#fooliverse milo

Milo only knows this because when he enters his place, groceries (see: blood bags) and all, you're no longer on the couch.

No wide-eyed, candlelight smile of a thousand portable suns gleaming at him the second he enters the door. No chirpy reply, no scattered belongings as you messily comb through whatever shit the Department has you assigned to now. It's like you up and vanished, Department mystery and all.

(Has he ever told you how much he despises your employer? Yes. Many times, as a matter of fact. Will he ever stop reminding you? No.)

Still. You're not in the living room.

And he can't feel your aura.

Well—he can, but it's so infinitesimal he pauses and wonders if you're even in the place to begin with.

"Sweets?" He tries again, tentative. The door shuts behind him, almost as quiet as the dead air.

The paper bags crinkle when he sets them down on the ground, kicks his shoes off.

"Hey, Sweetheart? You in here?"

You don't reply. Or, rather, there's dead silence.

"Where'd you go?" Milo mutters, blinking as he treads through the living room.

Again, no reply.

Stealths naturally have an incredibly minute presence, yes, but he'd like to think that for the months he's known you, he can detect your signature from the slightest pulse alone. Maybe it's also because your control is less refined than other stealths, but he can locate you from a mile away.

(He still thinks back to the panicked look on your face the first time you two met. Guilt still swells in his chest from time to time when reminiscing, but it isn't so bad now, when you've got your own compartment in his bleeding heart.)

Whatever the case is, you could breathe and his vampiric senses would pick up on it in an instant.

Call it romance, or something.

(Sappy shit he'd roll his eyes at every other day, but when it's you? Okay, it's kind of cute.)

He normally can sense it off a hair. But the thing is he can't right now. And it's kinda sorta maybe slightly freaking him out.

Cautiously, as if worried he'd somehow scare you away (wherever you are), he tiptoes to the couch. His hand meets the cushion, over the faintest pressure imprint on the surface. It's warm.

When he goes to check the kitchen, you're not there. Nothing got moved around there. That ticks off a few things. You didn't try burning the place down. You didn't go through his pots and pans. Or another way of putting it: you left no trace of any disaster.

Again, he can feel you; he knows you're somewhere here, you're still inside the place for God's sake, but for some God forsaken reason you chose to hide.

"We playin' hide and seek and you didn't think to send me a message beforehand?" He calls, a little smile on his lips. Well, catching you would be a fun ordeal, at least.

You seemed to like the thrill of his fangs when he bit you before; the thrum of your heartbeat rang loud in his ears the first time he sank his teeth in. The saccharine burst coating his palate still lives in the back of his head, the smooth fickleness lingering on his tongue. If he closed his eyes (which he just did), he could taste the tang of your blood when your excitement would spike and the memory of your thighs flush to his devouring mouth...

Okay, enough of that. Focus, Milo.

Grumbling at his own lack of self-control, he steels his resolve. One by one, each room in his place is checked. And with every passing room that he can't quite feel you or the remnants of any ebbing aura, the next room's doorknob splinters just a little bit more.

The bathroom. Zero.

The backyard. Zilch.

The hallway storage closet. Nada.

Hell, he even looked in his office. Nothing! Gee, you couldn't at least act interested enough to snoop through a guy's confidential documents?

He's just about to dial your phone before he feels it. It happens delicately. He pauses outside of the bedroom. Like a faint melody, a hum ripples through his body. An inner calling, of sorts. A known one, at that.

Even though it vanished as quickly as it came, Milo's grinning victoriously (despite there not even being an agreed-upon game of hide and seek yet).

"Gotcha."

He opens the door.

Again, silence. There's no tells when he pads in, quiet as a mouse, sharp eyes trailing over the crisp, untouched bedsheets and the desk with all his gaming equipment.

Been a while since he touched those. Although recently, at your insistence, he got back to playing some old games of his. Maybe he'll hop on the old multiplayer ones with David and Asher if they're ever free (and if he grows a pair and calls them).

"Sweetheart," he drawls, smug smirk and all. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

At this point, he's nonplussed by the clamorous silence. If anything, it spurs him on. Your core is pulsing in that way it always does, though the pulsations are vague and only dimly felt if he concentrated. It's almost impressive how deeply he has to inhale and quiet his mind; only then can he pick up on your trail.

Have you been doing some super secret Department training with a Seer? When'd you learn to cloak yourself so well? He's almost sure you're able to phase through stuff too if you're this good at concealment.

Briefly, Milo thinks of praising your improvement, but that can come after the fun part: catching you.

"Don't wanna come out? That's fine. Y'know I always find you." He shrugs, casually marching straight to the closet.

He gives you a moment to own up to it, like the gentleman he is. Licks his teeth, drags the muscle over a canine. Feigns patience, even.

Your core sings. His eyes narrow.

"Found you."

Unceremoniously (ceremoniously? He likes the dramatics!), he swings the closet door open. It's a comfortable but cramped space, no thanks to the articles strewn here and there, hangers and such. But more importantly—

"Aha, gotcha, sweetheart!"

—you're not there.

Milo pauses. Blinks.

His jaw drops. He immediately sputters a confused "the hell?" because, God, he was so sure he felt it—that magical tether that's bound him to you and you to him. Barely there, but singing like a chord with every step he approached the closet.

But no matter how hard he tries to focus now, that previous sensation was gone. And you're not there somehow, even though this is the last place you could possibly hide.

"The fuck, sweets? Where'd you go?" He mutters, completely dumbfounded. He reaches in, only to make sure—

A hand.

A hand latches onto his arm, nowhere in his line of sight but he catches the way it presses into the leather of his jacket. With force. He nearly laughs, thinks it's you before he feels the slice of a foreign magic signature.

It's instinct when he moves. His hand shoots out to where the wrist would be, grabbing on tight. His nerves spike the second he hears a gasp—whoever the fuck this is seems to forget their corporeality—and his vampiric strength kicks in as he wrenches them out from the closet.

Of course, the person tries to resist. He feels the second they try to slip back into the magic. The hand begins to slip through his forearm and his own hand starts to slacken around air, but Milo's quicker. His other hand shoots out on a rough estimate of where the person's head is and he grabs hold of what feels like a neck.

A loud thud echoes in the room as he falls to the ground with the invisible intruder with a grunt. Their legs are kicking out under him, so he straddles the person, holding them down. They aren't screaming, but he can hear the labored breathing and borderline arrhythmic heartbeat.

This had to be another stealth from the department. Ten times as skilled, enough to have nearly passed through his body and entirely concealed themselves.

A core, so intricately concealed, and magic pulses that were abstract at best. Abstract but strangely familiar. But he doesn't have the time to process that as his heart races, pinning down an intruder in his own bedroom. One of his hands hold them by the neck without much threat, the other grabbing the invisible hands to pin those down above their head, too.

Again. Familiar.

"What the fuck— No, who the fuck are you? How the hell did you get into my house?" He spits, and something fiery and red hot shoots into his brain.

You'd definitely be scolding him if you heard the way he was cursing up a storm right now. Heck, he could almost see your furrowed brow and surly pout. Still, he doesn't know where you are, so that isn't really helping his temper. Concern surges, desperate in his throat.

"Take the fuckin' magic off. You from the department?" Milo snarls, lowering his face to the person's face.

"The hell did you do to the person you found here?"

He must look like a fucking lunatic sitting on thin air right now. Hell, he definitely feels like one since the person isn't replying and he's quite literally looking at the carpet, with the faintest hint of warm breath wafting over his face.

If this was the stealth, they could've activated their magic and ran away by now. But they aren't, for some odd reason.

"Better start fuckin' answerin', or else you're gonna know what it's like to have your neck between a vampire's teeth."

He imagines your face—fleeting, luminous, heartwarming—and he's angry all over again.

He's about to tear into this person. Shred them too, if they had a hand in your disappearance.

Then, a strained whisper, "vampire?"

He scoffs. He almost falls for the disbelieving tone.

"What? Didn't know you were on vamp territory? Sure, stealth. Heard that one a million times before."

Still, they don't uncloak. Ever so slightly, he tightens his hold on their neck. He's about to start putting pressure on the fucker.

"Start. Talkin'. Or I swear to God, I'll—"

"Stop!" Your voice rings out. "Stop, wait."

For a sudden, dizzying second, he's thrown off balance.

That's your voice. Crystal clear, he knows that for a damn fact, he's heard it so, so many times for the time he's known you, but why the fuck is it coming from the person under him?

He's almost a hundred percent sure he's hallucinating until their hands go fully intangible. He regains his footing and nearly growls, about to try and squeeze their neck again as a warning in case they try any funny tricks. Their hands instead manifest once more, grasping his wrist tightly.

A tendril of magic—yours, yours, yours slips into his core, wrapping around him that's undeniably you and he's baffled once more. A vampire core is weak, something fragile compared to the average empowered human considering the magic but something in his own core is reaching for yours. It's so painfully intimate.

And it's the strongest pull he's ever felt.

Another whisper, hoarse. "Milo."

He's releasing his grip before he can even process the kiss of his name on your tongue. The magic is lost, snapped and the connection dissolves as he jolts away like he was burned. You're manifesting amidst his startling, the magic unwrapping from your form.

You manage a weak, unsteady smile and his heart nearly collapses upon seeing that agonizingly pretty face.

"Thanks," you cough.

You. It really was you. The magic signature is— well, it's the same now that he thinks about it. But, he could swear that something else was off.

His jaw slackens for the third time since setting foot in the house. You look equally surprised to see him after a moment, and your hands shoot up to his mouth.

Milo jumps, stiffening as you hook your thumbs on his upper lip and push up on the plush skin.

"What the fu—"

There's a stunned expression on your face he can't quite understand. He knows there's no spinach between his teeth or anything, so the only possible conclusion is you're not looking for food between his teeth, but his actual teeth. He has no fucking clue why he's keeping his mouth open for you (you?). He could blame it on the adrenaline, maybe.

But, there's something sickly sweet about the wonder and bewilderment in your eyes amplifying tenfold while you press your thumbs to his sharper teeth. His eyes dart to the motion of your lips parting in surprise, so tempting in spite of everything.

Fuck. He's been fucked, he knows that, but fuck it all. Call that fuck squared.

"You've got teeth," you murmur, pulling him out from his thoughts. Hah, he's the vamp here but he's the one acting like he got tranced.

For a few moments, he chews on his words. You don't seem too impatient to get a response, based on how you keep rubbing the surface of his canines. So, so curious. As if they weren't the same teeth that have already drawn blood from you. (You? Is it you? Your core feels so, so familiar yet so different.)

"Well. All people got teeth, vamps or not. Mine're jus' gifts from Dmitri," he mumbles awkwardly, trying to keep his mouth agape for you for some inconceivable reason.

Hesitant, he licks his teeth, careful to not touch your wandering digits. Such consideration however might dwindle down if you keep staring at him like that and—ookay, you just followed his tongue with your eyes. Cool. Totally.

"Dunno what you're trying to say here, sweets— Uh." Would sweets be the right thing to call you-but-not?

You snicker from where you are under him. Seems like you're not all too bothered by his near attempt to lightly choke you out a few seconds ago.

"Actually, there're some dental disorders. Makes the teeth malformed or they don't have any when born. So not all people have them."

His eye twitches.

"Oh, ha-ha-ha, wise crack. You suddenly know how to cloak yourself and now you're all mouthy."

"I'm always mouthy, excuse yourself. And of course I do, it's me. Part of the job, part of the package."

Tracks the way you're smiling so smugly, shit-eating and all. That was definitely characteristic of you.

He hums, low. "Sure."

Huh.

A detective's expected job, sure, but that wasn't always part of your skillset, now was it?

Slowly, he moves back. As you sit up, Milo takes a seat beside you instead of fully moving back. As you adjust your clothes, his eyes latch onto the jacket you donned. He has an exact one just like that—but the scent of the one you're wearing is off. He picked up on it earlier when you leaned in. Though, it wasn't like he could put a finger on it.

Also, he has no idea if you know anything's up. You're acting as normal as you possibly could, stretching your legs and looking at him with that tiny, knowing smile. It almost soothes him. Emphasis on almost.

But, he tries to play it cool despite his rising bemusement. "Why the hell were you playin' hide and seek? Nearly scared the shit outta me. You're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days."

You tilt your head. Something along the lines of recognition flickers in and out of your eyes.

"Really? Didn't feel like fear when you nearly choked me."

Okay. He takes it back.

"Wouldn't be the first time you did it though," you comment before he could reply to your first quip. A flirtatious lift of your lips is all it takes before he clocks that you're gonna say something diabolical.

"It was definitely rougher and more pleasant in other contexts, however. Oh, and not with you, specifically."

He barks out an incredulous sound, a laugh, gazing at you in utter disbelief. Well, that mouth of yours clearly hasn't changed. You're definitely much more self-assured.

Wait, backtrack. Not with him?

He stares.

You stare back.

It's some weird fuckin' Mexican standoff between you, him, and the biggest elephant in the room ever. And he's never been a patient man when it comes to you, despite all he's tried to do to prove otherwise.

He concedes, grunting an accusatory, "you're not my sweetheart."

You don't falter, crossing your arms. "And you're not my Mate, Rebane."

Mate—?

Before he can dwell on that, you're lying back down on his carpet and groaning aloud like this was all one massive inconvenience to you.

You run your palms over your face, pursing your lips and sighing heavily. "Oh, Aggro is going to lose his shit."

Milo balks.

"How the fuck do you know Aggro?"

part ii is out!

mimi's missive. . .

first time interacting with (and contributing to?) the redactedverse fandom since stumbling across it all the way in 2021, kinda nervous! ( ; ; )

it's fooliverse season!!! i miss fooliverse milo terribly, so here's me writing for our beloved feisty werewolf-turned-vampire prince. will write up one with regular milo and fooliverse sweetheart once i have the time. there's something so yummy about the concept of swapping listeners; main milo/sweetheart have such a healthy, secure, and well-developed relationship, meanwhile fooliverse milo/sweetheart had the funniest bout of "will they won't they" before getting together. seasoned veteran vs fresh-faced rookie, that type of thing.

It took weeks for him to fuck you, for him to deem your body sound enough to withstand it. You’d been up and walking for about a week, spending as much time as you could manage on your feet. You thought that Milo would prefer to carry you everywhere with the way he hovered over you. 

“You’ve got nothing better to do than follow me around?” You’d asked one evening as you walked the hall in the main wing (the fact that Milo’s house had wings made you want to puke, it was so pretentious). 

“Sweetness,” Milo laughed, “I cleared my schedule for this. Any reason to watch you from behind.”

You hadn’t been back to your apartment since the night you’d gone after the shade, so you didn’t have any of your own clothes. You’d taken to wearing Milo’s. He had closets full of fitted, silken shirts, sheer blouses, skin-tight pants, tiny skirts. He had a whole room for the stuff that was bigger than your bedroom. His shoe collection had its own zip code. You were wearing a loose knit sweater that you’d had to look up the price of before putting on (four hundred, on the low end for Milo). Even his sweatpants, a pair of which you’d effectively adopted, were designer. At your request, Milo had gone out to grab some of your essentials; namely a few pairs of plush, fuzzy socks to wear under his Gucci slippers. Stupid vampires with no sense of temperature; this place was so fucking cold. 

“Well, I’m sure your King will find a use for you eventually.” You grinned. 

“A luxury of being such a competent and loyal Prince.” Milo laughed. “When I ask for time off, I get it.” 

“How much time off, exactly?” You looked back over your shoulder to him. His silver eyes nearly glowed in the darkness like a predator’s. 

“As much as I need.” He simply replied. 

You walked the length of the house before your leg gave out. You pushed past the warning tremors that plagued your mangled thigh muscles and forced yourself to walk just a little bit farther than yesterday, the day before, the day before that. You reveled in the respite that Milo’s care had given you, but if there was one thing you refused to be, it was dependent. It was bad enough that you were jobless and relying on him for all of your financial needs. You would not remain a burden on the physical front as well. 

Milo’s hands found your waist as you stumbled, steadying you before you could even call out for help. You swallowed down the protests of independence that were waiting on your tongue. You batted down that suspicious, defensive part of you that tried to rear its head whenever you accepted help. You did need him. You would fall without his support. You were safe in his hands. 

“Easy!” Milo admonished. “You can’t push yourself to failure every day, Sweetness. This ain’t strength training, it’s recovery.”

“I know.” You ground out between gritted teeth. In truth, all you could think about was the cool seer of Milo’s hands on your waist, his long fingers brushing against exposed skin where your sweater had bunched up over your hip. He hadn’t touched you in weeks, at least not in the way you wanted. His hands were constant, holding you, steadying you, carding through your curls. But they never ventured far, never grasped around your middle, never teased across your chest, never charted between your thighs. You wanted him. But you couldn’t blame him for not wanting you anymore, not in that way. 

The scars had settled into something ugly, despite your three visits to Dr. Collins so far. You had hoped that the concave divots would fill out as you moved further and further away from the attack. Instead, they darkened against your skin and stayed. 

“You’re held together with duct tape and a prayer.” Collins had shook his head at the end of your first session. “I’m surprised there was enough of you to save. We’re gonna count our blessings that you’re alive and go from there.” 

You were horrific to look at, your skin was terrible to touch. You could barely hold yourself up, could barely bend your leg, could barely maintain the strength to make it through your pampered, lavish days. Nobody would want to fuck you. Not like this. 

Milo’s hand, soft as velvet, snaked from your waist around to the flat of your stomach. He pulled you back into him, pressed his chest into your back. He bent, his nose slotting into the crook of your neck. He took a deep breath and let it out in a moan. 

“Fuck, Sweetheart,” he breathed. 

You held your breath, went stock still, terrified you’d spook him with any movement. Had he fed? You couldn’t remember the last time he’d left the mansion, which meant he was living off of bags. That wasn’t enough for him, for any vampire. 

“Milo,” you whispered, “have you fed?” 

He was off of you in a heartbeat. You spun around a bit too fast, barely caught yourself on your cane and found him, his back pressed against the wall a few feet off. One hand gripped at the oak wall runner, unnatural strength splintering the wood. The other pressed hard over his mouth and nose. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, muffled by his hand, “I’m so sorry, Sweetheart.”

“Hey,” you took a step closer. Milo’s eyes snapped up to meet yours. His pupils were blown, encompassing his silver irises. Was this blood lust? “It’s okay. You can… you know. Take a bite.” 

“No.” He said emphatically. His face twisted up with horror. “You’re still recovering, I won’t…” He shook his head, took another step away from you. “I have enough self control not to hurt you. I will not hurt you.” 

“Milo-” you extended a hand, reaching for him. One moment, you were standing in the middle of the hallway. The next, you found yourself pressed into something plush and comfortable. Milo’s weight was pressed on top of you, his hips grinding against yours as his form trembled with effort. You blinked and attempted to reorient yourself. You were in one of the countless sitting rooms in the mansion, just down the hall from where you’d been a moment ago. Milo had you laid out on a deep green fainting couch. Even in the grips of hunger he thought to lay you on something that wouldn’t restrict your leg.

“Fuck me , Sweetness,” Milo buried his face in the junction of your neck and shoulder. His wet lips trembled against your skin. “I- I need-”

“It’s okay.” You said softly. You curled your fingers into the hair at the base of his neck and tugged, keeping him in place. “You need to feed. I’m not anemic anymore. It should be safe.” 

“I don’t want-” his voice was trembling with effort. You felt your stomach twist. Of course he didn’t . Feeding and sex had been intertwined for the two of you before the shade. Milo wanted your blood, but he couldn’t want your body. After everything he had done for you, he deserved to take what he wanted and nothing more. 

“I know.” You said. “It’s… I can’t blame you. I must be horrible to look at, let alone… yeah. You don’t have to do anything. Just take what you need.” 

Milo sat up, pulled his face out of your neck and clenched his jaw. He swallowed once and opened his eyes to look at you. They were blacked over, overtaken by his instinct, his need. He was a predator, prowling over his prey and managing to hold himself back. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He spat. His teeth were still clenched together as he talked. Every muscle in his body was tensed. 

“Come on.” You rolled your eyes. “I just… Milo, I’m all fucked up. I know how… ugly it all is. You don’t have to fuck me. You can just feed.” 

Milo was struck silent, staring down at you with his mouth hanging open. He was so surprised that he was momentarily distracted from his hunger. 

“Where the fuck did you get an idea like that?” He breathed. He almost sounded angry, but the disbelief beat it out. “Did I… I haven’t done anything to make you think that, right?” His brow screwed up with something like sadness, like grief.

“No,” you shook your head, “you’ve been… I think you’ve been really polite about all of the… scars and stuff. But you don’t have to be.” 

“Sweetness,” Milo tutted, “I don’t give a shit about the scars.” He pushed your sweater up and spread his hands across your stomach, your chest. His fingers moved across your skin, scars going unnoticed. You gasped at his cool touch. “I’ve been fighting for three fucking weeks to keep my hands off of you. You needed time to recover, I didn’t want to hurt you but…” He bit his lip, fangs extended, mouth watering. “Fuck, Sweetheart, I want you.” 

You stared up at him, eyes wide and wet. 

“Really?” You breathed. Milo smiled, trailing one finger down the center of your chest, your stomach, right to the waistband of your- his- sweatpants. 

“Can I show you just how much I want you?” His voice was all breath, all heat. You shivered at the sound of it, at the feeling of his weight against your hips, his hands so close to where you wanted them. You moaned, bucking up into him. “Let me hear you say it, Sweetness. Let me hear you ask for it.” 

You gripped onto the edge of the fainting couch, pressed your fingers into its plush fabric. He set you on fire when he talked like that, like he could command anything of you and you’d do it. He was right, of course. He didn’t even need to trance you. Knowing how much he got off on your obedience, your desperation, your pleasure; it made your head spin. You whined and squirmed under him, testing what you could move and how without pain. 

“Please,” you whispered, your hands gripping at the hem of Milo’s cropped shirt. His skin was cool and soft, but his muscles didn’t give way. You pressed into him, dug your nails in. 

“I can’t hear you, Sweetness.” Milo grinned, even though you knew for a fact he could. “Come on, use your words.” 

“Please, Milo,” you groaned, smacking him half-heartedly in the abs, “please. I need you.” 

“Oh, Sweetheart,” he ducked back over you, pressed shuddering kisses to your neck, “since you asked so nicely.” 

He moved lower, trailing cold kisses down your chest and stomach. He pushed the sweater up for better access, ran his tongue over the skin above your waistband. His clever fingers slipped under it, slowly started to shimmy your sweatpants down your hips. 

“Fuck,” you breathed, tangling your fingers in his curls. He groaned, voice buzzing against your skin. 

“Already making a mess for me,” he whispered against you. His breath sent a shiver up your spine. You arched your back and bucked your hips into his waiting mouth. His tongue curled around you, languid and teasing. He was a horrible tease. It was like he got more satisfaction from your whining, your begging, your desperation than from anything else. Sadistic asshole. 

“Fuck, you taste so good.” He groaned against you. 

“ Please,” You pulled hard on your handful of curls, “Milo, your hands, please!” 

“Yeah?” He grinned “You need my hand, baby?” You nodded hard, your head swimming. Your face was so hot you thought you’d catch fire. “You get what you ask for, Sweetness. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.” He propped himself up a little bit, his tongue curling over his extended fangs devilishly. Slowly, his blackened eyes locking with yours, Milo caught his first two fingers between his stupidly full lips. He took them down expertly, especially given how long they were. Once his lips wrapped around his knuckles, he pulled them out, opening his mouth wide and letting his tongue hang out over his chin for a moment as he held your eye. A line of drool trailed from his tongue to his fingers. You were making his mouth water.

“ Fuck,” you breathed, trailing your hand down from his hair to cradle his face in your palm, “you are so fucking hot.” His smile was sharp and hungry as he put those fingers to work. They slid into you, cold and clever, and sent your back into a painful arch. His free arm came around your waist to support your weight, taking the pressure off of your leg and helping you fuck yourself back onto his hand. His face dipped to rest against your thigh. “Bite me!” You gasped as he set an agonizingly slow rhythm. “Please, Milo!” 

His fingers slowed for a moment as he looked up at you. 

“You’re sure?” He asked, barely a whisper. You groaned and shifted, chasing his fingers, his friction, his fangs. 

“Yes!” You cried. 

He practically growled at your insistence. His tongue met the skin of your thigh as his fingers began moving again. He stuttered out a shaking moan, his desperation overtaking him. 

“God, I can taste you through the skin.” He sounded strangled, wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.” He timed his words with the thrusts of his hand. “I… I need to feed, baby. You know what to say if it’s too much?” 

Even this lost in you, this close to snapping, he was so concerned with your safety, your comfort, your pleasure. Your head swam with the tenderness of it all. You nodded, bit your lip. 

“Good,” he sighed into your skin, dipping his head back to press a kiss against your sex. “Take a deep breath for me, Sweetness.” You obeyed, filled your lungs and held it. 

His fangs sunk into you. Pain and pleasure burst across your nerves. The feeling of it, of his teeth in your skin, of his tongue lapping at the wound, of his moan of relief as your blood filled his mouth; it nearly sent you over the edge. You felt his rhythm fail for a moment as he lost himself in the bite. His pleasure reflected back to you, zinged up your spine and back again, an endless feedback loop. 

Milo fed deep and long, fucking you hard, crooking his fingers in just the right way. You dissolved into moans and grunts, panting as you gripped his hair hard in your hand, kept him pressed into your thigh. He came up for air eventually, his tongue catching every drop of blood as it slid down your thigh. Your legs shook. You were so close to your climax. 

“Let me fuck you,” he croaked, voice wrecked and high, “please, Sweetheart, please, please-” 

You pulled him up by his hair, tucked his face into the crook of your neck. You bucked against him as he withdrew his hand, fumbling with his pants to free himself. You could see the outline of his hard cock through his faux-leather pants. He wasn’t taking his time anymore. He pulled himself out and laid his pulsing, hard cock against your stomach. 

“Christ, Sweetheart.” He grunted, thrusting once against your stomach before blindly aligning himself and pushing in. “Fuck!” He hissed as your hips bucked, chasing his length. “Slow, slow, take it slow, baby,”

Milo’s still-slick hand pressed into your stomach, adding pressure that made your toes curl. His mouth, warmed by your blood, left wet kisses across the expanse of your neck and shoulder. As if the bites wouldn’t mark you enough, he nipped at your skin and lapped at the hickeys as they formed. 

He bottomed out, his hips pressed against yours. 

“So fucking warm.” He panted into you. He was holding himself above you, not putting any weight on you, hovering an inch above your skin. “Just stay still for a minute, baby. Just get used to me. I’ve got you.” He pressed praise into your skin, murmured sweet names and loving words against you. The buzz of his voice cleared your mind. You huffed out hot breaths against him and scrambled for purchase on his shoulders. If he was anything other than what he was, you were sure you would scratch bloody lines through his skin with your nails alone. 

“You can bite,” you encouraged breathlessly as soon as you were able to form words again. You had begun to adjust to Milo’s length and shimmied your hips against him, encouraging him to move. 

“Are you sure?” He asked. “You’re not- you feel okay? Not dizzy or nothing?” He caught your gaze, inspecting your face intently. You clenched around him and rolled your eyes- eye. 

“Milo, if you don’t stop teasing me and just fucking bite me already-” 

“What, huh?” He grinned. His pupils had receded as he fed, but his silver rises were still swallowed by black. They twinkled in the low candle light of the room, dark and inviting. “What’ll you do, Sweetness?”

“I’ll flip you over and do it myself.” You snarked. He laughed, bending to press his forehead against your chest. 

“I’m gonna hold you to that one day.” He pressed a kiss to your sternum before lifting his head. “But not today. I’m supposed to be taking care of you, Sweetness.” His lips found your neck, his words were soft breath against your skin. “So just lay there and look pretty for me, hmm?” 

His bite was softer this time, almost gentle. The sting barely passed over your senses before his pleasure slammed into you. You keened and arched into him. It took a few moments, but eventually, Milo began to move. His rhythm was erratic, drilling into you in short bursts of desperation. Your mind fell into a comfortable, fuzzy place as the blood loss and endorphins mingled into the perfect high. You wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him against your neck. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck me ,” he chanted into you, “God, you are perfect. Fuck, you’re so tight, Sweetheart!” 

Your orgasm crashed into you, catching you completely by surprise. You cried out and carded your nails over Milo’s back, straining your hips a bit painfully as you chased his hips with your own. Milo shouted and nearly fell out over you, his abs spasming to maintain his control. 

“Oh my God,” you hissed, keeping your desperate hold on him. Milo’s mouth was smeared with your blood, his face slack with bliss as he stilled, letting your ride out your climax. You clenched around him, making him whine. “Don’t fucking stop, don’t you dare!” 

That was all of the permission he seemed to need. Milo planted one hand on your stomach and pounded a series of devastating thrusts into you. You tossed your head back, baring your neck in a display of vulnerability you hadn’t expected of yourself. Milo panted against you, one hand sliding up to rest against your cheek. He craned your face towards him, and held your eye as he came. 

Milo didn’t pull out as he caressed his bites, pooling what little healing magic he could muster into them. They closed over, scarless. You almost wished he had let them heal naturally so that the evidence of this moment would stay on your body, at least for a little while. 

He licked at your neck, cleaning off the blood that had pooled in your clavicle. He sucked his own fingers clean of you. He pushed your curls back from your face and kissed your temples, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your lips. 

“I love you.” You whispered it like it was a secret. You closed your eyes to it, to his face, his reaction. You felt his body tense against yours. Those words were dangerous, deadly. You said them anyway. 

“I-”

“You don’t have to.” You blurted out, suddenly terrified of what he would say. He was seven inches deep and softening inside of you and you still couldn’t stand to hear him say it, or not say it, or say anything at all. “You don’t… that’s not why I said it. I just… I had to.” His hand found your face again, those clever fingers caressing your flushed cheek. 

“Sweetness, look at me, please.” He waited until you opened your eye, until you met his gaze, until you let out the breath you were holding. “When I say what I’m about to say, I need you to know that I’m not saying it because I feel like I have to. Because I don’t. I know I don’t. I’m gonna say this because I’ve been feeling it for months now. I love you. In a way I don’t think I’ve ever loved anybody before.” 

You hated crying after sex. It always made you feel like some sort of whimpering, emotional mess. The tears came anyway, sliding down your face, clouding your vision. 

“Really?” You asked. 

“Really.” 

You swallowed down a sob, pulled him down so you could bury your face in his shoulder. He shifted slightly so he was laying on one side and rolled you so you were pressed against him from head to toe. 

“I’ve got you.” He cooed. “Oh, Sweetheart.” He snaked his arms around you and held you tight to his chest. His arms locked in place, took your weight like it was nothing. It was nothing. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispered, he breathed. “I’ve got you, baby.” 

You didn’t know how he found you, but the next time you opened your eyes, Milo was crouched over you, his face drawn and silver eyes nearly red in the low light. 

“There you are,” he breathed. One of his cold hands was pressed around your neck as though to choke you. The pain was dull and distant in a way that concerned you. “You keep those eyes open, you hear me, Sweetheart? You stay with me. Fuck me , fuck, fuck, fuck!”

You opened your mouth to respond, to spit back some snappy retort about him calling you sweet nicknames, but you sputtered around another mouthful of blood. Your body jerked and twitched, desperate for air and unable to draw any. 

“Fuck,” Milo breathed like it was the only word he knew. You tried to gasp, your hand twitching to try and reach for him. You needed to tell him. You needed to tell him that you were sorry, that you had been such an idiot, that it was all your fault. You didn’t have the strength. “Fuck. God, Dimitri… no he won’t… he wouldn’t let me.” Milo was flicking his eyes, blown wide with panic, over your body. His free hand fluttered over you helplessly, unsure where to apply pressure. He eyed the slash wound over your stomach with something between horror and hunger. This much blood, especially blood he wanted, blood he said he craved when you went too long between sessions, must have been difficult for him. Your throat closed and opened uselessly around itself.  You jolted as the hand around your throat shifted and another caressed your face, covering your right eye and spanning from your hairline to the middle of your cheek. His fingers were so long. You wanted him to thread them through your hair, to caress them gently across your lips, to force them into your mouth and down your fluttering throat. You wanted him to never stop touching you. 

An impression of healing magic whispered against you; the warmth, the sting. It brushed over you like hot breath, barely there at all. A whimper of exertion left Milo as he forced his magic into you. You felt the wound on your neck try to close, the sinew of your torn skin try to tighten, and then fail and all flat again. 

“ Fuck!” Milo spat. You thought he was crying. As he lost his grip on his magic, he crumpled, bending at his waist to rest his head against your still bleeding stomach. You felt him shake with sobs. “What do I do? Ma, what do I do?” 

You must have blacked out, because the next thing you knew, you were moving and fast. Milo had used his speed while holding you before, but the head rush of it was made even more intense by the blood kiss. You gasped and choked, twitching in his arms. “I know,” he huffed, coming to a sudden halt. I know, Sweetheart, stay with me.” 

You cracked an eye open and found yourself out of the heart of Dahlia, in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. Milo was stood on the porch of a beautifully maintained, two story brick house. You were bleeding all over the pretty welcome mat. He used his foot to knock so he didn’t have to set you down. 

After a tense few seconds, while Milo muttered those stupid, sweet things into your ear, the door creaked open. 

“Milo?” A deep voice cut through the fog in your brain. It sounded strained, close to heart broken. Milo didn’t wait to be invited in, just pushed past a hulking figure and into the quiet of a darkened living room. “What happened?” 

“Deep lacerations to the face and neck, I think the right leg is broken, bruising, blood loss- I don’t even know how long they were out there before I found them. Davey, it’s bad.” Milo’s voice was high with panic, and this seemed to shut down any questions the other man might have had. 

“Couch,” the deep voice, Davey, ordered. “Angel, please call Asher.” 

“I didn’t know where else to go.” Milo admitted, sounding more like a lost little kid than you’d ever heard him. You felt gutted. He seemed surprisingly vulnerable, surprisingly open. Old friend, he’d said of Davey from that phone call. Pack. You could feel Davey’s aura, so strong it strangled yours out. Shifter. 

“You did good, Milo.” Davey said softly. “You can always come here. Always.” You groaned as you were laid out on an unfairly plush couch. You were going to bleed all over the delicate throw pillows and knitted blankets. You were going to ruin it. “Let me take a look.” 

Hands were on you suddenly, big and hot and prodding at your wounds. You cried out, your voice gurgled by the blood in your throat. You thrashed violently and found the strength to fight back. You didn’t know those hands. You couldn’t stand the feeling of them on your skin. 

You swung out an arm and clawed at the figure over you, cutting into the skin of his forearm with your blunt nails. You didn’t want anybody to touch you, to explore your wounds, to dissect your weakness with your guts open like this. 

“Fuck, hold them-” 

“Shit! Sweetheart-”

Desperate cries cut together as Milo and Davey tried to contain you, tried to pin your down. Your magic, what was left of it, tried to defend you. You phased in and out, your arms passing through them as they tried to keep you still. 

“Milo, they’re bleeding, you need to-” 

“-gotta calm down, Baby, fuck-” 

“Milo, now!” 

Hands framed your face, cold and long and familiar. You gasped at the feeling of them. 

“Sweetness, look at me.” Milo’s voice sliced through your panic and drew your focus. Those hot, unfamiliar hands captured your own and pinned you down, held you in place. You managed to pry your right eye open. The left must have been caked dry with blood. When you met Milo’s eyes, they were glazed over black. You wondered if he was frightened or angry. 

The trance fell over you like a blanket. Immediately, your muscles loosened and your mind slowed. All thoughts of fighting dissipated into nothing, Milo’s face twisted painfully as he spoke. 

“I’m so sorry, Sweetheart. Please, just calm down. Let Davey work. Just keep looking at me and rest, okay?” You found yourself nodding dreamily, disturbing the wounds on your neck and face. One big hand came up to rest on your forehead, the other barely bruised over your throat. With a grunt and a pulse of magic, the cuts closed over. You felt your skin stitching back together, but the pain was far, far away. All you could focus on was Milo’s wide, black eyes, brimming with tears. 

A sharp fist dug into your sternum and rubbed. You coughed once, blood flooding your mouth. Air rushed into you all at once. 

“Okay,” Davey breathed, “that’s the worst of that. Stomach now. I’m gonna lift your shirt, is that okay?” Your mind twitched to respond, but your body refused, laying limply, mouth slack as you stared at Milo. 

“You can answer.” Milo instructed. “Honestly, please.” 

“Yeah,” you croaked.

Davey thanked you softly and peeled back your coat and shirt, leaving as much of your torso covered as he could. He hissed as he got a look at you. 

“Jesus fuck,” he breathed. Milo’s gaze flicked away from yours to Davey, down to your stomach. He swallowed harshly. “Do what you need to do.” He instructed, one hand floating up to card through your hair. “Sweetness, you just focus on me. Don’t pay any attention to what he’s doing. Don’t feel a bit of it. Just keep those-” he stumbled over his words, but recovered quickly, “-those pretty eyes on me, understand?” 

“Yeah,” you replied. 

Time passed slowly, but you could only focus on Milo, on his severe face, on the crease of stress between his eyebrows. He had positioned himself over the arm of the couch, probably kneeling painfully on the hardwood floors so he could support your head and hold your gaze. He was tense, every muscle in his body taught and not letting up. He looked to be in a considerable amount of pain. You wanted to reach out to him, to run your hand along his neck, to knead your fingers into his shoulders and chase away the stress. But your body didn’t have permission to move, so it didn’t. 

You didn’t become aware of yourself again until Davey shifted the bones in your leg back into place. It seemed that that particular pain was enough to break through even the trance. You cried out, gripping at Milo’s waiting hands, and arched your back against the heat in your thigh. Davey’s big hands circled it easily and poured magic into it. You felt every shift of your bones, and most likely woke the neighbors making it known. 

“ Please!” You cried out, scrambling for purchase against the pain and confusion. 

Milo turned your head forcefully and caught your eye again.

“ Sleep!” He ordered. With a simple word, your body stuttered to a stop. Darkness encroached on your vision as you were plunged into an uneasy, dreamless sleep. 

__

“-it off. You know him. He pushes himself too hard. He should have done triage and then come back to heal more of the damage later.” 

“I was worried he was gonna keel over or something.” 

“His mate has a good read on him. They know when to pull him away.”

“Thank God for that.” 

The conversation filtered into your awareness slowly, words merging together and pulling apart until they formed something resembling sentences. You scrunched up your brow and tried to tune in, to place the voices, to place yourself . Where the fuck were you?

“Milo, what have you gotten into?” 

You knew that voice. You’d heard it before. You tried to dredge up any memory from the past few weeks. Everything melted together into a mess of sleepless nights and stupid ideas made manifest. 

“There’s something about them, Ash,” the other voice, Milo, replied, “I just… I can’t stay away.” A pause, a deep breath. This Ash seemed to be the sort of man who chose his words carefully. 

“I know you’re not a shifter anymore, Milo.” He said. Definitive, a statement of fact. “But every indication you’re giving me-” 

“They don’t want me, Ash.” Milo snapped, all respect that the Alpha garnered absent from his voice. Alpha. Talbot. Asher, he had insisted. Your brain started turning again, started moving. “They’ve made that abundantly clear.” 

Footsteps echoed through the quiet house. With gargantuan effort, you opened your eyes- eye, something was keeping your left eye shut with gentle pressure- and found yourself in a dim living room. Soft yellow curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking out the sunlight that blushed the thin fabric. You managed a twitch out of your fingers but nothing more. 

“You’re awake.” Milo’s voice caught your attention. You craned your neck to peek over the side of the couch. He was wearing someone else’s clothes. His tight fitting, silken button up was replaced with an oversized, soft blue tee-shirt. He wore too-big sweatpants and socks with little cats on them. He looked younger somehow, despite the ageless quality of his face. You couldn’t help but smile. 

“I am.” You said, blurted. You shook your head lightly, trying to find your words. “Interested. In you.” 

Milo was quiet. He crossed his arms over his chest and cast his eyes down. They were silver again. He must have fed. 

“Is that so?” He huffed. “You have a very unique way of showing it.” 

“I’m just…” you considered wrapping yourself up in the comfort of a lie. You considered throwing something cutting at him, something to send him running, sunlight be damned. But you didn’t. You opened your mouth, and the truth came out, no matter how much it made your insides squirm. “I’m scared.” 

Milo’s eyes flicked to yours, held your gaze hostage. You didn’t flinch away. 

“Okay.” He said. 

“Okay? What… what does ‘ okay’ mean?” 

“It means ‘ okay!’” A hollow imitation of a laugh left him as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “It means we’ll see. It means I don’t trust you, not as far as I can throw you. But I can throw pretty far, so…” he shrugged. “I want you. I have wanted you since the second I saw you. But you’ve got some shit to dig through before you’re ready for that.”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I… I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I said… Milo, if I could- ”

“Stop.” He waved his hand and stepped towards you. He surveyed your body quickly before plucking your hand from where it rested against your stomach. He pressed a chaste kiss against your knuckles “I think you’ve suffered enough, huh?” 

You groaned and tried to shift, tried to assess your body. 

“What all…” you pursed your lips as Milo helped you sit up. The muscles in your stomach creaked and protested, but he took your weight effortlessly. “What’s the damage?” 

“You’ve got some scars.” Milo reported. “From your stomach up to your face. Davey did what he could, but most healers would have struggled with this sort of damage. You were…” his face went sour, like he might be sick, “you were about half a minute from being a memory, Sweetness. We still haven’t figured out how you survived so long. Davey’s guess is sheer force of will.”

“ Fuck.” You breathed. 

“Yeah.” Milo agreed. He pushed your hair back from your forehead gently. “What… just- how much do you want me to tell you? Because it wasn’t a pretty experience.” 

“All of it.” You replied immediately. “I know why you tranced me, I’m grateful for it.” You gripped his arm in your shaking hand before he could pull away. “But I want to know what happened to me while I was out.” 

“I get it, Sweetheart.” Milo nodded. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled your back to rest against his chest. He was cool and plush, and you melted into him. One of his hands trailed down your torso and pressed against your stomach. Somebody had changed you too. You were clad in a light tee-shirt, so big on you it hung from one shoulder. Milo lifted the bottom of it to reveal deep, craterous scars cutting through your skin. They looked painful, even if you didn’t feel it. Milo trailed one finger over the first of four, one for each of the shade’s long fingers. “Your large intestine and stomach were falling out of this one. Davey was… he was wrist deep getting everything back into you. He said that he would usually take the time to sorta… lay everything back where it’s supposed to go, but you were likely to bleed out if he took too long. So… yeah. Everything’s inside of you, but it’ll take a while to get back to where it’s supposed to go. He said you’d feel… weird. Like your insides are shaking.”

You swallowed the nausea that threatened to overtake you. After a few deep breaths, you nodded for Milo to continue. His hand trailed up to the second cut, right above your heart. 

“This one breached your chest wall. Your left lung collapsed twice because of the air that managed to get past your ribs. You’ve got some nasty needle marks where he drained the air." He pulled down the collar of your shirt to reveal two large pricks surrounded by angry bruising just under your third rib. “Davey said chests are complicated. Lots of muscle and bone and important organs and shit. If you’re gonna have a complication in the next forty-eight hours or so, it’ll be here. He wants to keep you here until then just to be sure, or ship you off to another healer.” 

“Okay.” You said. You weren’t exactly comfortable here, but you could at least hide from the consequences you were sure were awaiting you at D.U.M.P.. If Milo’s former pack would have you, you would gladly use them as a shield. “What else?” 

Milo’s hand trailed up to your throat and face. 

“Two of the cuts made it to the throat. One nicked your trachea and started flooding your airway with blood. You swallowed a lot of it, which Davey had to pump from your stomach before… putting it back in you. When I got to you, your throat had only just collapsed. You were without adequate oxygen for around four minutes before Davey got it healed. That’s right on the edge of brain damage territory, so he wants to keep an eye on that too. He might send you out for an MRI.” 

“Well, I’m about to be fired, so I hope he’s paying for it.” 

“What?” Milo balked. 

“Nothing.” You waved a lazy hand. “Keep going.”

“Oh…kay. Um. Your face. It’s… Sweetness, I’m really sorry.” 

“My eye.” You said softly. 

“Yeah.” He muttered. “It was necrotic by the time we got here. He took it out as safely as he could with what he had in his medical pack. We might be able to see about the optic nerve-”

“It’s fine.” You shook your head. “It’s fine. What else?” 

“Sweetheart-”

“What else, Milo?” 

He paused, took a steadying breath. 

“Your femur was broken. Badly. I don’t know how long you were out there before I found you. Judging by the blood loss… a while. Davey was functioning without an x-ray. He set it and healed it, but it's… he says that it’s crooked. It would take several re-breaks and surgeries to get it aligned again. And even then, you’re… Sweets, you might not walk again. And if you do, it’s gonna hurt. Forever.” 

You closed your eyes- your eye- and rested your head back on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you, pulled you closer. The muscles in your abdomen shook as the tears came. You fought to keep them in, to shut them down. 

“I know.” Milo whispered into the crown of your head. “I know, Baby. Let it out. You let it out. I’ve got you.” He said it over and over again as the shakes and cries overwhelmed you. He didn’t stop as you sobbed into him, as you wailed like your father in that hospital a million years ago. You doubted anyone in this house, on this block, in Dahlia, in the world, was spared from your sobs. He didn’t stop until your throat cracked and gave out, until your tears slowed, until your body pulled you back towards sleep. He didn’t stop as you drifted away again, pressed into his firm, unyielding chest. 

Somehow, the thing was bigger and scarier when fully formed than it had been when intangible. A day ago, you couldn’t imagine anything in the world scarier than the half-translucent, skeletal figure that had sucked the life out of you in the dark and cold. Now, you were finding that your imagination had its limits. 

It was a scrawny thing, despite the fact it had had a fresh meal in the form of a powerful, empowered kid. That would be enough to fatten anybody up, but it remained gaunt, smoke like skin stretched over the notches of its elongated rib cage. It towered over you, The top of its rounded head capping out over the tree line. The sapling oaks didn’t provide much cover, but it somehow formed itself to the shadows, its long, clawed fingers curling around one tree’s trunks, its spine bending into an unnatural ‘ s’ shape to duck its other half behind another. 

You had asked Cam if these things used to be people. You couldn’t imagine that anymore. This wasn’t human. This wasn’t some lost soul, confused and stumbling through a world it couldn’t make sense of. This was a creature, a monster, a thing waiting for its next meal to stumble across its unfortunate path, and you wouldn’t let anything make a meal out of you. 

It hadn’t noticed you. Your core ached with effort, but you remained cloaked, remained hidden from its acute senses a yard off from it’s position. If you timed it right, you could dispatch of it without it ever even noticing you. 

You didn’t know why, but it was fire you called on when deciding how to handle this. Heat curled around your fingers, an unnatural magic for your body, just this side of too hot for you to control. Your core strummed uneasily as you gathered a spark between your fingers and let it grow. It was bright and hot and loud, and you pushed your cloak out to make sure it was concealed. Your head pounded, but a ball of fire the size of your fist bobbed above your right palm, ready to be used. 

“Don’t let anyone dampen your light,” your mom had said to you. She’d taught you all of the fire magic that your core would allow, and pushed you to blow past your limits and use more. “ People are going to underestimate you. Never let them trample you before you’ve even gotten the chance to show just how incredible you are.” 

You’d managed to hold your own in an elementals class when you attended D.A.M.N.. It was nearly unheard of for a stealth to be able to utilize other forms of magic, given how specialized your core was. You were, as always, the exception to the rule. 

When the heat began to overtake you and you felt the skin of your palm burn and bubble under your heat, your mother’s heat, you let it loose. The fire moved where you wanted at great speed, cut through your cloak, and found its home in the shade’s chest. It scrambled back from its hiding spot, a high, ear-ringing screech cutting across the park. You stumbled back, your face flush with victory as its long body met the ground, curling around the point of impact. 

Everything went still. You moved forward, your cloak falling away, unprompted. Your core was exhausted already, and that particular choice of offensive magic didn’t do you any favors. You’d be surprised if you could muster the strength for a simple dampening for the next few days. That was fine. Your work was done. 

You nudged the shade with your boot and watched its strange, disproportionate features up close. You could see your mother’s face somewhere in its gaping mouth, its empty sockets, the hollow, serene pose of its body. Tears pressed, unbidden, against your eyes. You sniffled and stepped back. 

Not fast enough, apparently. The shade moved so fast you couldn’t track its movements. You had enough time to wonder if they had any relation to vampires before its claws carved into you. 

You’d been hurt on the job before. Magic was hard to control, especially in a combat scenario. You’d been caught by friendly fire once, an electro energetic who couldn’t quite contain their lightning when in a large, open space during training. That was the incident that made you start wearing rubber-soled shoes, and put you on heart medication. A packless, panicking shifter had caught your arm in their teeth while you were assisting on a case a few days after the Quinn incident. They were a kid, humanborn, and most likely in an inordinate amount of pain after being shot at by their father, who assumed, reasonably, that a bear had managed to get inside his teenage child’s bedroom. You’d received an apology card at your desk a few days later, long after the bone-crushing bite wound had been healed. The kid was doing alright, in contact with the Talbot pack, and being supported by their parents. 

Both of those incidents had been painful. But this was something else entirely. Its claws were razor sharp and cut through you with no resistance. The swipe was long, curving from the flat of your stomach up your chest, your neck, your face. Your vision went red and dark on the left side. The burn of it seared every inch of you. The pain was impossible, impossible to feel, impossible to contain. You howled like a wounded dog. 

Your back met the ground as the shade rose, burned and broken but still kicking. You managed to suck in a breath before one freakish hand found your throat, the other circling around your right thigh and squeezing until you felt something crunch. 

You were tapped. You had no magic left in you. You’d been going for days and days and then used an unnatural form of magic like an idiot. You were such an idiot. 

You’d never told Milo you were sorry. 

You opened your mouth to protest, to cry out, to curse this stupid fucking shade to death, but all that rose out of you was hot, copper blood. It filled in the space between your teeth, the hollow of your cheeks, slicked the underside of your tongue. You reached desperately for your core and found nothing. You were so cold, so tired, so in over your fucking head. Your dad was right. Cam was right. Collins, Jet, Milo. Everybody had been telling you for weeks; you couldn’t handle this. You weren’t equipped to take this on alone. Everybody around you had been able to see it. Everybody except for you. 

You remembered, inexplicably, the screaming matches your parents got into late at night when your mom came home banged up or wrung dry. Your dad would beg her to quit, to put her family first, to at least let other people at D.U.M.P. help her. 

“Your children are going to grow up without their mother!” He had screamed one night. You were curled in on yourself at the top of the stairs. You were so little, so frightened by the idea of it. When your mother walked up to kiss you goodnight, good morning, good-whatever-it-was-at-this-point, she found you there, panicked and hyperventilating. 

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” she had whispered into the crown of your head as she held you, “don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. Don’t let anybody tell you what you can and cannot do. If they try, just prove them wrong.” 

You’d been repeating that in your head since you were seven-years-old like a promise, like a prayer. 

And she was wrong. And now your dad was going to lose another person he loved to this stupid job, to their own stubbornness and idiocy. 

Something sparked inside of you. You needed to tell your dad that he was right. You needed to tell Dr. Collins that he didn’t deserve the shit you’d said to him. You needed to tell Jet where he could shove this deadly, meaningless job. You needed to tell Cam ‘ thank you’ for trying to help you, even as you fought him tooth and nail. 

You needed to tell Milo how sorry you were, how right he was to worry, how you’d be honored in another life to be called his mate. 

Heat pooled in your hands. You core stuttered, threads plucking an uneasy, familiar tune. 

“Mom,” you whispered, more movement than sound. Her core was always so bright, nearly tangible. You stretched out your fingers and took hold of it. Fire lit up around you, blotted out what was left of your vision. 

You’d never even heard of shades when the file slid across your desk on Monday morning. The Quinn Fox case had left you with a week’s worth of paperwork despite the nice little bow that Milo’s help had tied on it for you. The Department didn’t like the Vampire Council, and the concept of Sanguine Primero was contentious at best with Department officials. The stamped and sealed paperwork you’d been provided with was only good for telling you who was involved. You’d been forced to interview nearly every person involved, including the intimidating Talbot Pack Alpha.  

In the end, Asher, which he insisted you call him, was actually quite nice. Once you’d gotten past his intense demeanor, he had a quiet sense of humor that you appreciated. He’d given you the details, answered every question, and promised you statements from every pack member involved. He did sternly refuse to allow you access to them, especially the wayward wolf that had been the catalyst for all of this, Quinn’s true victim. He wouldn’t even give you their name, just an acknowledgement of how difficult he knew that would make your report. That famous wolf possessiveness on display.  

Just as Talbot- as Asher- promised, the statements were delivered to your work email by end of business that day, including an anonymous one from Fox’s victim. You’d filed them dutifully, along with Milo’s and a heavily edited one from his clan-mate Porter.  

All of that had taken the wind out of you surrounding the case. You’d almost been naive enough to believe that you’d get to take in a wanted criminal on your first case, adding a bit of clout behind your title.  

You were the least impressive member of your class, at least by your instructor’s standards. Being a stealth was useful as an investigator, but not when apprehending suspects, not in a physical test, not when trying to show off to your new captain just how useful you could be. The Department was a good old-fashioned boys’ club. Sons of enforcers and investigators crowded your academy class, and their attitudes surrounding your size and power and physical ability clouded their judgment about you. It didn’t matter that you were the strongest stealth in your family in generations, that you could phase cloak for nearly an hour, that you could run mental circles around most of those assholes in a second. Your power wasn’t one they could see or be intimidated by, so it simply didn’t exist.  

So they gave you shit like Quinn Fox, shit that would either get you killed or leave you with nothing impressive to show for your work. All while your peers hauled in suspects and bagged cases left and right.  

If you weren’t so stubborn, you’d have left this stupid fucking job the night Milo talked you down from a goddam panic attack in the middle of an investigation. If you weren’t so determined to prove everyone around you wrong, you’d have taken him up on his sugar-baby adjacent offer and live off of vampire money while receiving the best fucks of your life. 

When you told your father that you were going to be an investigator, his face had twisted into something like pity. You couldn’t stop until you replaced that with sheepish guilt and impress.  

Of course, you weren’t going to do it with this case. Shades, as far as you could tell, were a fairy tale. The Department resources on them were nearly nonexistent. You’d found a few reported sightings of the ghost-like things, but the only real answers you’d gotten were from Cam.  

Camelopardalis was your favorite coworker. You rarely crossed paths in actual work, but your break rooms were adjacent to each other, and he was the only person who smiled at you unprompted on your first day. You drank coffee together in the morning, you complained quietly about the assholes in each of your departments, and you shared lunch on a bench in the large, green courtyard outside of your building every day.  

Cam didn’t strictly need to eat, but he liked what you cooked. You went from cooking for one to two, making sure there were enough leftovers to feed you both the next day. Over re-warmed shredded beef tacos, Cam recalled everything he knew about Shades.  

“They come from Death,” he had explained, the word taking on the sort of capitalization that important places got, “and they’re very dangerous to humans. We don’t know much about them, just what they do. There’s only been a few confirmed cases of them in human history.”  

“What do they do?”  

“They’re not living things.” He said. His star-dotted eyes looked up, considering the clouds like they had answers for him. “They’re incorporeal when they first slip into Elegy- Terra-” he corrected. Some humans didn’t like it when demons used their names for things. He must have learned to edit what he was saying as he spoke. “-and they need the life force of humans to gain a physical form. Usually that means draining it from unknowing victims. Most of them are drawn to heavily populated areas, feeding a bit from a lot of people. Once they’ve gotten enough life force, they gain physical form, they often become violent. They have claws that are particularly deadly.”  

“Are they... ghosts?”  

“We don’t know.” Cam shrugged, tucking a corkscrew curl behind his tall horns.  

“How do they get here?”  

“We think they slip through the cracks of demon’s rifts.” He sighed. “Of course, it’s impossible for us to rift directly to Death. It’s a sort of... cosmic glitch. Sometimes the rifts get crossed over the wrong dimension, and that’s how we assume they find their way here.”  

“It must be confusing for them.” You said. Cam cocked his head. “I just mean... if they are ghosts, and they’ve spent forever in Death, and then suddenly find their way here... I don’t know, it’s like when you back an animal into a corner. They must be pretty freaked out.”  

Cam smiled at you before waving a hand. With a flourish of his pretty, turquoise magic, the Tupperware you’d brought from home was gone. When you got home, it would all be washed and put away in your cabinet.  

“You have such an interesting perspective.” He grinned, standing and offering you a hand. “You always see the best in everything.”  

You certainly didn’t think so charitably about the shade when you faced it for the first time. It was a ghastly thing. Barely visible, it looked like a skeleton wrapped in thin, black smoke. It’s mouth opened into a horrible, gaping maw. You could smell the decay on it, even from your distance.  

You had backed it into an alley, a secluded corner just off Dahlia’s nightclub district. It had been feeding on college students, drunk kids who couldn’t see straight enough to know to run. You knew to run, but instead of away from it, you’d chased it. God, you were an idiot. When most people ran away, you ran to.  

Your magic was useless against it. It hadn’t taken physical form. Your fists passed right through it when you tried to fight it off. It framed your throat with two boney hands, drew your face towards its own, like it was going to kiss you. Instead, it sucked the life out of you.  

You came to cold, shivering on the damp ground of that alley. Nobody had seen you, or at least, nobody had stopped to help. The shade was gone.  

Making your way home was more difficult than you had thought it would be. Your phone was dead, so no Uber, no call to the Department, no call to Cam since you were truly desperate. The nausea was overwhelming, and your knees were weak. You remembered, giddily, Milo’s comment about not locking them in stressful situations. It only did you so much good, and you had to stop at every bench and a few curbs to not keel over.  

Somehow, you managed the three mile walk and the two flights of stairs up to your apartment. You barely made it to your bathroom before you emptied your stomach of the day’s contents, your vision swimming and body finally giving out on you. By the time you’d dry heaved your throat to shreds and your stomach finally settled, you were shaking all over, broken out into a cold sweat. This felt like a particularly brutal flu, the memory of stomach bugs lingering in the back of your head.  

“I want my mom,” you whispered to no one, your head pressed into the cool white tile floor. That childish instinct reared its head like it did every time you were ill. You wanted someone to brush their fingers through your hair, press a cold cloth to the back of your neck, make you soup and nag you about getting plenty of fluids.  

Eventually, you dragged yourself off of the bathroom floor. You stripped out of your sweat-soaked clothes and crawled under the covers of your bed. You fumbled with your phone charger, your hands shaking, and waited with drooping eyelids as it came back to life.  

You didn’t know why you called him of all people. You had plenty of others who you should have called first. Your supervisor, for one, who would need a report of your injury. Your father was twenty minutes away and would have been there in a heartbeat, with his sorry glances and muttered admonishments about this job being a bad fit. Your older brother and younger sister both lived a handful of blocks away, but there wasn’t a caring bone shared between them.  

“Is this the kind of three A.M. call I’ve been waiting for, Sweets, or-”  

He must have heard your ragged breathing, because he stopped mid-flirt, his tone faltering. Milo’s flirty facade was always sort of amusing to you. It was so clearly an act, a cover for the insecurity or angst or whatever he was trying to keep down. Sometimes, especially when you required some sort of care, it fell away without him even noticing, and you were left to stare at the naked truth of him.  

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, his voice jumping a few pitches in concern. You smiled absently at that.  

“I-” your voice was wrecked, ruined by strain. You cleared it a few times, trying to sound a bit more presentable. “Nothing.” You lied. Milo would know, but you didn’t have the energy to explain. “The flu.”  

“Uh-huh.” Milo replied. He went silent.  

He wasn’t your fucking boyfriend. You weren’t in a relationship. He was a fuck buddy at best. You wouldn’t even go so far as to call him a friend with benefits. He wasn’t your friend.  

“I just-“ you repressed the urge to cough. “I won’t be there. Tomorrow night. Because of the flu.”  

“Are you-“ Milo seemed on the verge of asking you something dangerous like ‘are you okay,’ which would take this fun, casual thing you had going on and add feelings to it, something neither of you wanted. “Right.” He finally settled; his voice still suspicious. “I guess um… just let me know. When you’re better. Or if you need… soup. Or anything.”  

“Soup.” You repeated.  

“Fuck off.” Milo growled. “I haven’t been human in years, remember? I don’t know what sick people need.”  

“I don’t need anything.” You said quickly, defensively. “I’ll… text you next time. I don’t know why I called.”  

“It’s okay,” Milo said, “I don’t mind a call.”  

“Right.” You said. “I‘ll call you in a few days. When I’m better.”  

“Okay.” You could hear him deflate, his tone settling back in that façade. “I’ll see you soon, Sweetness.”