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wildfire (burnt out)

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He grips your thighs, lifting you up - and you, you feel higher than you’ve ever known. It’s like this each time he touches you, flowers blooming inside of a rib cage cased by carbon fiber and metal, held together by hands that touch you like they could never stop. When he touches you, you feel like you’re dying.

You would know the feeling.

But when he kisses you, the burning in your throat stops. The vines that had been restricting your airflow from the very beginning leave you two alone.

To be alone with him is the best you can ever be.

Your back hits the mattress in your shared quarters. There are pieces of the both of you everywhere, mixed together as you had always longed to be back then. When it is bad, the worst it can be, you think of how he could have let you leave him forever - that Post-Recall, he could have decided not to forgive you. You could burn for an entirely different reason, could not feel the way his palm sears into your exposed flesh, creating trails of molten lava as he whispers: We’re gonna get you outta this, darlin’.

You trust him completely as he strips you from your armor, to the damaged skin and body that he has called beautiful so many times. You feel lightheaded when his lips kiss low on your stomach. You love him so much, and he loves you; there is no way this could ever be in doubt.

You gasp, and he chuckles - holding onto you like he is ensuring you can never leave. Not that you would, not again. The you of the past is not something that is often revisited, though you are not ashamed. He fell in love with you when you were a wildfire, when getting too close could have burned him. You suppose that - ultimately - it did, as you left him in the night without a word. You loved him, and you left him.

Sometimes, that is the way things go.

When you came back, you were no longer a wildfire, but seeing him ignited a flame in your chest all the same. The moment he stepped off that transport you wanted to hold him, to be held by him. It was something of a given that you would always keep a place in your heart for him. You are grateful every day that he had done the same, that he had cupped your chin in one hand - tilting your head up to look at him mere days later. He had not waited long to seek you out, had not waited for you to apologize for your exeunt. He had asked if he could kiss you. You said yes.

And now, he is here. You returned the night before, have eaten your fill for the morning, and he is looking up at you from his position between your legs like you are all he has ever desired. Perhaps you were made for one another. It seems silly to think that something so trivial, so manufactured could be true. But nothing else explains the way your heart slams in your ribcage, the way you swallow - harshly - as he kisses back up your chest. When his lips meet yours, it is an epiphany. You don’t believe in anything, not really, but you think that when he kisses you, you see the heavens.

You’ve been passed the stars, only to slam back into your own body as his hand roams downward. Your gasp is audible, and he tells you that it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. And oh - you think he’s lying, know he must be - but you won’t call him out on it, letting yourself believe that he can love you, always. That he can always love you like this.

He tells you that he will as he takes you apart, and each time it happens, you believe him more and more. There’s an image you have - of the two of you together years from now, grey hair touching your temple and he, immortal in dark brown shades and cowboy boots and spurs for an eternity. He kisses the place the grey shades into your hair and hums. He says: Told you I was always gonna be loving on ya. You laugh, and you hope this is true.

When it is all over, and you have touched him in the ways he likes - that you are intimately familiar with after years of loving this man - he collapses, holding onto you like he means to never let go. And you make this comparison because he says as much, that he will never release you. If you are being honest with yourself, you don’t want him to.

You think back to your first meeting as he dozes off, your head atop his shoulder - his arm around your waist. You think back to when he had called you endearments immediately, and you had thought him to be mocking you. Later, he would tell you he had never believed in love at first sight till he’d met you, seen the wildfire burning and known that he wanted to be the one to hold it. He said: I’d never try to tame ya, sugar. And you had cried, broken into your pillow that night. You had fallen in love with an idiot. He had continued to get close to you, to break down the wall you had built of carbon fire and mesh and hatred. And you had fallen in love with him.

Hours later, when the both of you wake up from your nap, he turns his head to smile at you. You say this each time he does, each time you wake up and find him looking at you - that you have never felt more complete. You don’t need him for your survival, but having him around makes existence so much better than before.

He whispers, reverently - your name like a prayer: I love ya, Genji.

And you, you feel higher than you’ve ever known.