization. 

It occurs to Eddie that maybe, just maybe, he should be kinder if he ever wants the ache of yearning to see you again to fade. If that’s what he could call this ache.

By the time Steve has left, Eddie’s still thinking about his warning. About the way he had been unusually cruel since coming back to life, since waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed. It made sense initially. But he wasn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed anymore — he was home, or as close to home as he could get, and he was technically safe.

The issue was that he’d accepted his safety. Everyone who had wanted Eddie Munson dead was now six feet under themselves. No, the bigger issue at hand was everyone else’s safety.

Your safety.

Once he’d realized you were the staring lead in his violent fantasies, he had stopped calling. Half of your absence last week had been his fault. 

No one really bothered to look deeper into it. Steve didn’t press as to why Eddie’s fridge had remained empty, Nancy didn’t take second glances at the odd books on vampire tales that were now littering all the free real estate of Eddie’s room, and you hadn’t questioned the coldness of his tone whenever he spoke to you. The chill of his words had grown icier than his own palms, desperate to keep you at arm’s length until he figured out what had changed in him that day he came back to life. 

He wanted you near. He wanted to rip your throat out. He wanted your blood to stain his mouth and neck just as his had stained your hands. That was an issue. That wasn’t normal. 

Something had changed in Eddie Munson, and it had terrified him to his twisted core, and no one had cared enough to notice. Not yet.

–

It took you two weeks to be fed up with the radio silence. 

Eddie stopped calling even Jonathan (the only one of the group he found he didn’t want to devour whole, as it turns out). When everyone had mentioned it in passing, it had only reminded you of the sleepless nights you’d be enduring. That small voice in the back of your head that had called out to you in the dead of night, the whisper of come to me that echoed all the way across a broken town. 

Come to me. 

Sometimes you swore it was Eddie’s voice calling to you. Sometimes, you nearly left your own new apartment in the dead of night, and let your legs guide you to the undead boy you had single-handedly revived.

Tonight was one of those nights. Your stomach was twisting, your head was pounding, your bones were aching. Every single inch of you hurt as it listened to that soft calling, and at some point, you gave in.

Hunger. You were insatiable with the need and drive to be at Eddie’s side. Warnings from the others be damned.

One thing leads to another. You find your coat, you find your car keys. You find yourself driving the deserted streets of Hawkins in the middle of the night. You find yourself on the Munson doorstep, knuckles shaking and aching with the knowledge that just beyond the wood of the door, he was there. You don’t have to see him to feel him; his thrumming presence, his anchoring existence. 

Come to me. 

The door swings open before you get the chance to knock. This string tying your two souls together is not a one-way channel, it seems. 

“Why are you here?” 

You watch him wince as the harsh words leave him. Immediately, you know that the abrasiveness is on instinct. Just as something claws inside of you to be near him, there is something within him howling to keep you far from him. 

The polarity of two magnets. Some nights, surely, his twists in a way that would draw him to you, just as yours will twirl with the sensibility that whatever has changed within him should give you cause to run as far away from him as possible. 

But tonight, your magnetism only yanks you closer to him. He doesn’t even invite you in, and yet, you find yourself stepping over the threshold of the new apartment. 

“You’ve gone quiet,” you whisper as an answer. It’s not what he wants to hear, grimace deepening, nearly a scowl now, “I just… It’s been weeks. I…” 

I missed you. I needed you. I heard you in my dreams and I’ve never had much self-control when it comes to you. 

Magnets are a useless metaphor for whatever is happening here between you. A better comparison would be the cliche image of a moth to a flame; he’s dangerous, threatening to burn you alive, and you still find your heart fluttering after him hopelessly. You’re going to get scorned, and you’ll still never learn. You’ve fallen victim to a tired narrative that you’d rolled your eyes at in a plethora of books. How many times had you sworn that wouldn’t be you? Just how many eye rolls had you exhausted at the mere idea?

And now, here you were, on his doorstep. Grasping for something you’re not sure either of you can give. 

“I’ve been dealing with a few things,” he mutters as he shuts the door behind you, shielding you both from the chill of the night. The room is still cold, especially in his radius, “Didn’t think it would make much of a difference.” 

“You didn’t think I’d care if you just stopped calling?” you turn slowly, taking in the state of the living room. Wayne was clearly gone for the night, work most probably, and several books littered the coffee table. Eddie had been the one reading them, lounging on the couch. 

The last time you had seen him, he couldn’t even sit up in bed on his own. 

He’s keeping an unusual distance, nearly leaning back out of your vicinity, “Figured you were busy.”

He’s never been this short with you. His words are choked up, his body tense with pain. You assume it’s just his injuries bothering him.

You couldn’t be more wrong, but you’re completely unaware.

“I brought you back from the dead, and you think I’d still be too busy for you,” you laugh humorlessly, fully in disbelief at his pitiful excuse, “Eddie, we could find out Vecna didn’t really die, those damn cracks in the Earth could open right back up, and the first person I’d care about finding is you.”

The animal inside that had been yearning for his presence is satiated for now, but you can still feel it lurking in the darkest depths of your mind, ready to call out a new request at any moment. It’s the distraction that has you spilling pathetic truths. 

The only response he offers you is a dead stare. With eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowed up by darkness. 

“You could have called,” your voice cracks, body shaking with the effort not to take a step closer to him, “You could have just let me know you were still alive.”

“I-” 

He cuts himself off when he’s the one taking a step closer. His entire face twists with pain, and you give up keeping your distance. In an instant, you’re at his side as your hand reaches out for his bicep. 

He flinches away. Something inside of you burns. 

Your hand is hovering in the air between the two of you, and in this lighting, you swear the skin is still stained with the blood that won’t wash away. 

“Please don’t,” he begs, “I’m fine, but… please.”

You don’t know what he’s begging for. Distance, for you to pull your hand away, time – you don’t know what he needs. 

“We should sit down,” you insist, finally pulling your hand as far from him as possible but making no move to put the space back between you two, “Has anyone helped you with your bandages? If your wounds got infected-”

“They didn’t.”

“If you didn’t change the bandages, they definitely could have-”

“They’re not infected,” he grits out, but he’s still walking over to the couch regardless, “They’re healed.” 

Healed.

Mere weeks ago, those wounds were still deep enough to keep you from ever achieving a full night's rest. Deep enough to worry you to the core that you would wake up to them finally having consumed him. Deep enough that you all assumed it would take him months, not weeks, to recover.

“What do you mean they healed, Eddie?” you whisper, almost reaching out for him as he sits down. 

Your hand twitches, but the echoes of his begging and his flinching keep it at bay as you stand before him. 

“I mean, they healed,” he huffs, nostrils flaring as he takes deep breaths. He’s looking anywhere in the room but at you, his gaze subverting you with purpose. As though the mere sight of you, the mere proximity, is painful to him, “Don’t know how, don’t know why – they just did.” 

“So why are you still in pain?” 

A sharper intake of breath. A hush of silence falling over the apartment. Even the buzz of the building’s AC unit has faded from all your senses. It’s just you and him, and a heavy quietude like no other. 

Until he finally breaks the surface tension, breathing out, “You.” 

Your heart drops. That tug inside your chest, the one taut as you look at him right within your reach yet still so far away, almost snaps. 

“Me?”

He nods with a harsh swallow, “I- Look, I can’t explain it, but when I came back, I came back…” 

“Different?” 

He doesn’t have to explain it. You’d felt it.

The moment his eyes had opened, just moments after what should have been blissful victory. The taste of his blood heavy on your tongue, a terrible sweetness that had choked you rather than its initial metallic twang. The whispers of his voice in your mind. 

He wasn’t the only one changed from whatever had occurred that night. 

“Different is a good way of putting it,” he nods, looking up with apologetic eyes, “It’s not you. It’s cliche as fuck, but it really isn’t – it’s me. I died, and you brought me back, but I don’t think either of us knew the cost.” 

The yearning. The nightmares. The unmanageable needs. The hunger. 

“What was the cost?” 

He almost doesn’t hear you. Your voice is a whisper, tone weighed down with the curse of knowing. 

You might not have known the cost when you were pressing your palms into his chest through your wretched sobs, functioning as his heart and lungs for nearly a minute, but you think you might have a clue now. 

All that had been tethering you to him since he’d come back to you, all those webs and strings that had formed their knots around both of your necks. He’d changed, and you had plummeted right into the chasm of the unknown with him.

His blood on your tongue, sweet as honey. 

Blood shouldn’t be sweet. 

He grabs one of the books off the coffee table, motioning for you to join him on the couch. Under the weight of your realization, you’re nearly under a trance. All he has to do is wave a hand, and you follow. 

You’re at his beck and call. Just like you had been when he’d been calling out for you, yearning for you. 

“Don’t make me say it,” he mutters under his breath, tossing the book into your lap the moment you’ve sat down. This time, you’re mindful to keep your distance. 

This time, you’re painfully aware of the compromising situation the two of you have found yourselves in. 

The book is older, leather-bound and worn from years of readers’ careless hands breaking the spine. The corners of every page are weather, close to disintegration. The entire thing could easily pass for a Halloween decoration. 

It’s not. You flip open to the title page, and if Eddie didn’t appear so deathly serious at your side, you would have scoffed. 

“Dracula?” you question carefully, running a finger over the delicate script of the title, “Eddie, I don’t-”

“I’m not insane,” he interrupts you, “I’m not fucking- I swear to you. I’ve gathered up every goddamn book about it that I can. Fictional, nonfictional. Just- there’s obviously a Hell of a lot more fictional material to work with, okay?” 

A vampire. He’s convinced he’s a vampire.

And even worse – you’re convinced right along with him. 

You turn your head to look at him, trying to find the right words, but all you find is Eddie burying his face in his hands, head nearly hung between his knees. 

“I can’t eat normal food anymore,” his voice is muffled, “That was the first sign. Couldn’t stomach it, made me throw up for hours when I tried. And then all those nurses kept talking about how I was healing faster than they expected. Most of my smaller cuts – those healed in under a day,” he finally lifts his face just enough to turn and peer at you through all the stray curls that fall into his vision, “My vision and hearing were the next things I noticed. Remember how I had a nonstop migraine those first few days?” 

He doesn’t need to convince you, but the argument is compelling, “It… wasn’t a migraine.” 

He shakes his head. “Not even close. Just turns out that it’s a killer to get used to fucking superhuman night vision and impeccable hearing. I still can’t handle being out in the sun very long. I don’t… burn up or any of that shit, but… it just…” he trails off, shoulders falling in defeat before he throws himself back against the couch. When he continues, his tone is flat, devoid of all emotion, “I keep having these dreams about you, too. Bad dreams. Terrible dreams.” 

You shut the book, toss it back onto the coffee table, and decide to Hell with keeping your distance. 

You need it. Even if he’ll only allow you to get an inch closer to him, you need it. 

“What do you mean by terrible dreams?” you ask, breath catching at the end of your question as you scoot yourself closer on the couch. Even with such a small movement, Eddie is quick to notice, eyes flicking to you quickly with a sense of urgency flashing behind them. 

“Don’t,” he lowly warns. 

“What’s happening in your dreams, Eddie?” 

Another inch closer. His jaw clenches. 

“Sweetheart, do not-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Your knee bumps into his thigh, and you watch him go rigid. Hands turning to fists, eyes pinching shut and face twisting with the same pain he’d worn the ghost of when you first arrived at the apartment. 

The moment you touch him, you see it. The flashes of his nightmares, all those terrible actions haunting him every time he closed his eyes. You. Your blood. That hunger. 

Like a blackhole in the center of your stomach, it burns viciously as it sucks the air out of your lungs. It threatens to cave your entire being into itself until there’s nothing left. Not even a crumb of who you once were. 

But it's not yours. It’s Eddie’s. 

That pain on his face is only exhibiting a fraction of what he was feeling. That dizzying craving that he’d miraculously been keeping at bay since you’d simply entered the building, not even yet knocking on his door. You hadn’t even been in the same room as him yet, and he had still known. Had smelt you, had felt you. 

He could almost taste you. 

“You…” you have to shift your knee away from him, break the touch, break the connection, “You haven’t fed since you woke up.”

“I haven’t fed, period.” 

With the connection severed, he somehow finds it in himself to open his eyes once more. You don’t know how – if he’s feeling what you’d just been privy to, you’d be an incoherent mess on the floor. Something feral and unrecognizable. 

Although, maybe he was nearly there. You couldn’t see his pupils. That same look when he’d first woken up – a man swallowed whole by hunger. 

“You’ve been dreaming about ripping my throat out,” you say it as a matter of fact, not a lick of judgment in your tone. 

It wasn’t you scrutinizing him. It was what you had seen, with one simple touch. 

His voice is hoarse as he echoes in confirmation, “I’ve been dreaming about ripping your throat out.” 

You should probably be afraid. All your survival instincts should be kicking in, your feet should be carrying you towards the door, you shouldn’t be leaning in closer. 

“You know what really sealed the whole vampire ordeal though, sweetheart?” he breathes out, your eyes fluttering shut at the lull in his hushed tone. 

Just as you’ve been leaning in, he’s been slowly turning his body to face yours, hands twitching at his sides. He’s no longer retreating from your presence, sucking down breaths in harsh gulps the closer you grow to him. 

He’s losing control. You’re losing control. 

That thread, vibrant red as it draws you near him, is clear as day now. A noose around your neck. A road to your damnation. 

A road to your hunger. 

You hardly hum in response, completely entranced now. Had he ever been capable of this before? Of holding you beneath such an inescapable spell with such ease? 

Probably. 

He doesn’t use his words to answer. Instead, he finally takes the plunge. 

His head ducks down towards your neck just as his hands lose the war, grabbing onto your hips, dragging you dangerously close to him until his lips hovered just over your pulse point. And by some strength that you certainly don’t possess, he stops there. Letting his lips barely brush against your soft skin, breath coming out in pants for you to feel, to relish, to get lost in. And just as soon as those pants, those waves, become a comfortable pattern to succumb to, you feel them.

His fangs. 

Grazing over your sensitive skin. Sharp tips nipping at a surface they could so easily break, pierce with one wrong move. Your pulse is thrumming beneath the surface, heart racing painfully as Eddie’s grip turns bruising. 

Come to me. 

“Please.” 

You’re the one begging now. It goes against every rule you’ve ever seen applied in fiction. If a vampire is baring their fangs against your neck, you should be reaching for a stake. The only noise escaping you should be a scream for help, not the pathetic whimpers beginning to slip out. 

“I can’t,” you feel his gasp more than you can hear it. Your blood is too loud, roaring in your ears as you feel the fangs slip with his words, “I can’t.” 

That hunger you felt, the one that had called out to you through the night and led you right to his doorstep, is unavoidable now. You need him closer, you need him to do this. For the first time since you had saved his life and tasted his blood after the Upside Down, everything seems to click into place. All he needs to do is let them sink into you, take that final leap of faith and reprieve that ache you’ve battled for weeks now. 

You’re so close. So close. 

“Eddie, please,” you’re nearly sobbing, hands gripping onto his shoulders, trying to pull him in closer. 

But you’re no match for his strength. You don’t know if it’s a new addition with his vampire business or if there was always more to him than met the eye, but he easily stays stoic against your attempts, not moving a centimeter. Still hovering, still just barely making contact with your heartbeat. 

“I-” his head drops slightly, tip of his nose beginning to trail down the side of your neck, mouth no longer dangerously close, “You saw my dreams-”

“I trust you.” 

You do. You trust him even more now than you had when you first stumbled upon him in the boathouse. More than when he had pleaded his case, promised he hadn’t been the one to kill Chrissy Cunningham. The trust comes easier than breathing as his nose nuzzles into the junction of your neck and shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t,” he mutters, fangs now brushing your collar bone, “You really, really shouldn’t.” 

He doesn’t stop you when you move to straddle his hips. Your weight settles onto his lap, and he only fights to keep his face burrowed there in your shoulder, arms now moving around your waist to hold you tightly to him. 

His self-control is impeccable. You’d admire him and all this impressiveness another time, when something inside of you wasn’t lamenting his resistance. 

All at once, it occurs to you how to give him the final push. 

“Did I ever tell you how sweet your blood was on my tongue after I brought you back?” you start, sighing, rolling your shoulders to expose more of your neck, grip on his shoulders tightening, “All that blood, all those tears, and I still can’t forget how welcome that warmth of you was in my mouth. How I needed more. How I pictured it every night, after every nightmare-” 

He breaks. 

One moment, his nose is buried in your skin. And the next, his fangs are. 

You weren’t sure what to expect, but relief would have been low on your list. You gasp out in initial shock, but as you feel his teeth dig in, it’s as though something has snapped. The ache has been satiated, preening as you feel the warmth of your blood contrast the chill of his chin pressing into you. 

If there’s any pain, you don’t feel it through the haze of pleasure. 

Ice shards spread through your bloodstream, but the point in which Eddie’s mouth is connected to you radiates heat. He’s pulling you into him, letting go completely and relinquishing all that control as he nearly purrs against your skin in satisfaction. That connection is back, two minds linking with a heavy click, and you can feel all his pleasure mingling with your own. Satiation, desperation, adoration – the plethora of emotions all swarm your head and block out any better judgment. 

You’d let him drain you dry, if that’s what he needed. If nothing more than to hear those soft moans as his fangs sink even deeper. 

He pulls back too soon, though, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as quickly as he had given in to both your desires, he’s putting an end to them. He hadn’t taken much blood, but your head is swimming from the loss all the same. Your grip has gone slack on him, hands slipping down to just barely cradle his biceps while his own touch stays unyielding around you. 

You can hear his thoughts. Or rather, maybe more aptly put, you can feel them. 

He wants to devour you. Wholly, ruthlessly. 

He looks up at you with pupils still blown wide, chest heaving and a small scarlet drip trailing from the corner of his mouth. For the first time since he’d come back to you, he looks alive. Hair fluffed in a halo around his head, skin tinted with a healthy glow and unmistakable blush, bags beneath his eyes faded for the time being. 

You were never quite sure if Eddie Munson’s heart had ever restarted, knew for certain that it hadn’t now, but you swear you can feel its pulse finally thrumming for you. 

I need more. 

It’s his voice in your head, echoing in the empty space as you look down with wild eyes to match his. 

But it’s your voice in his head when you respond instantaneously. 

Then take it. 

Something unspoken lies there in the need. He doesn’t move back to your neck, doesn’t bite down and drink his fill of your blood. He only stares for a few seconds, watching the welt of blood that pools from each puncture wound of his making. His eyes follow when it runs down your skin, as though he might lose it should he so much as blink. Down, down, down. Following the trail that his nose had followed minutes before, across your collarbone until it stains the neck of your loose shirt. 

My pleasure. 

His hold proves helpful when he quickly changes positions, roughly throwing you down onto the couch before he’s settled between your thighs, crawling his way up your body. He pays close attention to the maroon trail on your throat, his tongue cleaning up after his mess, savoring the taste of you on his tongue. 

Sweet as honey. 

His tongue only pauses for a moment over the bite wound, pressing into it, making your back arch as you press yourself fully into him. Your head digs painfully into the cushion behind you as you expose your neck, wanting and begging and pleading all without words. 

“I think we should take this off,” he plucks at the hem of your shirt, tugging hard before he begins to carefully lift. His freezing knuckles brush against your burning skin, eliciting a whimper from you, “Before we make an ever bigger mess. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?” 

A sultry tone you’ve never heard from him before. Honeyed words, familiar to how he once spoke, but entirely new in the way they curl around you. There’s a confidence there, a baiting that he’s luring you with. 

“Yes, please.” 

He could ask anything of you in this moment, and you’d be eager to comply. Fueled by your desire for him before the events of spring break, worsened by his new condition. A bright, red, vibrating thread. You couldn’t severe the tie if you wanted to. 

And you most certainly did not want to. 

Your shirt is removed, his hands careful despite the way they shake. His words may be smooth, but each move is jagged, the only sign you had that he’s still exercising control. 

“And these?” he whispers, lowering his lips to your sternum as he toys with the band of your pants. His fangs scratch down the center of your stomach as it quivers with each breath, careful to not break skin as they make their presence known. You nearly lose all capability to speak until he says, “Use your words, baby. Tell me I can take them off.” 

Yes. 

His eyes flare, looking up to you, “Use your words. Not your mind. I want to hear how badly you need me – I want everyone to hear you beg.” 

The words strike straight to your core. Lashing out in your lower stomach, burning deliciously. 

It’s more than putting on a show. He needs to know you want this. 

“Take them off,” you gasp out, hands wandering to tangle in his hair, “Take- Take it all off. I’m yours, Eddie.” 

Shaking hands perform a dance you had long since fantasized about. In easier days, when Eddie had been uninvolved in the episode down, heart still beating along as he would bounce his knees in front of you and his fingers would idly fiddle with his pencils and pens. A yearning, a wanting, you’d always held for the boy. 

He used to be an escape from it all. A pretty thing to daydream about when you weren’t worried about monsters. And now – he was one of the monsters. 

Your monster. Tied to you inexplicably, brought back by your hands and your stubborn efforts. 

His lips and fangs are one in the same, trailing along your body as he finds a home at the apex between your thighs. Even in undeath, he’s the most beautiful thing your mind could conjure. 

You’d forgotten how he was privy to your every thought until he reacts.

“You’re too sweet,” he murmurs, smirking salaciously as he mouths innocently at that sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tongue darting out to lick a cool stride before he breathes out against it. It has you writhing beneath his hold, “You’ve wanted this all this time, sweetheart? Wanted to see me, between these pretty thighs, making you scream my name?” His mouth falls open a bit wider, the sharp canines pressing but not sinking against where he had just licked. He holds there, eyes locking with yours, until he pulls back to cockily say, “Could’ve just said something, y’know. Didn’t have to bring me back from the dead to have me devoted to you.” 

Finally, finally, he lets his fangs sink back into you. The soft meat of your thigh is more pliant in his mouth, and he doesn’t linger as long as he had on your neck. One nick, just enough to start the blood flow, before he’s pulling back and licking hungrily at the scarlet liquid. Less for feeding, more for marking.

Marking you as his, just as you have with him. His methods just appeared a bit more physical. 

He’s quick to avert his focus on your cunt, no warning before the tongue still covered in your blood is taking long strides over your entrance and clit. Devotion. That was the only word to describe the way he was unraveling you, alternating between indulging in your sweet cunt and returning back to that bite, going as far to even sink his teeth in a second time to take a proper drink of you. His chin and lips grow slick with it all – with the blood, with your wetness, with his own saliva. A starved man with a feast before him. 

The way he’s rutting his hips into the couch as he slings your legs over his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed. 

It’s a mess. A wonderful, satisfying, enchanting mess.

Beautiful. So beautiful, all mine. 

His voice has you teetering on an edge of new carnal pleasure. Completely consumed by him, your hands tugging viciously at his curls. His face is round once more, eyes and cheeks no longer sunken in, vitality being breathed into him with each taste of your blood. 

Let me touch you. Please.

You beg over that connection, trying your best to not buck your hips mercilessly against his tongue. You feel his wicked grin. 

“You’re already touching me, sweetheart,” he reaches up, untangling your fingers from his hair for emphasis before he’s pinning them to your sides, “And what did I say about using our words? Hm?” 

“Need more,” your voice is wrecked as you tilt your head back, wrists straining against his hold, “I need more.” 

You’re fully light-headed now, the blood loss finally catching up. Maybe you were about to let him drain you dry. 

And what a beautiful way to die. At the hand, at the fangs, of the one you had fought so urgently to bring back to you. 

One last timid lick to the wound on your thigh, and he’s crawling his way back up to you. The mess doesn't phase you as he kisses you hungrily – the blood remains sweet rather than metallic, the remnants of your juices still on his tongue – and you meet him with an unbridled fervent. Nipping at his lips with your own dull canines as if you were the one looking for a bite of vivacity. 

You don’t know when he lets go of your wrists, or when your hands find their way up beneath his shirt. The specifics don’t matter once he’s naked before you, clothes discarded messily to the ground with your own. The only thing that matters is the weight of him, the reminder that he was still here as his hips roll into yours and the head of him catches on your entrance. 

He had been dead. For minutes. And you had brought him back to you. 

The process had taken longer than the mere CPR administered, had taken weeks of whatever waiting game you two had tortured yourselves with, but you had him now. He was yours. You were his. There wasn’t a deity, a monster, an omniscient being in this world that could take that away from you. Not even Death herself. 

“Last chance, baby,” he whispers against your lips, holding himself up so that not a single inch of his skin pressed to yours. You nearly cried out, missing that connection, missing him. Your hunger, the hunger for him entirely, rattles your bones once more, “Say the word, and I’ll-”

“No,” your hands pause their exploration of skin jagged with scars. Reminders of those few dreadful moments in which the world existed without Eddie Munson in it, that would fade in time but never fully disappear. Always there, just like the stain of his blood on your palms. Always there, just like your desperation to have him at your side. “I meant it when I said I’m yours. I’m not changing my mind. I want this.” 

His skin is back on yours, body laid fully along your own road map, and it all comes flooding back. The pain of seeing his lifeless body, the nights spent in an eerie hospital room, baring your own teeth at any one who came too close to the man you had pulled back from the ledge of Death. The anxiety, the fear, the relief, the yearning – it all accumulates as he’s pressing into you, brimming you so full that there’s no room for memories of nightmares. 

He’s here. He’s yours. You’re his. 

His heart didn’t need to beat for you to accept that truth. 

You can’t decipher which chants of your name fall from his lips for others to hear, and which ones whisper in the depths of your mind for only you to bear witness to. Each curse, each grunt, each moan – there for you and only you anyways. You’re entirely unsure if your lips even separate once as he thrusts, cock brushing somewhere deep in you that has you clenching around him. 

And if his fangs wander, it only adds to the pleasure. 

Blood, sweat, and tears all mingle between your bodies. He’s holding you tighter than water, as though you’re at risk of disappearing from him at any given moment. But that link between your two minds, your two souls, is unwavering. It’s the only thing grounding you to the moment as your half curls around his waist and your heel digs into his lower back. Urging him, pressing him, taking him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says it out loud, this time. You feel his lips brushing against your ear as he does, “Gripping me so tightly. This pussy was fucking made for me.” 

Every movement only unlocks something more feral inside the two of you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red lines to trace over once it’s all said and done. There’s enough shallow bite marks across your neck that you’ll be wearing scarves for weeks, months. The others might question it, strangers might stare, but the pride you feel as he marks you is unmatched for any anxiety about it. 

That black hole of hunger is no longer swallowing either of you whole. That debilitating pain, that animal inside, has been tamed. 

When his hips begin to stutter, mouth no longer capable of the strength to properly bite you as his lips only smear the soft spattering of blood pooling at the base of your throat, you’re already there. Squeezing him tightly, sucking him in, voice raw as you let everyone know who’s ravishing you. 

Eddie. 

Hawkins’ newest zombie boy – Hawkins’ newest vampire. 

The climax is just as pleasurable as the lead up. The haze lingers long after his spent has dripped out of you, long after he’s collapsed into your body with exhaustion and contentment. The blood dries, the wounds clot – but that haze doesn’t falter. 

As long as his skin presses to yours, you feel that caress of his mind against yours. 

“Did…” you’re breathless as his face nuzzles into your nude chest, a few mindless hums of gratification still slipping from him as you bring a hand to toy with the curls at the crown of his head, “Did any of your vampire books say anything about… that?”

The connection. The bloodlust. The spell you swear he still has you under, even as it’s all said and done. 

He snorts against your skin, “Not that I, uh, recall.” 

“What? You mean to tell me in all your research, you never dived into any vampire smut?” you tsk jokingly, a calm smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He lifts his head, and you swear, those honey-brown irises have threads of a deep maroon now, “You’re slacking, Munson.” 

“Why read about it when I can just experience it?” he coos, letting his nose and lips drag across your still hot skin before he rests his chin on your sternum, “Besides, I mean – we’ll need to do this again, won’t we, baby? For research.” 

Your head still spins. Your body aches in a welcome manner. There will be a need for explanations to others, for actually researching his condition, later on. But for now, it’s enough. 

The pounding behind your ribcage, the one you know Eddie feels for the both of you when his ear presses to your chest, is enough. 

Of course, lover. 

That thought stays between the two of you. The world doesn’t need to know what can’t hurt them. 

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[rizsu]

food for thought, except it’s unwanted jujutsu kaisen : fem-reader.

have you ever wondered about a scenario so much that you must ask? well that’s exactly the last thing they’d wish to answer.

+ love ‘su: gojo, geto, itadori + ‘live, laugh, love’ hater final boss ( sukuna )

gojo satoru ﾉ refuses to answer.

“do you ever think about how it’d be if we never met?”

“ha— no. don’t even go there.”

satoru stops you there. he doesn’t wish to hear another word from you— especially if it extends your former question. he thinks about it— daily, in fact. it's a scenario that crosses his mind whenever he finds himself drunk on the temporary love he receives from you.

you’ve sung the lyric ‘i’ll love you until there’s no more left’ almost every week for him, silently begging that he gets the concept of genuine love through his head.

“why not? imagine if my friends didn’t make that bet where i either hit on you or pay for the night.” you reminisced, remembering the very night you lost the last touch of shame.

he hums, drumming his fingers on your thigh.

“bet or not, we’d still be fated to meet. next question!”

“anddd what makes you so confident?” you threw another question at him. this time, it's lighthearted.

“mind you, i’m the second coming of an angel. i predetermined this since three years ago.”

glances were exchanged, an expression of a grinning fool met the expression of a glaring responsible person who’s the said fool’s other romantic half.

you should've been familiar with satoru’s ways. it’s your fault for expecting a deep-dive conversation with satoru. not quite his cup of tea!

geto suguru ﾉ expects it and tries to escape.

suguru's home was no new, unexplored area to you. you knew his home's blueprint like the back of your hand. if needed, you'd walk through his home blindfolded and still end up in the room you want to be in.

this isn't a good thing to suguru. there are days where the feeling of confusion as to who he is piles up on him, leading him to isolate himself.. until he forgets there's a spare key of his isolation cube in your hold so now the plan goes awry.

that is exactly what’s happening. after he sent the text ‘k bye’ and silenced his notifications, he felt an impending doom. the reason was unknown by then but he should've guessed it was you.

you marched into his home, readying yourself with suguru-loneliness-begone techniques and, of course, the question that's been wandering your mind since you woke up from a dream.

“babe, what if—”

“fuck,” he curses under his breath, too exhausted to put a hand over your mouth.

“what if we were the last persons on earth? would you recreate humanity with me or kill yourself?”

there it is: your special ‘what if’ questions that know no bounds when it comes to absurdity.

“when would that ever happen? please, stop this,” he groans, pleading with his eyes for you to stop.

“that's the thing— you never know! so, what option is it?”

“i'd kill myself a long time ago if possible.”

“so it's the second one?”

“i'm... not cut out to be a good father.”

“i hate an indecisive bitch, my goodness,” it's your turn to complain, a little let down at his grey answers.

suguru's equally offended. you're the one who jumped him with such a question— who even thinks about that?!

“(y/n), baby, has it ever crossed your mind that your thinking skills aren't quite normal?”

“are you calling me stupid?!”

itadori yuuji ﾉ just as stupid.

it's mango season— yuuji's most anticipated season of the year. mangoes are to yuuji what your lipbalm is to you. a necessity, a survival item, a lifesaver, an important part of his lore, something he worships.

peeling mangoes and slicing them to equal pieces has never brought him such satisfaction before. it immediately brightens his mood. this must be how his grandfather felt whenever he took a walk around the neighbourhood.

now you appear, yuuji's second most anticipated person. you to yuuji is what mangoes are to him. this causes yuuji's current happiness level to reach its peak today. such a great level of happiness can defeat any evil being with just being in its area.

“say, yuu,” you begin, stabbing one of the mangoe slices with a fork.

he nods, signalling that he's listening but still focused on his current activity. a true mulit-tasker.

“if one of your limbs happen to detach from your body, do you feel the pain or does the pain go with it?”

he stops, allowing the question to sink in. he's never been asked such a.. divine question before. what's the answer? does the pain go with the limb or does it stay?

“oh... i gotta ask nobara this, she'd know,” he suggests, placing the knife down. a question that'll haunt him if he doesn't act quick for the answer.

“yes, yes!!” you encourage his actions, mindlessly enjoying the mango slices. mangoes are truly a blessing.

sukuna ryomen ﾉ no. nice try, though! A+ for effort.

“ryo, have you ever wondered if—”

“no, i never.”

“you didn't even let—”

“i haven't learnt since two-thousand years ago.”

“you old fuck, let me finish—”

“it's truly been a while since i've wondered.”

“DAMN, BITCH!”

you threw the remote at him, ultimately fed up with him cutting you off before the peak of the sentence. it could've been the question of the year and he'd still dodge it.

sukuna invited himself over since he ran out of entertainment options and you're always there for him. unfortunately, you do not find him as entertainin. he's annoying, arrogant, and attractive so it cancels out the negatives about him.

of course, sukuna caught the remote. his athletic capabilities are its prime despite him being dormant for centuries. it'd be a white lie to say he's not interested in your question, however it is way more benefitting to push your buttons.

he throws the remote back onto your bed, drying his hands with your hand-towel before making his merry way to you.

“your bed's small.”

“well no shit. it's for ME.”

“you mad? you look mad.” his hand holds your chin, turning your head side-to-side to observe your expression.

you rolled your eyes, “i don't get mad that easily.”

“is this how people felt when i told them an obvious lie? i should repent.”

[astonmartingf]

YOU'VE BEEN ON MY MIND—

— co-parenting with alonso has been smooth sailing, until he starts dropping hints that he wants to be with you again

P4 ★ SUNSHINE, RAINBOWS, AND THUNDERSTORM

amgf written portion down below. more lore, also peep lewis' story. we're in the calm before the storm hahahahaha, enjoy this 👍

previous ★ masterlist ★ next

How could the end of the week turn into a nightmare when things were starting to look better not just for Ales, but for you and Alonso.

Somehow the world always works in your favor, and just when you're about to fall into the pattern of domesticity around Alonso, shit somehow always hits the fan.

You can't help but get mad, not just at him but to yourself. You can't help but long for what could've been, you can't help but think about the family you're supposed to have together, it was a dream. Was— no longer yours to be shared.

Now you've let yourself stay too long into a sense of security, a habit, nothing out of the norm, spending mornings with Ales before dropping him off Alonso, picking him at the end of the day and eating dinner together. Once in a while he would stay over his place, and you'd pick him up while having breakfast.

You didn't mind that— co-parenting with him near. You thought you'd perfected this routine, you've gotten yourself in the habit and slowly the pick-ups turned into lunch dates and dine-outs. Heck, you even let him call you late at night while you eat dinner after an overtime shift, you were sharing and learning all these things about Alonso you never knew before.

How he is as a father; how attentive he is whenever Ales is around, how he prioritizes Ales' comfort over anything, spending time and bringing him to work. All feeding into your brain, turning you into the same girl who met him years ago. The man you promised to be with, get married to, planned to start a family with.

Though a little bit out of order and some not even done, you found yourself in the illusion of wanting to be with him again. And that despite the years of your grudge, his magnetic pull on you causes you to fall into the comfort of his arms.

Pulling back from your thoughts, you find yourself watching the trees pull away from your vision as you leave Alonso's apartment complex.

Leaning against the window of Lance's car, you slowly let the soft hum of the engine lull you back to sleep. Ignoring the rest of the evening, your thoughts revisit your date with Alonso a few nights before the raging thunderstorm.

"I'm excited! Are you excited Mama?" Ales was bouncing off the room, his excitement having no bounds as he skipped along your room.

"Papa is excited as well, he said that if I do good I'll have a surprise gift! Can you believe that?" You laugh at Ales' antics, watching him through the view of your mirror.

"Do you want to go out more with Papa?" You were in awe of Ales' acceptance of your co-parenting situation with Alonso. It's been two years since then, and you're surprised by how his bond with Alonso grew.

Two years ago you couldn't imagine yourself spending more than thirty minutes with Alonso, let alone leave him with Ales. Now you've found yourself enjoying his updates throughout the day, whether it be pictures of Ales or random outbursts about how meetings in the office are boring, to his small reminders to take breaks, calling you in between shifts to talk to Ales for a while. It was a whole different Alonso that you knew.

It makes you think how time will slowly heal all your wounds.

When Ales asked about his father for the first time it didn't shock you. Throughout the first years of his life, Alonso was committed to being a father, although not present his work often left him missing weeks of Ales' life. And when he chose to race again, the weeks turned into months, and slowly you pulled away from him.

Your choice to leave him out of Ales' life was a selfish choice, not just for Ales who at that time had no idea what was happening, but also to you. Mainly because it hurts your pride that Alonso chose to race instead of focusing on your family, at the time you couldn't understand as to why he would choose racing instead of raising a family with you.

Thinking back it might've hurt Alonso more, he chose to race— all alone this time. You left him, leaving him little interaction with Alonso, and despite all that he chose to stay and persist.

"I like going with Mama and Papa, we can have dates together!" You smile to yourself, watching Ales bring his toys on your bed.

"Mama, do you want to go on a date with Papa?"

His question caught you off guard— you haven't really thought about your relationship with Alonso, especially since the co-parenting is going well, not only did his relationship with Ales drastically improve, your relationship with him was also begging to be defined.

Alonso has made it clear multiple times how he still loves you, not that you doubt his love for you, but you're definitely teetering around love and fear. You love him? Yes.

You don't deny yourself of these feelings, despite everything you've been together it wouldn't make sense if you didn't love Alonso, you wanted a future with him for God's sake. But fear came hand in hand, when you were dating racing became a divide between you two. His safety was always swept on the sidelines, something that you didn't enjoy, seeing as you encounter accidents in your profession daily, having to overthink about his well being during races wasn't something you could handle.

And when you got pregnant with Ales, eventually giving birth to him the fears only got worse, to the point where you had to take a break away from him. You slowly have to remind yourself that things are different now.

You turn around facing Ales, waiting for your response, "You think, should I go on a date with Papa?"

Ales shrugs, "You already go on dates with him, you always call every night and Papa talks about you a lot. He loves you so much."

You blink the tears forming in your eyes, a rush of emotions piling up on you. There's no better person to ask for the truth than your son, knowing Ales he probably heard you talking to Alonso multiple times already. Wiping the tears you stand up, wrapping Ales in a hug.

"I should go give Papa a chance hmm? What do you think about staying with Uncle Lance next week?"

"Papa, you know Mama wants to go on a date with you alone next." You freeze in your seat, watching Ales with your signature "mom" look.

You look away, a warm feeling rushing through your cheeks as Alonso's laughter fills your ears. "Really Ales? Mama told you that?"

You cough into the napkin on your lap, shaking your head, a measly attempt to divert the father and son pair poking fun at you.

"Now what were we talking about before this date thing... Ales, we'll talk about this later."

You catch Alonso looking in your direction, a small smile on his face before turning back to Ales. "As much as I'm happy to hear about this upcoming date, your mother is right Ales, you shouldn't say anything that doesn't involve you."

Ales tilts his head, "What does that mean?"

Before you could answer, Alonso inches closer towards Ales, "Think of it this way, would you want me to tell Mama that Uncle Lance gave you ice cream before meal time?"

Ales shakes his head furiously, lips pouting, "Why would you say that, it's supposed to be a secret."

Alonso's eyes widened, "See! That's exactly what Mama meant when she said that to you. You eating ice cream was something between you and Uncle Lance, so is it right for me to tell Mama about it?"

Ales shakes his head no, "I'm sorry for telling Papa about your date. No! I said it again, I'm sorry Mama."

Somehow the wholesome moment you witnessed only confirmed your choice of going on a date with Alonso. That and you also found him hot, but that thought is not appropriate in front of the table, let alone in front of your son.

You smile nodding at Alonso, "Thank you for apologizing, Ales. I'm sure your father is equally as excited and looking forward to this date now that you told him about it."

★ YOU'VE BEEN ON MY MIND — @namgification @nebarious @minkyungseokie @viennakarma @lxclerc @booksandflowrs @c-losur3 @lichterfee @moonyzsworld @e-nonsense @vicurious28 @dannyriccsupremacy @thearchieves @welovediaaxx @vogueprincess

[supernovafics]

requesting for the ill be there for you universe! the kids are coming over so steve and r plan a lil dinner party… well they make the dinner together… and its just a little too domestic…. bonus if they end up dancing to some silly song on the radio because arent we all a sucker for dancing in the kitchen 😭😭😭😭😭 the kids walk in on them and are like 🤨🤨 those two need to get together now so baddddddddddd

𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑

"i'll be there for you" universe masterlist

pairing: bestfriend!roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k words

warnings: explicit language

summary: in which a new year’s dinner at the apartment sparks a bet— that you and steve are completely unaware of— among the friend group 

author's note: thank u for the request !! happy new year<33

general note: everything in this universe/series can be read as standalone oneshots but to understand the full “lore” it would prob be best to read the other stuff too<333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Winter 1986

Steve heard the knock on the door first; you were way too engrossed in singing along to the song that was loudly playing to notice the sound. 

He maneuvered around you in the kitchen to go answer the door as you took a quick peek in the oven to check on the lasagnas. 

It was your idea to have this “New Year’s dinner” at the apartment— since you and Steve had been sick during the holidays and couldn’t see anyone, this was to make up for that— and Steve agreed. Of course, Robin and Eddie said that they would come, and then the kids were an immediate yes as well. 

Even though your and Steve’s collective cooking skills were not the best, you both still wanted to attempt and cook something for everyone, instead of simply ordering a couple of pizzas or takeout from some place. So, you got a lasagna recipe from Miss Johnson that she promised was very basic and couldn’t really be messed up; and so far, she’d been right. Although you did initially have to remake the sauce because of a mess up that you fully blamed on Steve and he fully blamed on you. But, after that, everything else luckily went fine. 

When Steve opened the door and you looked over to see everyone bounding into the apartment, it was then that you remembered just how big the friend group was— you could only imagine what that elevator ride up to the apartment had been like. 

“Is this The Breakfast Club soundtrack?” Robin asked, laughing as she slipped off her coat.

“Yes,” Steve answered. “This is what I’ve been subjected to for the past week.”

You immediately rolled your eyes at his words, which you somehow managed to hear over the loud music. “Oh, shut up, you were just singing along to the last song with me.”

“There’s only some truth to that,” He said as he walked over to the record player to turn the music down a bit. 

Everyone settled at the dining table that Steve’s mom bought for you two for the Thanksgiving dinner that you’d been forced to have here with your parents— that was still somehow a memory that lingered harshly in the back of your mind, like most interactions with your parents did. The table was only meant to fit six people, so the desk chairs that normally sat in your bedrooms were pulled out and placed at the table, and then two foldable chairs were borrowed from your other next door neighbor; this guy in his mid-sixties who would have weekly poker nights with his friends. You would continuously joke around with Steve and tell him that he should join in on the poker nights. In response, he’d always simply roll his eyes at you because you knew that he was bad at poker and he’d also rather not spend his Tuesday nights with random old men. 

Mike walked over to you and handed you a tupperware full of what you could tell were gingerbread cookies. “Since you missed the Christmas party, my mom wanted me to give these to you.”

You immediately smiled. “Holy shit, God bless that woman. Please tell her I said thank you.” 

He nodded at that and then went over to the table, sitting down next to El. 

Steve went back over to where you were in the kitchen and started reaching for the tupperware, but you immediately shooed his hand away. When he simply pouted at you, you rolled your eyes and then opened it so that he could grab a cookie, which he did and then broke it in half so that he could give a piece of it to you. 

“Is it just me or have they been acting extra old married couple lately?” Dustin asked, looking away from the interaction that just happened. 

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Max answered almost immediately and pretty much everyone else simply nodded in agreement.

Neither you nor Steve were paying any attention to the conversation that was currently taking place barely ten feet away from you; instead you both were focused on finishing up the food. You were pulling one of the lasagnas out of the oven and Steve was grabbing the other before putting the store bought garlic bread in the oven— you both had figured that if the lasagna did end up turning out bad, there would at least be bread that neither of you had a hand in making to somewhat save the day. 

“I fully believe that this will be the year that they finally get together,” Lucas said, sounding very certain.

Robin shook her head at that. “No way. If they were gonna date, it would’ve happened already. Years ago, probably.”

She thought back to this past Halloween where you and Steve were dressed up in your Batman and Robin costume, and at some point during the night he ended up giving you a piggyback ride while you all were walking to some party, and she and Vickie were trailing a bit behind the two of you. She thought about how certain she had felt when answering Vickie’s question about if you two had ever dated. “They seem like they’d be perfect together, but I also think the world would implode if they ever tried something.” For the most part, that still felt entirely true. Even though it would’ve made complete sense if something happened, it still didn’t seem necessarily “possible” at this point— it felt like such a far-fetched idea.

“I’m gonna have to agree with Rob on this one. I don’t think they’ll ever actually get together,” Eddie said and then started laughing a bit as he said his next words. “Or it’ll happen twenty years down the road after they’ve both been married to other people and then divorced, and then they’ll finally realize that all they needed and wanted was each other.”

“Wow, that sounds like the most depressing movie ever,” Will told him. 

“I guess it wouldn’t be that sad since they would end up together in the end,” El said with a small shrug.

Eddie nodded. “Exactly.”  

“Okay, yeah, maybe that could happen, but I don’t think it would take that long anymore because things are so different now,” Dustin said. “They’re living together, they have a child together.” He gestured to Harold the Hamster’s cage that sat on the coffee table in the living room. “They’re practically already a couple. It’s inevitable now. Soon they’ll be married and there will be actual children involved, not just Harold.”

Robin rolled her eyes at his final statement. “They’re best friends. They’ve known each for like ten years.” 

“Yeah, which is just another reason why they’re definitely gonna end up together,” Lucas said. “Also, I can’t even remember the last time either of them went on a date, and Steve usually always talks about his dates.” 

“Actually, he was just going out with that girl last month,” Will chimed in. “Vanessa or something?”  

“And that ultimately led nowhere,” Max reminded him. 

Mike took a brief look over at you and Steve to make sure that you two still weren’t listening to the current conversation. “Okay, I have an idea. We should make this a bet. We each say when we think they’ll get together, and if it does end up happening we all give whoever got it right or was the closest five bucks.”

Eddie laughed before nodding. “I actually kind of like that idea.” 

“It’s a great idea,” Dustin said with a nod, and it didn’t necessarily surprise anyone when he pulled out a small notebook and pen out of his pocket because it somehow made sense that he would be the one to bring a notebook and pen to a dinner party; he was probably prepared for anything. 

He started off by saying February– because even though it was only a month away, it was in fact, the month of love— and then everyone started going around the table saying their guesses. Lucas said April, Max and El both said March, Mike said July, Will said August, Robin said a very certain “Never,” and Eddie finished by saying a playful and only slightly serious, “Twenty years.”

It was almost comical how oblivious you and Steve were to what was happening not that far away from you both. Instead, your attention was on grabbing enough silverware for everyone since the plates were already set on the table and Steve was pulling out some cups. 

“I think both of our moms would scold us for not setting everything out before they came,” You told Steve, laughing a bit.

“Very true. I guess our years of being forced to eat at fancy restaurants with them have truly taught us nothing,” He joked back and you smiled at that as you both walked over to the dining table. “We’re gonna bring over the lasagna in a second. What are you guys talking about?” 

“Nothing,” Eddie said casually as Dustin slipped his notebook back into his pocket, which was a subtle action that neither of you noticed. “Just some movie.”

Once everything was set on the table, you two went back to the kitchen to grab the lasagnas.

“The bread will be done in a couple minutes, so if the lasagna sucks we’ll eat that,” You said as you sat down in one of the two empty chairs left, which just so happened to be your desk chair. “Also, if it sucks, blame Steve, not me.”

He shook his head as he rolled his eyes at you and playfully poked your side before taking a seat in the other empty chair on the opposite side of the table. “If it sucks, blame both of us because this was a very mutual effort.”

Robin nodded. “Okay, got it. If this turns out to be the worst meal all of us have ever eaten we’ll make sure to hate both of you equally and not talk to either of you for at least a week.”

Luckily, the lasagna actually turned out pretty great.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

(requests are open for stuff you wanna see in the universe/series!🫶🏾)

[bloomingdayswithyou]

Pillow Fight with Rafayel

Pairing: Rafayel x gn!reader

Words: 425

Warnings: none!

Request: by @anxiousgoddest "can you make something with pillow fight with Rafayel with some longing, unspoken feelings and timid affection?"

A/N: i'm not replying to your request because i want to keep it in case i'm able to write your other request in the future! I'm still not that deep into his lore (even though Zayne is my favorite) 🥹 still I hope you enjoy this one!

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting hues of orange and pink across the sky, Rafayel's apartment seemed to bask in the warm glow of twilight. He and you had spent the day in a comfortable cocoon of companionship, your interactions marked by shared smiles, gentle touches, and the occasional playful tease. Yet, as the night descended, an electric energy crackled in the air, prompting Rafayel to suggest an impromptu pillow fight.

With a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, Rafayel seized a nearby pillow and launched it at you, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as laughter bubbled up from deep within his chest. Feathers exploded into the air as you darted and danced around the living room, your movements fluid and graceful, their laughter a symphony of joy.

"Come on, catch me if you can!" Rafayel taunted, his voice filled with playful exuberance as he dodged another playful swing from you.

"You're going down!" you replied with a laugh, your eyes alight with mischief as you lunged forward, pillow in hand.

In the midst of your playful exchange, Rafayel found himself stealing furtive glances at you, his heart swelling with a warmth that transcended the simple joy of the moment. Beneath the surface of your lighthearted banter, he felt a depth of emotion stirring within him, an unspoken longing that begged to be acknowledged.

With each gentle swing of the pillow, Rafayel allowed his fingertips to brush against your skin, a silent caress that spoke volumes of the tenderness he felt in his heart. Your laughter filled the room, mingling with the soft rustle of feathers and the sound of your beating hearts, creating a symphony of love and joy that seemed to echo through the walls.

As the pillow fight drew to a close and the feathers settled around the both of you like a soft, downy snowfall, Rafayel found himself wrapped in the warmth of your embrace. In the quiet intimacy of the moment, he felt a sense of connection that transcended words, a silent understanding that bound you together in a way that words could never express.

And so, as Rafayel and you stood entwined in each other's arms, he knew that your unspoken affections would always serve as a silent bond between you, a testament to the depth of your connection and the power of your love. In that fleeting moment of quiet intimacy, he found solace in the knowledge that your love was as boundless as the universe itself, forever unspoken yet undeniably felt.

.

.

.

[enviedear]

Maybe a Billy one where reader is a good Christian girl, and she goes with Billy every time he has to move etc., and he is just trying to protect her from the big bad world and disgusting people. While she is just as fiercely protective of him, but in her own way.

billy + christan!reader

request

— he'd try and keep you away from most of the danger. frequently begging you to stay put, promising to come back to you. he means it too, he couldn't imagine getting hurt and not being able to spend his life with you (ignoring the lore with my entire being rn)

"no, angel. stay right here, i swear i won't be long."

— calls you angel because you really are one in his opinion. you're too kind for the world you've brought into. always so gentle, loving, and accepting. he swears that when it's finally his time, he'll enter the pearly gates and see your pretty face.

— buys you a beautiful leather-bound bible when he's away one day and comes back with a satisfied smirk on his face. he'd insist on you reading it to him. start to finish.

you finish up the last page of book of job, smiling softly at billy, "what'd you think?" the outlaw huffs, "think poor job deserved more grace."

— makes a rule for himself to sit and pray with you in the mornings, both because he knows he's rarely ever there at night to join you and just to listen to you. he won't even really pray either, just look at you as you mutter your own.

— he'd try his hardest to keep you away from any rivals, but there are a few times they get their mangy hands on you. every time he'll raise hell and high water to get you to saftey.

"goodness billy! how many guns did you bring?" you ask, staring out at the small army of armed men on horseback. he lifts you onto his own stead, ever the gentleman, "should've brought more... kill all o'em."

— everytime he has to move, you're going with him! he lets you lead the way mostly, says your heart leads you to better places than his. he'll always get a regretful look in his eyes when he tells you that you have to make a run for it... again. he feels like shit, not being able to settle down with you like he wants.

"one day m'gonna get us our own land. just us and some animals. how's that sound, angel?" he'd grin, forehead touching yours. you'd laugh, "is that so, cowboy?"

— you'd be protective of billy just as fervently as he is with you, just a softer way. if you ride into a town that shuns him, you make it your mission to bring up the good book. how no one in this world is blameless, sinless, perfect. you'd sing his praise to anyone that'll listen. he just can't wrap his head around how genuine your love is, so unconditional.

—reblog and like if you enjoyed, let ur local writer know you like her work !

[diazsdimples]

“You diaz boys sneeze the same.” + buddie (and chris)

Only if you want, no pressure! Just a headcannon of mine

I most certainly can do this! And working a bit of James Lore into this one!

"You Diaz boys sneeze the same," Buck remarks one afternoon as him and Eddie lounge on the couch together. It's a beautiful day out, with the sun streaming through the blinds, and Buck and Eddie are sprawled across Eddie's couch, legs tangled up with one another as Eddie reads a book and Buck scrolls through his phone. He's on an article about weird genetic phenomena and there's a little section that captures his eye.

Photic sneezing.

'Huh?" Eddie asks, slowly dragging his eyes away from his page as he finishes his sentence. He's soft and fuzzy around the edges, with fluffed up hair and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He's in a pair of grey sweatpants that are just a fraction too small for him, revealing a small strip of ankle, and Buck's favourite blue hoodie. Eddie in the mornings is Buck's favourite Eddie.

"I said you and Chris sneeze the same."

"What do you mean?" Eddie asks as he marks his page and shuts his book, peering over his glasses at Buck with an arched eyebrow. Buck shivers a little, making a mental note to make Eddie wear his glasses to bed that night, for... reasons.

"It's hard to explain," Buck replies, and he untangles himself from Eddie before pushing himself off the couch and extending his boyfriend a hand. "Come with me."

Eddie eyes him suspiciously but takes his hand nonetheless, allowing Buck to guide him through the dining room and kitchen. Eddie's hand feels warm in Buck's, the callouses on the tips of his fingers brushing against Buck's knuckles and sending little zings of electricity shooting down his arm. They've been together for over a year now but being touched by Eddie, having Eddie love him will never fail to make Buck giddy with happiness.

Buck leads Eddie out the back door and into the sunny backyard. Since moving in, him and Eddie had waged biological warfare on the weeds and triffids Eddie had been content to allow to grow, and now it contains a nice concrete patio, a cherry blossom tree in the corner, with flower beds outlined by old railway sleepers. Buck pulls Eddie into the middle of the garden and spins him around to face the sun.

"Look up," he instructs, standing back and crossing his arms over his chest.

"What are you-?"

"Just do it, Eds."

With a sigh that could only could only come from years of experiencing Buck and his antics, Eddie looks up, squinting as the bright rays of sunlight pierce his retina. He blinks repeatedly and Buck's smirk grows as he watches Eddie's eyes begin to water, his nose twitching, face contorted in the agony of an unborn sneeze until he rocks forwards with an almighty shout, just barely managing to cover his mouth with the crook of his elbow.

"Bless you," Buck grins as Eddie wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

"Did you bring me out here just to make me sneeze?" Eddie asks, unable to hide the fond smile that's pulling at the corner of his mouth, and Buck can't help but lean over and press a soft kiss to his lips.

"Not just you," he admits as he pulls away, before turning back to the house and hollering "CHRISTOPHER" with all his might.

There's a thud and a muffled swear Eddie's bound to lecture the teen about later, and a few moments later the clack of crutches against wooden floors gets louder, and Christopher appears at the back door, looking more than a little bemused as to why he's been summoned to the backyard.

"What's going on?" Christopher queries as he takes in the sight of his father rubbing his tickly nose and Buck next to him, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"C'mere kid," Buck says as he grabs Christopher's shoulders and directs him so he's standing next to his father, careful not to accidentally kick the kid's crutches or walk to fast as to accidentally trip him up.

"Buck, what are you doing?" Christopher asks again. He looks at Eddie for clarification, who very helpfully waves his hand as if to say "just do as he says."

Buck turns Christopher so he's also facing into the sun. "Proving a point," he says, before stepping back once again.

Christopher barely has to look up before he's shooting off a volley of sneezes, each one as loud and explosive as his father's, but with a quantity that's reminiscent of Shannon, if Eddie is to be believed.

"So exactly what were you trying to prove?" Eddie asks when Christopher finally stops sneezing, and he pulls his sleeve over his hand to wipe Christopher's nose, ignoring the indignant "Dad" as the teen squirms away from his father, far too old to be fussed over

"You two sneeze the same," Buck grins, and he pulls out his phone to show Eddie and Christopher the article he'd been reading.

"Photic sneezing," he recites," is a sneeze reflex caused by exposure to bright light. Can be triggered by allergies or a change in lighting. If you have the reflex, it's likely you inherited it from a parent."

He stops reading and looks back at his boyfriend and stepson, smug as anything.

"See, you've both got that reflex! And they even sound the same, even though Chris sneezes way more. Isn't that cool?"

Eddie chuckles and walks over to Buck, taking his face in his hands and kisses him soft and slow. Behind them, Christopher lets out a groan of disgust and makes his way back inside, muttering something about them needing to get a room.

"You've got a low threshold of excitement, baby," Eddie smiles fondly as he pulls away, stroking his thumb over Buck's cheekbone.

"Well I thought it was interesting," Buck says, a little defensively. He's still in the habit of feeling as though he needs to defend himself when he gets excited about something, despite months of Eddie's reassurances that actually he finds all of Buck's fun facts completely adorable and could listen to them every hour of the day.

"It's okay, sweetheart, I'm just teasing you," Eddie reassures Buck with another tender kiss. "Wanna come inside and tell me more about it? I kinda wanna know if there's more things Christopher has inherited from me."

That has Buck brightening immediately.

"Yeah!" he exclaims, and he grabs Eddie's hand, practically dragging the man up the back steps and into the kitchen. "You wanna hear about Darwin's Tubercles?

Send me a ship and a sentence and I'll finish it!

[indie-ttrpg-of-the-week]

I'm actually not super into vampires which is wht I outsourced this write-up, so shoutouts to my wonderful partner for doing it for me :)

Genre: Post apocalypse fantasy

What is this game?:

Bloodbeam Badlands is a unique rules-lite TTRPG that seeks to tell heroic stories about magical badass sharpshooting vampires and wild desperate adventures in an over the top strange and deadly post apocalyptic wasteland that shines a new light on mythical fantasy by combining magical creatures from folklore and pop culture with the tropes of post-apocalyptic survival.

How's the gameplay?:

The gameplay is loose, basic and imposed checks are rolled during times of drama and conflict to decide outcomes, which means mechanics are usually most relevant in fights. You roll a number of d6 equal to one of your 3 stats (Guts, Guile, and Guise) and compare the lowest die result to one of your 3 sources, which are similar to stats (Blood, Bullets, and Burn), if the result is lower, you succeed.

This simple conflict resolution method is made more engaging with a few inclusions: first of all, your sources are fluctuating, you can lower or “spend” a source to automatically succeed on a roll, the sources can also be lowered as a consequence of failure, and act as a gauge for your survival. If a source goes to 0, you’ll start to face death or mutation. Sources can also be restored by a variety of unique means, such as feeding on blood or bartering for bullets. Each character also has their own unique “Vampiric Bloodline” chosen at character creation that has their own way to spend and regain sources and a set of striking supernatural powers, such as being able to manipulate the demiplane of shadows or being a vessel for phantoms.

Players also further customise their vampires with a unique, personalised gun with a set of magic ammo, like a shotgun with homing shells or a sniper rifle that injects werewolf blood into your enemies. Additionally, while exploring the wasteland, you can pick up items with unique narrative and mechanical tags and usually some sort of magic, some are even strong enough to have their own stats and sources.

What's the setting (If any) like?:

I am so biased, I am going to be honest here, I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS SETTING and am very excited to talk about it. The Forever Dawn is a vast, twisted post-apocalyptic wasteland with no end in sight, it gets its name from the blinding, burning, behemoth red sun that hangs omnipresently. The day never leaves and the night never comes. If the sun doesn’t burn you alive, the radiation will start to mutate and consume you. The players are vampires whose blood has been diluted and irradiated enough to leave the underground and search for blood on the outside.

The radiation and consequences of supernatural forces being mutated has left everything in The Forever Dawn, from the land to the people to the monsters, bizarre and twisted. Even the most common mortals of The Forever Dawn have strange mutations and unique features. The setting isn’t bound to just a burning desert, the book encourages GMs to set your campaigns in different environments warped by the apocalypse.

The setting does not have many established locations, the wasteland is too mysterious to be catalogued as such, and the lore usually comes in the form of sparse, unexplained plot hooks to give ideas to GMs or writers to build upon. Yet despite being largely vague and interpretive, the book still oozes with style and direction for the worldbuilding and goes in depth about not only what's in the world but about how the world feels.

What's the tone?:

Like I previously stated, the way the tone is communicated in this book is extremely effective, and lots of love was clearly put in. I feel like nearly every single piece of the text helps establish the tone, mechanical things like the stats being divided into snappy metrics of Guts, Guile, and Guise make you feel like you’re creating cunning and cool heroes, the examples of mechanics describe action packed scenes against mutant dinosaurs, and on the topic of mutant dinosaurs, my favourite example of the type of over the top style this game has is "Revolverface," a mutant t. rex with a flaming revolver cannon for a face. Which is just shamelessly cool and over the top enough to perfectly describe what you’re getting into.

But enough praising the writing, to actually describe the tone in my own words, Bloodbeam Badlands is wacky and over the top, balancing the fun of flashy action with the grimness of surviving in a world designed to waste you away.

Session length:

I’d say about 2 hours give or take, unless you're running full episodes in one session, then maybe 4 or so.

Number of Players:

The book lists around 2+ players and a GM, although it's worth considering there’s only 4 bloodlines in the base book

Malleability:

The rules are extremely malleable, the looseness gives opportunity to add and change mechanics as the GM sees fit, and the idea of sources can be changed or taken in a lot of different ways. It was designed with homebrew content in mind and has spawned a lot of cool third party and bonus content. Even if you stick by the source book you’re encouraged as a GM to create unique magic items and NPCs.

Resources:

As far as I’m aware I do not believe there is a sheet made for this game yet, likely a byproduct of early access.

Bloodbeam Badlands B-Side is a collection of new and third party content curated by the developer, licensing and logo information is also included.

Bloodbeams is a game with a great setting and a good game wrapped around it, it's definitely something worth checking out even if the gameplay isn't your thing, because the setting is just that interesting. It's a fun time for all you vampire enjoyers

[1800jjbarnes]

◇ 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟗: 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬 - 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 ◇

My Everything

【Synopsis】 : Rain was pouring, and your heart was aching. You didn't care what the villagers nor that priest thought about him. You loved him, and you were going to prove it.

『W.C』 : 2.14k

-> Genre: Smut. Fantasy. Demon Au

Paring: Gargoyle!Bucky x Human!Reader

[Warnings] : Public sex [in a garden] sex in the rain. Oral [both receiving] fingering, clit play. Cum play-ish. Making out. Swearing. Pet names. use of the name Soldat. allusion of Hydra in old timey lore. Demonic and religious concepts. Dirty talk. Cemie pie. Squirting.

This story is my own flare of the original creators' webcomic. So the lore, characters, and other story design have been tweaked and changed to fit what i wanted to write. Make sure to check out the original author of this wild story.

I want to thank the original creator of this amazing universe and beautiful character's, @ilustrariane. Please check out their work! It's to die for. You can get there full 18+ E-book and its argh my happy place.

Masterlist | Kinktober List

You ran faster than your legs could carry you, nearly slipping over even bend and turn you took. The pouring rain had soaked your tunic and all of your undergarments. Your shoes were also squelching with every stomp your feet did. You were in a panic, frantically praying that he would be alright. The priest of your village warned you―more like threatened you―about involving yourself with the devil as he put it. ‘Those beasts are not to be trusted. They are demons in disguise. Filth. Inhuman.’

You obviously ignored the old man, having no time with such lies. That beast was the most kindest creature you know. He was more caring than any human you've ever met. He understood you, heard you, got to know you. Everyone in the village only looked at you as the witch's daughter, the spawn of the devil herself. You were nothing and the only way to be something was to submit. Be one with god, marry the priest and prove you were devoted to the lord.

“Soldat! Soldat where are you!!” You called in the blistering winds, repeating the fake name he gave you when you first met. You see, he was in fact a demon, just like the priest had screamed at you, but he was more. He was a gargoyle, one of Lilith's children, trapped, bound to the ruined castle just beyond the village. One of the priests from the before had managed to get his real name and trap him with a blood curse, locking him to only do the bidding of the said man. But now that Soldat was alone, he had no way to break the curse, living the rest of the days in the place he called home, imprisoned by sunlight. You had climbed stairs and rock structures to get up to one of the garden points in the castle, seeing where your lover usually lays, under a concrete arch, empty and bare. Where was he?

You called again but this time your voice got caught in your throat as a giant rumble crashed down to the earth's core. Soldat’s wings were spread wide, having landed only mere meters from you. His huge form was hunched over, his palms spread out on the wet pavement. He had tears in his cold eyes. “I told you to never come back! Why do you not listen.” his voice bellowed around you into the forestry beyond, having enough power to shake the trees.

“I can’t leave you Soldat. Please.” Your tears were covered by the heavy rain pour, your hair sticking to your red puffy face. You couldn’t just forget about him, not now that he had tainted you. He was yours and you, his. And you were going to fight for it, until your last breath.”Look at me!”

Your yelp got the demon's attention, making him stand at all his height. His fanged mouth growled, annoyed but also riddled with guilt. He would never thought the night he had with you was a mistake. Frankly, it was one, if not the best moment in his lifetime. But he needed to keep his distance from you. He needed you safe. Protected, alive. And he was something that was unable to do so. He was filth. A demon. You are this light. Innocent human. He shouldn’t, he can’t be the one that taints such a delicate flower. “Darling, please. I… I can’t.”

You stomped over to his form pushing on his strong broad chest. He fell with little effort landing on the wet concrete, soaking the fabric that wrapped around his waist. He could have held his ground not letting you move his large body with such ease, but he didn’t want to. He needed you close no matter how hard his mind was fighting him. You wasting no time in locking your lips against his. If talking wasn’t going to work then you were going to show him that he was meant for you. You needed him like the air you breathe and he wasn’t about to make the choice to die and leave you alone on this earth without you trying your best to stop him.

“Don’t leave me.” You whispered against his lips, feeling his long demonic tongue slip into your mouth. You moaned climbing the creature so your legs dangled over each of his crossed thighs. His hand, the same width as your waist, held tightly on your hip while the other cupped your face, holding you firmly in place. His tongue abused your own for a moment, basking in the rain now only lightly pouring. His nose brushed against yours, lips moving from yours, to your jaw, and then to your collarbone.

“I’ll never leave you my flower. I promise. I’m sorry.” His voice was raw, filled with pain and sorrow. He would never want you to fear such a thing but in toe, had made the fear brew from his outburst. You slide down off his lap falling in between his thighs. Your fingers quickly fumble with his cloth before tugging his growing cock free. The cold rain pouring down made the demon hiss, but your warm hands made his mind spin. Your fingers could barely wrap around the almost hardened cock. Now looking at him probably you now wonder how it even fitted in you in the first place. Your mouth took his tip, jaw aching at the sheer size of him. but you bushed forwards sucking on him making him groan, dipping his head backwards. Your mouth felt amazing even if you couldn’t take him whole. Your whimpers and gags vibrated on his cock in the perfect way and your harsh grip was sending him over the edge. “fuck, if you keep going I’m gonna cum down that pretty throat of yours.”

His growl went straight to your pussy, making you try and take more of him in your mouth, letting saliva drip down your chin, soaking his cock along with his precum. You used one hand to continue stroking him while you used another to slip under your soaked dress, pressing your fingers firmly on your clit. Your moans were the perfect missing piece to send him over the edge, emptying his hot seed down your throat. “Fuck!!” his hand that held your face snaked and tighten in your hair, holding your still as he jerked his hips slightly. You pulled away making some of his juices squirt out on your face.

God, was it a sight to see.

Your wide eyes looking at him with nothing but devotion while covered in his cum.  How did he ever get so lucky finding you in such a cruel dark world? He sat up quickly, ripping all the fabric on your body, throwing the drenched tattered material somewhere across the garden. His huge hands gripped our thighs tugging you up until you sat on his chest, feeling some of your juices leak out onto his scarred body. You felt embarrassed, but your lover couldn’t think about anything in that moment other than having your pussy over his face. So with his insane strength, he lauds you forward, letting your cunt meet his lips. He pushed you down light so your body could lay on top of his while on your back. Tilting your face to the right you see his hardening cock twitch. His long demonic tongue licked a strip up your slit making your whole body visibly shivers. Your nails digging into his hips trying to hold onto any part of his giant frame. “Ffffucckk please!”

His tongue enters you, fucking you slowly as one of his hands lays flat on your tummy pushing pressure onto your body and making your toes curl. His other hand that still gripped tightly on your inner thigh opens slightly so his large thumb could reach your clit, pressing harshly on your nub. He could eat you for hours and never get tired of the way your body moves, the way it responds to every touch he gives or the way you moan and whimper his name over and over again. It was like an angel singing. Elegant, perfect and pure

“Hmm come.” His voice was almost not audible as he kept eating you like a starved beast making the vibrations hit just the right spot to send you reeling over the edge. He gave you no time to relax after your high though as your demonic lover picked you up with no effort at all and bend you over the concrete statue seat that he would sit at for centuries waiting for freedom. All your clothing had been ripped and torn away at this point leaving you completely baring in the cold dark night. The rain had not stopped but only got lighter for a moment before pouring some more. You would surely get sick after this encounter if you were not to leave at this moment. But neither of you made an effort to find shelter or privacy. No, he needed you now just as much as you to him. “Deep breaths Darling.”

His deep grumble was almost lost under the loud blanket of rain echoing in the night. But luckily you hear him, taking a deep breath, steadying yourself on the rock. The tip of his cock rubbed against your soaked folds, before inching in slowly. The burn was pleasurable but still painful. But you couldn’t care at this moment. Another inch went in and the demon had to pace himself, screaming over and over in his mind not to just snap his hips, making you take his cock in one quick swoop. No, he needed patience, even though he was no patient creature. But he managed to find some, only for you. Once he was able to completely bottoming you out. You were both a panting and moaning mess. Your whines didn’t stop as he started to buck his hips in and out. In and out. Testing the waters, seeing what you could handle. And once he saw a green light, his grip on your hips tightened as he began to ruthlessly fuck you against the rough concrete.

Your screams caught the breeze, shattering through the heavy sound of rain. He had turned you around in one single movement need to to feel your body close to his. Your legs couldn’t even wrap fully around your lovers huge waist as he continued fuck you hard and quick.

“Fuck Darling. You feel so good. So tight. Taking my monster cock in such a small body. Good girl.” he snapped his hips with every word. “My. Good. Girl.”

It didn’t take you long for your band in your tummy to tighten. You were so close to the edge and you needed just a little extra. Just a little more. And The demon seemed to read your body like his favourite book, pinching your clit with his large fingers you whaled his name squirting all over his cock. “PLease fuck argh. Your cock is so good. Fuckkk.”

He growled like an animal, latching his sharp teeth on your soft shoulder, wrapping his muscular arms around your tiny human frame. He picked you up, fucking upwards in a new angle. Your body was like a rag doll, letting him fuck you in any position he seemed fit.  His wings caged you, almost like he was protecting you while he also ruining you.

For a beast that seemed to only want to fuck, he cared so much about you. Without him ever saying it, he knew you were the love of his life and he was willing to die for you. Heck, he had already killed for you. And he could kill again if you asked. No matter what the code says about demons hurting humans. He would gladly serve an eternal sentence if it means hurting the ones who hurt you first.

“I’m gonna cum in this ruined cunt of you. Hmm, baby. You gonna take this demon seed?”

“Yes, yes. Please. Give it to me.” and with your soft submissive cries he came deep in your cunt. Filling your full. His come mixed with yours, spilling down his legs, before washing away on the wet floor. His cock slipped out of you but he did not let you down. No, he opened his wings and took off towards the castle without another world. He held you tightly as you watched the garden where he had just defiled you disappear into your view. He was taking you back to his den. The home he had to made for himself. Away from any human or beast's eye.

Were he could tend to you and make sure you were okay and possibly―Most definitely―fuck you some more.

[unhappytimeleaper]

Character analysis; main concepts

A lot of this references some hints to lore and stuff I found. Not a lot are direct spoilers, but since Venti is built on his vagueness to his past, this likely will be able to be subject to change as time goes on.

Also, I wasn't sure if I asked if anyone would reply to whom to pick for my analysis. I asked some friends on a Yandere discord server, and in passing, one of them mentioned Venti, so I just went with it. Shout out to them. I hate making decisions. And leaper lore, but Venti is the reason I got into Genshin, so I guess it's fitting he is first.

Anyway, that means sending who I should do next. I'd prefer to space Genshin characters out, but anyone on my lists can be requested, as well as general requests being open.

The final quick personal note is I wanted to thank everyone for the 150 followers. I know it's not a lot, but I am thankful for the handful I know have been around for a while and for those who have considered following; Tumblr and most other SNS are rough for creators as reblog ratios are so low and other issues, but I am very grateful for those who keep coming back.

Venti [Barbatos]; Unedited. Gender neutral reader. Part 1 of 3

Warnings; yandere!! It touches on every main category of the troupe, so if you are sensitive to manipulation [emotional and mental], alcoholism, codependency, guilt [even self-imposed], obsession, lying, stalking, some general creepy behavior, breaking and entering, possessiveness, delusional thoughts, unwanted touching [sfw], and anything else you can think of being related to yandere troupes, then it's best to just not read. Also, a massive warning for talks about religion, idolization in the 'church,' and abuse of power within religious settings.

Word Count: 8.4K

This blog is 17+ please have your age in your bio or tagged; any ageless blog and below the age asked for will be blocked at the end of the week.

Maxed Stats

General manipulation

As a key component, Venti is a general trickster; he comes naturally with the skills of forgery, fabrication, pilfering, and illusion-making. These tools under his control make him naturally an enigma but build into easy traits of manipulation as he needs not just to you but to anyone. And for an early establishment, Venti's natural manipulation is not just tied to these specific skills. Still, it almost comes coded into how he exists as more of himself is revealed. Though these particular skills of lying are much harder to pick up on, between the riddles of his words and decent, innocent appearance, it's easy for him to pull off a twist of words or lie his way out of a situation.

As pointed out, manipulation is a skill that Venti can best use against anyone. To you, he is likely able to find excuses to keep up his actions. Outside of the wall of Mondstadt, he can quickly find reasonings as to why he's there, too. More often than not, he's somewhere close. While in areas like Windwail and Brightcrown, he can stay hidden, only needing to reveal himself if you find yourself in trouble, in regions like Starfell and Galesong, you can often see him not too far off in the distance. Even if you doubt his reasoning, it's hard to find proof of his stalking, making the moments unsettling, but his cuteness and way of words make it hard to get upset. Guilt festers as he looks so sad with accusations of something more sinister and that he has ulterior motives. Or how within the walls Venti is quick to find you and cling on, either in close proximity of walking or physically bound to you somehow— it's easy to tell when he's been drinking as he tends to be much more touchy in those moments. While it takes a lot for him to truly get drunk, he likes to play it up as there are so many more benefits and things you let slide. You have to take care of him in some way, and he always has a reason to be around longer.

In cases of late nights together, Venti sometimes lets you feel as if you have the upper hand, too. Pretending to be more drunk than he is and more open, allowing you to handle your chance at burning questions as he wistfully gives answers. Often, they are still vague but do let you delve more into his past, the trauma he has endured, or the loneliness that has come into his life. The more you learn, the more guilt grows at the idea of rejecting him. Of leaving Mondstadt in favor of exploration or answers. It's also not one where everything he shares is a goal of manipulating these feelings or actions.

Venti's love is absolute; for that, he wants to share what he can, with his goal of being bound to you, which means sharing these personal moments. For him, learning about you is so much easier with his status and age. Still, you can seldom learn about him in the same way, even more, as he can't fully spill his guts about his past at a moment's notice. However, he can think of this as an added benefit; manipulation, even if it's not the goal, is still emotional manipulation.

These times, there often are levels of manipulation about other places and people he puts in place. Different regions and gods aren't free from their past either, and Venti is known to share moments of these in his riddles. Aspects of how the lands have changed, how they have changed, but the imposing struggles carry through their lands. It's not really shit-talking them, nor a full-on slander campaign, but the language and words he uses are often dulled in favorability of what they could be. Similarly, he might often find ways to weave in things that could cause greater fear in you to manipulate you into thinking you are much too weak for the creatures that lurk there. While some parts you can chalk up to his story-telling nature and that by making it more dramatic, it sounds better, there often is a growing uneasiness about how vicious parts it could really be. More than countless times, there have been moments of your own danger, only saved by the grace of the wind and Venti nearby… In contrast, he speaks of Mondstadt and its people much more positively, and while he has some jealousy of those in his region you gain closeness with, he also tends to have a much more positive relationship with them, allowing those to be better tools to help in his love life than those in say Sumeru or Inazuma. He tends to maybe add in some more lighthearted jabs that can have an air of jealousy in them, even more if Venti feels you've been around them a lot recently, but in the way he talks, it often is more of playful bad-mouthing than down right insults.

As touched on, Venti's manipulation of you isn't always intended or done with negative goals. One side of this is again linked generally to how he speaks. Being this enigmatic person whose words are always wistful and hold more profound meaning, there is a natural draw to learn more. It's only made more of something that is hook when he doesn't often go around sharing this self-lore to someone so known but distant in Mondstadt to just anyone. It's almost like a balloon or bubble; the hints that are added build up little by little as time goes on without seeking out Venti for more until it pops. A droplet of information at a time until it consumes your mind, going back looking for more details to answers to the questions you'd had running in your mind for days. Soon enough, you are the one asking where the mysterious bard is to the townspeople, only cementing more in their minds the nature of your relationship being more than platonic. It also, again, just makes you feel special, a self-imposed superiority that you are the person who knows him best [which this ego can be inflated more if you know him as barbatos as well]. Venti knows these actions are manipulative in a sense, and again. At the same time, it doesn't truly harm anyone; it's still manipulation at its core in building this unique reliance on him.

And Venti's manipulation is ever present in the town and the people of Mondstadt. The key ways he uses these are to get more information about you and, as usual, get away with things. However, as briefly stated, Venti uses the wind and himself as a factor in starting rumors that there is naturally more to what is happening between you that can be exploited for later use. But back to the first point, Venti is able to once again use his 'charm' and way of speaking to easily coax others to give out more information about you. He literally likes things about your past, interests, personal relationships with others, likes, dislikes, and such through his friendly demeanor and guiding the conversations. And while he can easily track and monitor you through the wind, by talking to others around and having them tell him where you are, it helps set up a close alibi if you were to question him later. Essentially, in this case, the guards and townpeople become effective scapegoats for his stalking if needed. Furthermore, these questions end up helping intensify any rumors as the questions, over time, can become more and more romantic.

His manipulation does also be a benefit as he really is one with the people, if not distant in details. By having personal connections to groups like people in the Adventure's Guild and Knights of Favonius through people like Jean & Kaeya, they easily can be tools to help with his… well, propaganda. Even the temple with Rosaria. You ask about traveling and other nations to people in the Adventure's Guild, and they tend to often only share more gruesome or darker aspects of their stories. Of have plenty of tragedy by the time they reach the 'positive goal' that it's a natural persuasion to not want to often venture too far outside of Mondstadt. Or say you are one to leave; Venti could use points of manipulation he's built to have, say, Rosaria or Kaeya go with you, depending on where. The wind can always join you, but Venti isn't up and one to fully be able to run off from Mondstadt for long periods of time. If you plan to go on just a trip for travel, it's one thing for him to run off and join you, but freedom itself in Mondstadt is unique. It's not necessarily true freedom, and while he's awake with a purpose, he can't in his heart run from Mondstadt to travel with you. And while he'd be able to do anything in his power to persuade you to not leave, he's one to physically force it unless you're genuinely trying to run off for something dangerous. However, if someone else were to go. Friends of you and Venti… you'd have to come back, right? Kaeya can't leave his post forever, and it was him who accompanied you for this task, so it would be unfair to go on alone and not see him back… Yes, through others, you'd always be lured… guilted into returning home to him eventually.

Manipulation is also used here in more of a test; he does this often with people but imposes an idea or thing involving you. Those he wants to use in a way of getting close, he bluffs some lies out, and their reaction or steps they handle in regards usually is how he tests to see if they are reliable in what he needs. It's nothing extreme, but it's best to know if he can trust their feelings and opinions on you before letting you get too close. If they fail, well, a little bending of the truth to make it so neither of you wants to interact and never really hurt anyone.

This all helps build into how appearance tends to help. Not only for the general public but even for you, as his boyish charm and looks naturally tend to frame him as innocent. People are quick to brush off his questions even if they progressively get more concerned as 'puppy love' or that it's simply 'too cute' to see the young love from the bard. Many might even favor this as they see it as him likely being willing to turn a new leaf and grow into something worth settling down [i.e., get a job and place to live, though really, instead, it grows more into him crashing at your home and still playing song for whatever he can— money or alcohol]. His verbal actions are easily brushed off, but even the physical side of things, too. Pilfering is a great talent of his, but when caught with your items or breaking in when you're out, he tends to be pushed aside if he plays up his demeanor and lies. Scolded with warnings, sure, but scratching his head and sighing with a 'promise I won't do it again' tends to get everyone to roll their eyes and back off. As mentioned, his appearance can even present him as harmless to you; if someone brings it up, you might also awkwardly laugh and brush off the events. It's just Venti being Venti. He truly is primarily harmless, and he's stayed over so much at this point him breaking in was likely just a result of a habit of being in there…

And the limits of manipulation can be pushed if he so chooses. Call it divine intervention, more or less cause while he does so more with a dirty conscience, he can be driven as Barbatos to truly step in. Religious intervention. It seems weird when the Church of Favonius suddenly comes in contact with some old documents, ones with never seen details of an old love interest to their beloved god. The news and rumors sweep the nation, and even weirder, most of the details and notes recount someone… like you. Things seemed to get stranger, and from there, only more documents could be found of this exact figure appearing throughout history, like some sort of reincarnation. The fascination of it all quickly became the center of the topic, and with the likeness you bared in the story and aspects of appearance, you're status seemed to shoot up within the night. Not so much a holy figure but deemed with some strange uplighting in the way people spoke. That is, or how Barbatos ever seemed to come back to Mondstadt, you'd need to be there just like how the past reminisced. For those who do know, it weirdly only pushes you away from them if you ever seek help, that that story must be bound to fate, and that Venti can't be as much of a nuisance if you give it time. The problem is only dug in worse as Venti creates poems and ballads of the sort, claiming he actually had heard of these but never sought to share them until now. As the stories grow, you're pushed more and more to the church with the idea of gaining barbatos' favor and attention. Leaving… just became much more complex.

Dependence [reversed]

Dependence comes in a weird form, at least compared to others. While in general fashion, dependence typically is the idea that they want you to solely rely on them for everything, not only for power and love, it can even be with money, housing, or other necessities. While Venti likely would be much more dependent on him being really the main source of your love and affection, the rest… he doesn't care so much about. Power may be a little; he doesn't need or want you to depend on him for it, but it does give him a little ego boost when you have to or ask him. And too many other aspects of actual dependence go against aspects of his belief in freedom. Venti's course of manipulation never truly prohibits your own freedom; again, less you actively seek to do something he knows poses a threat; it just often forces you to rethink and become more hesitant in actions or thoughts.

As for other forms of dependence, well, Venti doesn't have them. He steals, only really eats apples, to your knowledge, and is homeless. It's quite pitiful in a humorous way. However, as you get closer and bond more with the bard-friendly nature, it is hard for you to let him live like this. Well, in certain ways, stealing alcohol or bribing others to give him some with songs you can't really stop unless you plan on going bankrupt. But more frequently, you invite him for meals and shelter him in your place. Even more frequently if the weather is bad or as winter approaches. Venti isn't manipulating you necessarily into these tasks, but dependence some with a factor of self-guilt. He's your friend, someone you've gotten close with, and with that, he's come to truly rely on you for these things. He was fine in the past, but to leave for who knows how long and let him fall back into such a life would make you a bad person. Right?

Logically, Venti knows he doesn't need to depend on you for these things as they don't have any real effect on his life, but it's so domestic. He gets access to all your items; you put time and love into meals, or even sharing what you purchased from Good Hunter fills him with warmth. On cold nights, he finds it easier to slip under your blankets and, even if it's fake, pretend to sleep like how couples would. Being a god comes with a lot of good but a lonely life, and after seeing so many, there comes a time when it's nice to indulge in it. Gluttony has always been a crime of his, it seems, such as with alcohol, but this also can't be that bad if no one is getting hurt. So just let him depend on you a little longer. At least until he can find out some solution before he sleeps again.

Self Harm

Similar to dependency on basic things, one form of manipulation that Venti doesn't do on purpose but knows that there still is a benefit to his actions is his indulgence in drinking. While it takes a lot for him to truly get drunk, as noted, he does like to play it up for you, and it's not uncommon for you to have to take care of him or come help him. In all sense, Venti, while not necessarily drunk, is an alcoholic, and to a detriment, it is a form of self-harm. Through learning more and hearing the tales and songs of his past, it's apparent the wounds run deep, and Venti's only way he knows to deal with them is through drinking in an attempt to numb or forget. The reality of knowing this is hard; you see it with others you've likely gained closeness with and how drinking has affected the lives of so many.

This leads to two outcomes: this, again, guilt that breeds when thinking of leaving. The connection Venti has formed is tangible with how deep it is to you, even if you don't reciprocate in that way. That's if you were to leave, would things only get worse with his drinking problem? Unlikely, he would died from drinking, but it's more than just drinking; it's the mental state of him in that position and how the loss of more people would rip the wound open even more. Furthering, if you had actually spent time talking about his past and working to unpack and find better ways to cope with the trauma outside of alcoholism, leaving would be a dick move and revert all that progress no matter how you explained it. How much could you're conscious take knowing this? How far could you make it without the guilt of him back home as the stories of his past cloud your mind? The wind tickling your skin and almost like a whisper reminding you of it. It's one thing to share a drink or two with the bard and have a fun night in the tavern, listening to his songs and dancing. It's another to picture him alone under a tree, empty bottles scattered from stealing from him alone, reminiscing about his lost friend and the imagery of war. The wind gets colder, licking the back of your neck, and the guilt is painful, ready to burst out your chest for even thinking of it. Some wounds you cannot heal, but the idea of making them worst or abandoning the person who's come to need you most is mentally crippling.

General obsessiveness

Venti doesn't necessarily read as obsessive. Not outwardly, at least, though it's easy to blame his charm for that. Okay… well, maybe not charm, but within his manipulative nature and looks, his actions and questions regarding you don't play as obsessive to those who listen. It's unlike many others who you can just look at them and feel in your bone there is something off, or in how they speak, they care just a little too hard. His sharp tongue and trick of words allow people to very easily give up information without thoroughly having them aware they have, making his tendencies go far under the general public's radar still. And for those who do somewhat witness it, he doesn't mind playing up his role a little more. Just a young, helpless bard looking to woo someone. It isn't a crime, right?

The mask he wears holds many layers. The bard, the god, the lost wind. Not many will ever get a look at what really goes on and what is an exaggeration. Or under exaggeration when it comes to you. In most cases, Venti stretches his stories up, his words riddled and larger than life that people have to dim down to work out the true meaning. So when he sells his obsessive love as much less, people are quick to brush it off or dim it down further to avoid those actual layers of emotions being peeled forward.

A chunk of this also extends to the shame and questions it brings out of freedom. Venti has never tried to take it away in a solid way, but is it true freedom to either of you when you fill so much of his thoughts that you can't really do anything without him? It is the thought that replays and replays of you and him doing things; it's the obsessive nature of having to know where you are, who you're with, and what you're doing. Are you safe? Are you planning on leaving? Should he come to find you just to be sure?

What about the images. The visions he remembers from the wars, from the people he's lost, and that truly, at any time, perhaps something will happen, and you'll be next. The flashes of violence and fear that only make the goal of getting his next drink to numb them go away— or you. The sight of you, the smell of you. Having you hold him and remind him that the past is gone.

You'd be able to see it, maybe not the full extent, but you've come to know the bard enough to tell when the cogs in his mind are turning and the way he tries to drown out aspects of himself. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, but you know some of it is tied to the past as he holds the stolen wine in one hand and grips you so tightly with the other as you try to stumble back to your home and out of sight. You can tell something is off when he's snooping through your things early in the morning as you're just waking up and when he's clearly been inside your place while you were out with a friend. Or that he's been leaving more and more questionable lyrics? No, less like poems or lyrics but ramblings about love and fear and what can only be aspects of you on the counter as he runs around god knows where. It's worrying. It's uncomfortable to an extent, but not enough or in a way that you can just cut him off. Kick him out. Maybe just talking or setting a little break, but the pressure in your chest and bile in your throat at the thought of cutting contact brings you to a sobbing mess each time.

But, what does keep him from being fully obsessive is that Venti still has things to do. Freedom of Mondstadt and giving up his title as the god doesn't mean he's abandoned his role truly, and if he's awake, that means between drinking, being with friends, telling stories, and everything about you, there is something he has to do. He still is out fulfilling a duty no one, but he knows of, and really, part of that seems more scary than anything he's done to you. You know he'd never hurt you; it's not a fear of that, but as Venti opens up more to you, the parts he still keeps hidden remind you that this is only a fraction of what you know. Guess it's good that you still have some time and space to yourself, but as obsessive as he is in his thoughts and other flaws, he can dial it back if needed for a short amount of time. At least from your perspective.

Wrong idea; type 2

In a sense, Venti is give an inch; he'll take a mile. Like a stray cat. You feed him once he keeps coming back for more. One thing is that this wrong idea can start more slowly, but the second you mess up and do something more romantically affectionate, it instantly becomes much more intense in the progression of what he's willing to take or do.

As mentioned, for anything to start, you need to be at least on a friendship level basis with Venti, and a sorta higher level of one. Nothing extreme, but the type of friends who do spend a considerable amount of time together and, for example, willing to open your house to him to stay in occasionally. Not even in a 'stay in the same bed' type way, but he knows aspects of your personal life, and to a level, you learn more of his 'Venti' side for any of his traits to really start manifest. However, it is already very easy to set off more and delve into the realm of leading him into the wrong idea territory.

Some ideas of how this might be are such as gaining more physical contact. While the intent is friendly, Venti is from a different time, and being touchy already seems less common than you already have a 'flirty' aptitude. Grabbing his arm or hanging off of him when sober makes his heart flutter that there could be more. Certain gifts, flowers, or making uniquely special foods just for him. Not just any meal, that's normal, but if you were to make something sweet with apples that wasn't a typical dish, it leads his heart to beat just a little harder. Or that one time when he did stay over and you fell asleep holding onto him rather than the usual routine of wandering off to your own spot after putting a drunk Venti 'to sleep.' You must have been exhausted… but this is his first time really getting to see you up close.

You must be doing all this with some… ulterior motive. Sure, he's heard of courting; he's older than people think and knows more of the ins and outs of things. People treat him like someone far more innocent by these looks— not just with drinking. And yeah, it comes in handy sometimes, but not when people talk down to him about this. At first, there was some apprehension. Teyvat was in a dangerous time, and as carefree as he plays himself up, he's always guarded about his next move.

Obsessiveness starts more simple. His questions are more of curiosity about many things, and what is better than to trick it out of people and you. Sure, he knows most basic things of your life, but that couldn't mean you aren't linked to more questionable things and had figured out he was Barbatos, either. He comes off a nosey at best. When digging to see if you'd ever been caught doing 'bad things' most inform sure— but in the sense you had been a kid and teen once. You'd easily gotten into trouble more than a few times but never was it for anything imminent or serious. He digs more into the lineage of your family and the other people you associate with. Nothing strange… fine, but perhaps a different route. He remembers some old common courting techniques, and he's seen some of them in this era, too. He's not blind to it, but as he shares more of the details, the more people tell the 'young' bard. It's probably a hint that he should reciprocate. I mean, he already hangs off of you like a hangover anyway. It's surprising he isn't already attached at your hip with how much you both sort of rely on each other. Although you tend to treat him more as a companion than him, he depends on you like a leech.

And the switch flips.

In certain aspects, if you did have some sort of crush, it likely would melt away with how quick his obsessively wrong idea notion takes over. What was harmless flirting testing the waters is instantly blown into a large scale. Even if you didn't like him in that way and other signs were one of platonic closeness or accidents, it doesn't seem to make a difference. His touchiness is insatiable, and the amount of time he starts demanding you spend with him is much more intense. If you try to brush him off, his poutiness damps the air, and things just an uneasy tingle. You find him trying to make all sorts of snacks and now haggling not just for drinks but for gifts. Every story he tells, every song he sings, and every poem has some romantic undertones that, paired with former questions and actions, people know it is about you. And the stalking doesn't help.

Venti's turning point makes him feel like there is more and that there could be more. He's not fully delusional. There are aspects of a lucid point that you're pulling away, but that just means he needs to try harder, right? He's seen so many relationships go like that. If you stop trying, if you let them pull away, that's really how you lose them. It's obvious how much time he puts into this, how much he thinks about how to move forward, and how he can use things like his skill sets of manipulation to keep you bound to him [not literally but in a figurative state]. However, it is only time before you get worn down from trying to fight and redirect… adapting does become just so much easier. Conversations, trying to explain, just don't seem to reach him. Lucid and all, you can't understand him or his goals anymore, and even when he does calm down back into a slight breeze, the second you give him a bit of that former closeness back, it picks back into a blustery.

Stalking

While Venti's stalking habits have mostly been pointed out, there is one other big thing that needs to be recognized. Sure, in Mondstadt and the borders of other regions, he often can find himself about to sneak away and physically follow you around for extended periods of time [days, weeks, etc.]; what happens if you leave. Of course, Venti can easily manipulate others to go with you as a safety net and use it to get you back home, but things are rough when you're gone. Luckily, or to your dismay, you aren't ever really alone as the wind follows you. No matter how far you go, how pleasant the weather is, or how rough the wind is a constant companion following in your wake. It's often a nice breeze, though it picks up a significant amount if you're nearing danger or in danger. Though a strange pattern of it picks up when you spend a little too long talking with locals…

Yes, the wind itself can't do much, but its following reminds you of your faithful companion back home, the one you'll have to eventually return to. And while 'freedom' is given, it's never truly 'free' as the wind follows far and wide until you come back to your love.

Final [unique]

Where final comes in is related more to Venti's 'sleep.' From the context, it seems Venti has less control over when he sleeps and for how long. It's not that he chooses to abandon his land in the time. It's that he cannot fight when he goes into his slumbering state. For hundreds of years, and the times he wakes up are only that when there is something of great importance. This wouldn't be much of a problem before you— Mondstadt was given their freedom, and it was just how it was. He awoke, he came, he helped, and he left; nothing more or less.

However, he had been awake for longer than usual. There was something, even outside of you, that had brewing. Something deeply important kept him awake, even if he didn't know what. And he established a life. A true life this time, with friends in the taverns and everyday 'enemies' with his habits. He found a 'job' and a 'home' within his city as one of the people. And he fell in love. It's one thing to become intrinsically a part of an environment, and even if you don't feel the same way, have that connection knowing any moment it could be lost. To go back into a long-standing sleep with every person, even facet of that life is potentially gone when you are to wake up again. To lose that loved one to time.

Venti has lost so much, each person he's established a bond with passing or having to move on to more incredible things. When he awakes, everything is different; every person is mostly a new face, with few exceptions of those only being a few like him. Is it wrong for love to be so fragile when he knows the change of fate of it being lost is greater than the reward? That if he were to fall asleep, you would easily be able to move on. Find someone new, forget about him, or at least be nothing more than a distant memory. He knows other types of love can be platonic, that the affection you give to the city kids isn't the same, or the way you play with the cats as he watches from a distance. He knows that when he sees the couples in Mondstadt, he's supposed to be happy for them, and imagine if it was you two rather than have the breeze pick up ruining their outing. That he shouldn't be this jealous or bitter; it's unsuiting of his persona, but how else are you supposed to know when love is useless if not with you, the one person he could so quickly lose. When you're not around, this gets worse. Celestia, be damned if he were to fall asleep without at least getting to see you one more time.

This acknowledgment does considerably bring out more of his obsessive nature, almost like paranoia, but in a way that no one can quite place. That he needs to have knowledge of where you are and how long you've been gone, or that he needs to be with you to make up for the time. The obsession leaks into you're time together; since he doesn't need sleep, he'll just lay there watching you. Hands sometimes ghost your face as he pulls you close, worrying about if he can't save you if he were to suddenly fall back asleep tomorrow and never see you again. It's the way sometimes he grips your arm a little too tightly and breathes in too deeply when hugging. That he needs to find a solution to keep you immortal so if he does sleep, you'll still be there when he awakes, or even better, you can sleep with him [and awake] at the same time. You'd never have to be alone, he'd never have to be alone. And sure, it's a stretch, but it's not a loss of freedom because once awake, you can still go anywhere you want together, and even with this idea, you still have full mental awareness and control over your mind.

General Delusional [unique]

Venti isn't delusional. His perceptiveness to things around him and his need to protect himself, plus his lifetime, has made him more or less hyperaware of things and life around him. He hears the prayers of people and the lives of others, and being lucid/logical is simply a must for that of a god. But he hears the prays, he hears the others speak, and he yearns in a sense to be able to have the luxury of being delusional. Of just being able to let everything go and pretend things are good or that you like him back in that way. It sounds nice. Easy. To be able to imagine your life together as some fantasy story, he's the knight who'd come and save you and live happily ever after.

Scratch that. barbatos isn't delusional, but Venti can be. The mask, the person he's playing can be. He isn't just a storywriter; he's a storyteller. An actor, a character of his identity. So no, deep down, he knows the truth; he's extremely aware of that, but why not just play the part. Let him play as if he was lost in those delusions and that whatever it is can be that way. When you're cooking dinner for each other, Venti knows you're just making a meal as always, but why not play it up. That you're coupled and that this is making a meal together as a such— it was a little weird when he came over to help, but you didn't question it. At least he was doing something. But meal times together when he would help progressed weirdly. Putting his arms around you as you try to cut things, holding out utensils for you to try things on. It got very strange the one time when baking, he leaned over and licked a crumb off your face. You didn't bake for a while after that.

Or going out. What once was normal progressed into him inching closer and closer, then hands briefly touching. You didn't think much. It's the bard unless your Diluc. He's been pretty much harmless around the city. You think. So what if he was one to try to hold hands or brush arms that just matched his bubbly personality. Though the linking of arms and leaning into when waking, staring into your eyes with such affection did change things a lot.

It's nothing more than a role, or sort of game to Venti. The delusion is there, but it is more like oil sitting on top of water. He can turn it off at any moment, but where is the fun in that when everything in his life is so serious. With you, it's easier to just pretend. At least he still has all the control and lucidity of the problems when needed.

Projection

This has been touched on already, but to relate it back, Venti isn't so much delusional in the sense he believes it's real but that if he projects the message hard enough through stories, through songs, and to the people of Teyvat that you're together then in some way, that will be true. The projection of his words he knows are false, and he knows in some way, even if it isn't true, that if a story is spread enough, people take it as fact. And if everyone takes it as fact, then it's just easier for you to accept it as well. He really doesn't have to do anything to force you. It's not taking away anything. It's just altering it so that way things work out in his favor. Much like the general sense, it pairs as well. If he tells himself it's true, perhaps he can force that delusion to cloud the lucidity he feels about all of it. It's almost like in a state of being drunk, where you know what's going on to a certain level, but it's foggy. It's rose-tinted enough that if everyone thinks it, he can, too.

This projection is only made worse if he gets involved as Barbatos. It changes things from just the slightly weird couple who, honestly, the people of Mondstadt can't really explain how they ended up that way. They remember bits of it, but it seems like someone through someone, though some random grandma just mentioned you were taken, and everyone ran with it. But if the church were to find the falsified relics and stories, then there just is nothing you can do. Now, it's not only Venti trying to project something there but the whole church following, believing that you are some saint and by having you married? Honestly, you aren't really sure what all this goal is to have you 'connected to Barbatos' even means, but whatever it is… it doesn't sound good. The expectations of you are doubled, and the projection of you being more than human is suffocating. But it's only made worse when Venti comes forward as Barbatos to you, saying you should just play the part. Stay with the church as some saint and with him. You'll still have a life of freedom outside of it, just with some more expectations about how you interact with others. You'd be bound by the marriage of some sort, and he'd find a way to make it eternal. It doesn't sound too bad, right? Freedom isn't truly free, but it never has been. It's an elusive concept, something subjective, but if you still have the right to enjoy your life and the good of being such, then it should be okay. You can still leave the church figuratively and travel, arguing it's on some journey for something. You aren't restricted in how you speak or think, but things like infidelity and how you speak of love need to be more kind. Yet you'd live a life of peace, one of never needing to be allowed and have the blessing of a god in your favor.

If not, think of the projection people will have if you say no. If you try to run away, you lose everything. That would be the true loss of freedom. The loss of your friends, your loved ones. Your home. Venti projects this idea of love and what love should be for you two, not between you and him necessarily, but to everyone else, making it all the more terrifying at the consequences when he finally does. Not if, but when.

Monopoly

This is where things get rough because Venti is possessive in a way that can't be controlled. He feels it settling in his chest when he spends too long talking to the shopkeeper or giggling a little too hard at a friend's joke. He hates it when you work and when you dedicate your time to the kittens outside The Cat's Tail. He whines when you have to leave in the morning and when you turn up to Angel Share just a little too late, begging to know who you are with. It hurts him. He can't explain it in the way it crushes his soul, seeing you give your time to others, your energy, and your care. It pains him so deeply to see you run yourself thin for the world around you, for those who could never understand you like he does.

Venti knows it would be easy to whisk you away. To use his godly powers to keep you safe, to keep your attention and love only on him. How things would be so much better for you, for each other, if you could just monopolize your time for him and you and no one else. The idea weighs on him like a pile of bricks. He knows it's wrong; he knows it goes against everything he stands for. And call him childish, but he can't help how he feels.

It's true he never really acts on it. Clinging onto you and carping over it, sure, the way he tugs slightly on your arm after you keep talking to the passerby you bumped into, an old friend, ready to drag you off to somewhere in Mondstadt, you can be alone. How he holds on just a little too tight when you talk about events at work and the people you chatted with, quickly wanting to move to a more interpersonal topic.

Venti never really monopolizes you or your relationships, but his bratty and more childish act really is brought out more with you around. You still get the socialization and ability to be around whoever, but it always needs to be rightfully compensated with some alone time with the god as well, so pick your battles sparingly and just go with him when his fuse starts to burn out.

Bizarre Seeking [unique]

Tying back to his sleep issue, the case of bizarreness only relies so much on how far he's willing to push to keep you immortal, either through godhood or other means. It's surprising he'd even consider it; his testament for Celestia is apparent in conversations, and the path to godhood is not seen in a much higher light based on conversations. But Venti knows sacrifices need to be made to get what you want, and if that means the pursuit of godhood or immorality to not lose any more of his loved one, then that's a sacrifice to be made.

Because of this, Venti ends up pushing you into countless more and more weird scenarios. You end up visiting a certain alchemist more, not really ever knowing the reasons why, and stranger things of yours seem to be going missing. What is that strange bruise on your arm, and why does this one piece of hair seem slightly shorter than the rest? You also swore that Caramel Pinecone tasted weird last time, but even when you ordered the Love Poem instead, it was still off…

The limits of Venti's morality are very much pushed with the goal of finding a way to extend your life more permanently, and while the actions he takes are questionable, they aren't anything he would do less deemed necessary. Beyond that, once he finds the key to unlock it, his bizarre-seeking tendencies end up dying down or stopping altogether.

Also, while he considers and will try to push for a Celestia ascension if push comes to shove, the ability to actually achieve godhood this way is much more complicated and dangerous. Something he might keep trying for, but this way is much less likely to succeed, and he knows this, which is why other bizarre tendencies take priority.

General protectiveness

Overall, protectiveness is a standard feat. Venti doesn't want you to get hurt and will do nearly anything to prevent it, hence a considerable factor of his stalking outside of walls of the city or towns. Even with others, if he thinks they pose some physical threat, Venti has little fear of stepping between you and 'the threat.' It's not so much a protective coating or an extreme case where he needs to check everything you do, touch, eat, drink, or interact with. Still, there is a natural sense of him wanting to protect you and watch over you to make sure that nothing can gravely hurt you. This mirrors why the wind follows you if you travel and picks up to warn you and redirect you away from dangers, a protective aura of Venti that trails after you. It's not even a doubt that you can't, but the inherent need to make sure you make it back in one piece.

There is, again, only one primary reason Venti will use full force to intervene, and this is if he knows you are purposefully trying to run off somewhere that will put you in danger for any reason. Often downplaying his strength of wind, the storm, if needed, will border Mondstadt making it. Hence, nothing gets in or out until you agree to drop it, tearing nearly everything that comes in contact with the barrier if you don't agree to listen to him first and think of a genuine plan. The wind sees all, and while terraforming isn't much on his bucket list anymore, Barbatos has no fear of proving his worth and power if in the name of love and protection. Even if it hurts you to know whatever your goal is foiled, if it's the one-stop against your freedom, there are some things not worth being risked.

Lowest Stats

General [none]

The one trait Venti inherently lacks is sadism. Nothing he does to you or others is derived from the pleasure of hurting or seeing others hurt. And while those such as the abyss creatures for fatui foot soldiers are at the whims of his fighting, it's not done with the goal or satisfaction of a battle but rather a necessity for 'his' people and you.

It's apparent that actions that long-term hurt you or have serious effects, both mental and physical, that fundamentally change you aren't truly a goal. Yeah, the immortality would literally change you, but not with the goal of making you conform or transform into a new mental mindset. At least not right away, as he knows that a long life naturally changes people, but there never is a purpose to rid you of traits. To tie you down and break you until you love him the way he loves you.

Freedom, as touched on, is never truly free. Not of people, not of actions, or even of mindsets. But is it that Venti wants you to be you; be the self you choose to be and the freedom that comes with that, even if aspects of it hurt him. It's why if he has to let you go to Sumeru for a festival he knows wouldn't be possible for him to also attend, he lets you know you'll come back to him without the burden of being changed or conformed to have to come back. It's why, in every case, Venti does whatever is in his power to keep you from being genuinely hurt, even if he can't always fulfill that promise. It's why, despite everything, he can't hurt the people who create the fires of jealousy in his core being.

Venti has an awareness that many of his actions are immoral and that he has dirtied his hands in the past just as much. he knows of the guilt you struggle with, and then he is using his skills to manipulate and play everyone like a fiddle, but in the eyes of a god and one who believes in freedom, it is not in his role to harm anyone in the light of you. It's a turning point he could never come back from if he were to directly hurt you or anyone else with the goal of keeping you with him, and it would be a dishonor to everything he was created from. A stain on the nameless bard he honors so deeply, so while the envelope of what is okay is pushed every day with his other actions, there is never once a hand that is laid on you for the sake of 'love' from Bardatos.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Statistic diagram; Venti [Barbatos]