#Eyes that reflect the world around them like the mirror they’re so afraid of

[nadvs]

home before dark (part one)

pairing rafe cameron x kook! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary as children, you and rafe were best friends, but then tragedy suddenly struck his family and he shut everybody out. years later, you need his help when a pushy ex-boyfriend won’t leave you alone. rafe is perfect for the job because everybody’s afraid of him. except for you.

content warnings stalker ex, violence, eventual smut, substance abuse, death and mourning of parent

» masterlist

· · ── ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ── · ·

You’ve been looking at your reflection for five minutes now, eyes rimmed red from crying. Muffled, bass-heavy music is echoing from the front of the house.

You’ll do anything to delay going back out there. Even if it means standing still in the bathroom, trying and failing to stop tears.

Parties at Tannyhill always bring in massive crowds, yet your ex-boyfriend still managed to find you in the sea of people. You slipped away and have been hiding since, the anxiety of seeing him again crushing you.

Thankfully, you know your way around the estate. It was once like your second home.

As an only child, you latched onto the Cameron siblings the second you met them. You had just moved to Kildare, your dad having been an old college friend of Ward’s.

You practically grew up with them. You’re still close with Sarah. And even though Wheezie was only four when they lost their mother, she seems to find comfort in you always being around.

But your once best friend, who you’re merely weeks apart from in age, was transformed by the grief. Rafe is a stranger now. And you can tell that he loathes being around you.

When the door is roughly pushed open, the knob slamming against the wall, your heart lurches, overtaken by the sharp fear that Ty has found you.

But it’s Rafe, his hair hanging over his forehead and his nose dripping with blood, shattering your solitude.

He meets your eyes for just a second and looks away as soon as he sees it’s you. Like always. He never makes eye contact with you for very long.

“You’re bleeding,” you say quietly.

“No shit,” he mutters.

He barges past you to the sink, spitting crimson blood onto the porcelain. He’s hunched over the counter, panting, pissed off that you’re still standing there. Still lingering.

You’re always around. A constant reminder.

“Do you need help?” you ask, but you step back, your actions mismatching your words. You put distance between you for his comfort. Not yours.

“No.” His head is in splitting pain. He hasn’t accepted help in years and he’s not starting now.

This is how your conversations with him always go. You extend an olive branch. He snaps it in half.

You were both ten years old when the sweet boy you knew started hating the world and everyone in it. You had a front row seat to the tragedy that broke Rafe Cameron, a mama’s boy who suddenly lost the person he loved most.

But no matter what he does or says to you, you can’t hate Rafe back. After the accident that took his mother’s life, the compassion you harbor for him won’t let you.

While you definitely don’t like the person he’s become, a man so cold and aggressive, you couldn’t hate him if you tried.

You look at your reflections, side by side. You were once kids playing on the beach together, but in the mirror stands a bloodied cokehead next to a tearful mess, living in another summer of seeing each other everywhere and never speaking.

If it were up to you, it wouldn’t be like this. You’d still be friends. But he has his group of buddies who he drinks and smokes with and to him, they’re enough and you’re not.

Rafe looks up from his contorted position, the water rushing out of the faucet loudly. Frustration rises in him when he sees your silhouette in the mirror. He focuses on the edge of the sink, refusing to meet your eyes.

“You’re still here?” he snaps.

You’re used to the disheartening sight of a high and injured Rafe. He snorts lines and brawls at almost every party. Everyone calls him a psycho behind his back.

You want to ask what happened, but you know he’ll brush you off like he always does. You leave the room, determined to escape the party and go home. It’s past midnight anyway.

You’re nearly out the front door when frigid fingers wrap around your forearm. Your blood runs cold as you twist to see Ty, his eyes fixed on you.

“Did you block me?” he asks, the smile that once charmed you now making you sick. You look around at the crowds of partygoers as if someone can save you.

He’s still refusing to accept that you broke up with him a week ago. It was annoying at first. But now, it’s scary. He won’t leave you alone.

He texted you so many times over the last few days, going back and forth between calling you a waste of time and apologizing and begging to see you, that you had to block him.

After a few months together, you realized he wasn’t as nice of a person as he liked to pretend to be. Slowly, who he really is seeped in, unveiling a cruel and controlling brute.

“Of course I did,” you say. “I told you to stop texting me. I’m not your girlfriend anymore.”

“You’re not thinking straight,” Ty scoffs. “It can’t just be over.”

“Yes, it can,” you say, straining out of his grip. You had told him over and over that if he wasn’t going to stop disrespecting you, you’d leave. He kept apologizing, saying every outburst was a one-time thing, just to put you through the same pain again.

“Are you going home?” he asks.

You wish he didn’t know that your parents are on a business trip and will be gone for the next couple of weeks. Regrettably, he’s aware you’ll be sleeping in an empty house for the next while.

“No,” you lie.

“Then let’s get a drink and talk about this,” he says sternly. “Unless you’re with some other guy now and that’s why you tried to break up with me?”

Could that be the only way he’ll leave you alone? You try not to shrink under his gaze, a heartless, eerie abyss. The fact that he says you tried to break up with him tells you he still isn’t accepting that the relationship is over.

“I broke up with you because you treated me like shit,” you say. Your heartbeat is loud and your breaths are shallow and in a split second, you decide to lie as an act of survival. “But yeah, I am with someone else now.”

Rafe turns off the faucet, heart racing from the coke and the adrenaline of winning a fight. It all started because some guy looked at him wrong. That was enough for Rafe to start swinging.

Admittedly, letting out his aggression is a thrill. It’s his comfort zone. When he surrounds himself with chaos, it distracts him from the voices howling in his mind.

Life is nothing but a sick game of tag, and he’s been running away from reality and towards disorder for years.

Rafe’s nose is still throbbing from the only punch the other guy managed to get in when he heads back into the throws of the party.

He’s filling up a solo cup in the dining room when your eyes meet his. He can’t look away this time. You’re rushing towards him, fear written into your features.

Once you hastily close the distance, leaving mere inches between you, Rafe can see you’ve been crying.

“Hey,” you say over the music, overwhelmingly grateful that you finally found him after frantically rippling through the crowds. “Can you help me? Please?”

Maybe it’s because of the desperation in your glossy eyes. Or because you both once knew how to make the other feel better. Or because you chose him to help, when he’s used to never being chosen by anyone for anything. But he decides to hear you out.

“What?” he mutters, hollow blue eyes searching your face. Rafe’s brooding, all cleaned up now, the blood wiped away.

You look over your shoulder, your chest rising and falling at full tilt, then face him again.

“My ex is following me,” you say. “Can you pretend to be my boyfriend?”

“What?” Rafe’s mouth is twined in irritation. Of all the guys to use to make your ex jealous, you pick him?

“Rafe, please,” you say hurriedly.

You turn to see Ty, his eyebrows raised in clear surprise. After you talked to him by the front door, you rushed away, feeling his looming presence trailing after you.

You face your ex, standing beside Rafe with your hand curling around his hard bicep, finding unexpected relief in holding him. It’s jarring touching him after years of distance.

Rafe can’t remember the last time he was touched like this. It’s like a reprieve from the rush he’s always in, slowing him down.

Ty shoves his way through groups of people, his face carved with anger.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he shouts over the music, eyes darting between you two. Rafe recognizes him. He’s seen you together at parties and the country club. This guy is just another Kook who gets shit-faced every chance he gets.

“Leave me alone, Ty,” you say.

“You’re with him?” he mutters with a laugh.

“Yeah, I am,” you say, tone shaky, praying Rafe plays along. He catches the brittle waver in your words.

“You can’t be serious,” Ty says. “That was fast.”

He steps forward and you find yourself cowering behind Rafe, who instinctually straightens up.

When Rafe realizes your hand is trembling, something in him twists. You’re not trying to make this guy jealous. You’re afraid of him.

Even after the years of hostility between you, somehow, you uncover a soft spot that Rafe didn’t know he had. He hates that this asshole is scaring you.

“Get out,” Rafe says to your ex, his deep voice sending relief through you.

Ty’s eyes dart to Rafe before his gaze is on you again.

“Really?” he ridicules you. “The guy you always call a psycho?”

Rafe’s arm flexes beneath your hand.

It’s a lie. People talk shit about Rafe, but you have never uttered a bad word about him to anyone.

“I never said that,” you retaliate.

“Just come outside so we can talk,” Ty says, his voice dripping with anger.

“Whose fucking house do you think this is, bitch?” Rafe shouts, roughly shoving Ty’s shoulder. “I told you to get out.”

You see fear on your ex’s face for the first time in your life. Your instincts were right to push you to run to Rafe. Everyone’s afraid of him.

“Chill,” Ty says with a forced smile, palms up in surrender. You’re sure he’s thinking of all the brawls he’s witnessed at these parties. Rafe might get roughed up, but he hardly ever loses a fight.

“Go,” Rafe sneers.

“I - I am,” Ty stammers. He meets your gaze one last time before he flees, his lips thinning in anger. Dread surges through you. You can tell you’re not rid of him.

Awkward tension settles between you and Rafe. He turns to look down at you, eyes flitting to your hand still on his arm. You let go.

Of the entire fervid exchange, what blares in your mind the loudest is Ty’s lie.

“I never said that about you,” you say.

Rafe scoffs. He figures it’s better to be feared, to be seen as a psycho, instead of the loser he knows he is.

“I don’t give a shit,” Rafe mutters, although, for whatever reason, he feels a piece of him caring what you think about him. He shifts to continue filling his cup with beer, pissed off and disoriented.

“He lied,” you tell him, stepping to the side to meet Rafe’s eyes again. You need him to know.

“Got it,” he says carelessly. He dips his head back as he downs his drink.

“Listen, I’m sorry to drag you into this, okay?” you say. “I don’t know what to do. He won’t leave me alone.”

He stills. Talking to you is hard. The fact that you’re still kind to him makes it harder.

But you’re so clearly terrified. Maybe he owes this to you. Everyone else wrote him off, but you, for whatever reason, still treat him with a gentleness he knows he doesn’t deserve.

“If he bothers you again…” Rafe says. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but you don’t need him to. This is his way of telling you he’ll protect you.

You stare at his hardened features. You always felt like you grew up with Rafe from a distance. You know him in snapshots.

The ten-year-old who made small footprints next to yours in the sand. The seventh grader who got into so many fights that rumors of expulsion circulated around school. The high schooler who didn’t care to hide that he was doing lines at every party.

And now, he’s the man towering over you, drugged up, throwing punches every chance he gets, agreeing to pretend to be your boyfriend.

The fact that he’s willing to put on this charade for your safety makes you think that maybe there is a soft part of Rafe left somewhere deep inside. A part of the boy he once was.

“Thank you,” you say. You’re sure he won’t want to carry on the conversation, so you step away before he takes back his offer.

You find Sarah and ask if you can crash in her room tonight, knowing she’ll say yes. The thought of going to your empty house is too daunting.

The next morning, you’re sitting in the large kitchen of the Camerons’ estate, wearing last night’s clothes. You stare out the window, wishing your anxiety didn’t keep you awake last night.

You slept a couple of broken hours next to Sarah, thoughts of your ex and what he might be capable of rushing through your mind.

You’re not sure what to do next. In a normal world, you’d spend your summer partying and having fun with friends and enjoying your lack of a schedule. But things aren’t normal right now.

You’re desperate to shower and get into clean clothes and simply exist in the comfort of your home.

When Rafe sees you sitting in the kitchen, sunlight spilling over the planes of your face, he does something he never saw himself doing again. He approaches you, instead of running away.

Footsteps pull you out of your daze. You meet Rafe’s tired eyes. He doesn’t look away this time and it makes hope bloom in your chest.

He settles on the other side of the table, across from you, tensely raking his hair back. He doesn’t say anything, words trapped in his throat.

“You’re up early,” you say to break the silence.

Last night was one of many sleepovers you’ve had here. Even though you and Rafe don’t speak much, you’ve puttered around the house enough to have noticed his habits, one of them being that he typically wakes up well into the afternoon the day after a party.

But Rafe wants to cut through the bullshit of small talk. He can’t get how scared you looked last night out of his head. And he won’t admit that it’s the reason he wasn’t able to fall back asleep when the brightness of the sun woke him up this morning.

“Did he ever put his hands on you?” he finally asks, voice low. He braces himself for the answer. He doesn’t know how he’ll take it if you were getting hurt while he was always close by, ignoring you.

“No,” you say. The thought sends a chill through you. “He got… mean. And controlling. Or I guess he was always like that, but he hid it at the beginning. Maybe he would’ve eventually started hurting me. I don’t know.”

Rafe clenches his fist beneath the table. It may be hypocritical to be so angry at another man for being cruel to you when all he’s done for years is end every conversation you’ve tried to start with him. But Rafe has never claimed to reasonable.

“And he won’t leave you alone?” he recalls.

You shake your head no. Silence nestles between you, but this time, it doesn’t feel as uncomfortable.

Rafe’s eyes finds yours again, a shade of blue you can’t forget no matter how many times he’s averted his gaze.

“You scared of him?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you admit. The way your voice weakens puts Rafe even more on edge.

“You don’t have to be anymore,” he says. You exhale slowly, enveloped by a sense of security that you haven’t felt in a long time.

“He looked afraid last night,” you tell him. “When you pushed him, I mean. I’ve never seen him look like that.”

At least his anger was put to good use, Rafe thinks. It was actually worth something for once.

“Give me your phone,” he says.

You obey and watch him add himself into your contacts, a harsh reminder of the lack of a presence you have in his life. You don’t even have each other’s numbers. He texts himself your name.

“Call me if he bothers you,” he says. His promise to watch out for you is like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, comforting you.

“Okay. Thank you.”

You realize this is the longest conversation you’ve held with him since before his mother passed. The day you heard the news, you came to this very house to offer your condolences.

You had knocked on Rafe’s closed bedroom door, telling him it was you and not his father, who you’d only seen be cruel to his eldest child.

Through the door, you promised him you’d do whatever he wanted. Cry together. Go down by the water. Talk. Or even just sit in silence. But all a ten-year-old Rafe offered you was a tearful go away, followed by years of avoiding you and brushing you off.

He hands back your phone and stands, walking away from you.

“Rafe?”

He turns to face you again, his hand on the kitchen counter.

“Could you follow me home?” you ask. “My parents are away and he knows it and… I just want to be sure he’s not waiting for me there.”

Rafe nods. You give him a grateful smile. He can’t return it.

Minutes later, his motorcycle roars as he tails your car down the street. Your house is only two blocks away from his. He couldn’t forget the way if he tried.

He visited your home with his family a few times as a kid, but most of your friendship was spent on the private beach behind his house, running around in the sand, your childish laughs tangling together in the salty air.

You used to bike to his house almost every summer day. He’d meet you by your gate, smiling so big his cheeks hurt, racing on your bikes to his house together. He would accompany you on the way back home, too, always making sure you got home before dark.

He realizes he always felt like he needed to watch out for you, even when he was just a scrawny ten-year-old.

Over the school year, you spent every recess together. Kids used to tease you about liking each other and he loved that you didn’t care because it made him feel like maybe you had a crush on him, too.

You two were inseparable. Until you weren’t.

Rafe tries not to think about it. This is exactly why he shut you out. You remind him too much of the last time he was happy. Before life became unbearable and before he was left with the parent who doesn’t love him.

Thinking about those days feels like trying to fall back asleep into a good dream, all while knowing he’ll plummet into a nightmare.

You pull into your driveway after getting through the remote-powered gate, parking right in front of the door. Rafe parks behind you, killing the engine and taking his helmet off.

He watches you step out of your car. You shield your eyes with your hand as you look at him, perched on his motorcycle in the bright morning sun, his helmet in his hands.

“I didn’t see his car on the street,” you say. “But I’m gonna make sure that the security system is armed.”

Rafe follows, stopping a few feet away from you as you unlock the door, on edge and ready to strike if he needs to.

You’re relieved to hear the familiar beeping that confirms the system is active and wasn’t triggered since the last time you were home. Rafe watches you disappear into the house to punch the code in.

“All good,” you say when you step back out through the front door. You face him as he stands on your doorstep, your chin tipped up to gaze at him.

“You said your parents aren’t here?” he asks. He’s frustrated that you’re alone.

“Away for work,” you say with a defeated shrug. You wish you’d broken up with Ty sooner so they’d be close by during all this stress. “Some things never change.”

Rafe looks down and nods. He remembers how often your parents travelled, leaving you with his family or babysitters while they were away.

Birds chirp in the warm air surrounding you. You stare at Rafe now that you have the opportunity to, up close. There are some freckles and beauty spots you remember. Some that you don’t.

He’s strikingly handsome and you wonder if he knows it. If anyone has ever told him.

“Alright,” Rafe says, stepping back, his way of saying goodbye. He doesn’t look at you again as he paces away.

His mother used to have to call you both into the house multiple times to eat lunch when you’d play on the beach together. You’d have so much fun that you didn’t want to do anything to interrupt it.

But these days, Rafe can hardly wait to get away from you. And even though it’s comforting having him watching out for you, having a string tying you to him again, you wish his coldness didn’t still hurt as much as it does.

(part two)

author’s note thank you to @rafedaddy01 for this idea @diorjadore for this idea!!! ILYSM!!!

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[shylyobscene]

I wonder what would happen if an someone had six rocket raccoon boyfriends?

GREAT question.

First of all, I think this would create the most toxic polycule in the world. I have no idea how you managed to acquire six Rockets and found yourself in a situation where you’re dating all of them at the same time, but expect a lot of infighting.

Rocket really isn’t the type to share. He had to fight tooth and nail for most of the things in this world that he calls his own, and that includes you; it makes him a little possessive of his relationship with you, although he knows he can’t really blame anyone for being drawn to the sweet little thing hanging onto his arm when he’s with you…but now he’s gonna have to compete with flarkin’ five of himself?

Anticipate a lot of jealousy as they all strive for your attention. If Rocket was already prone to monopolizing your time before this, expect that attention to increase twofold now that he senses competition—even if the competition is technically himself. The result is a lot of PDA. There will never not be a possessive hand over the small of your back, or an arm wrapped around your thigh—his way of softly letting the others know you’re his. Even though they’re technically all him.

The Rockets will also likely not get along. It was hard enough to convince himself that he even deserves you in the first place, and now there are five more of him that think they have some sort of right to you? Please.

This is one of the moments where I wish I had more knowledge of the different comics-Rockets and eidos-Rocket, but from what I’ve gleaned they all have varying senses of self-worth and are all insecure about slightly different things—and this will absolutely be a point of tension. I think it would really grate on MCU Rocket to come across a version of himself who is just…happy with how he looks. With what he is. Who is more confident in his affection with you, and isn’t afraid to show you off.

He’s essentially getting a mirror reflected at him that shows him everything he could be, but isn’t. He’s seeing versions of him that, in some ways, are better. Happier. Hell, some of them are nearly a frickin’ foot taller—but he’s not going to let that jeopardize what he’s got going on with you. You’re too good to lose.

(Slight NSFW under the read more)

All of the Rockets would likely get increasingly handsy, and they were already really frickin’ handsy in the first place. But they have to prove a point, you know.

They’d probably play dirty and try to mark you to visually lay claim—if you were okay with it, of course. But if you do say you’re okay with it, well…good luck. Expect to be covered in hickeys and bites and bruises in very visible places. Mostly your neck, and your arms. He’ll still make sure to leave a few in his favorite spots though, like high up on your thigh, or your hip, or your tits—what can he say, he’s a guy who likes to keep things balanced. No one in the Bowie is able to look you in the eye for at least a cycle once they start doing this.

There would also be an unspoken competition over who can get you to scream the loudest, and come the most amount of times in quick succession. Rocket prides himself in being a very consummate lover—this is a trait that is consistent throughout all renditions of him. So…expect to have your hands full. And your mouth full. And your cunt full.

And I know that this is what you really wanted to know: yes, you could absolutely convince them to have sex with you all at the same time. This is one of the few moments where all six Rockets are able to put their differences aside and work together for the greater good. Just don’t expect to be going anywhere for a while.

[carnalhaus]

american tradition: forge of the cyclops

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It was rare that Sledge ever knew what he was crying about. He kept a mental checklist when he was sober enough. Enid’s red hair was growing back in. The cat rubbed on his leg. He realized he didn’t know how to braid. Now is one of those rare times where his pupils are the size they’re supposed to be, not too big or too small. Praline made a habit of checking. Speaking of which, there she was. 

The two of them are on the floor of the kitchen. That’s to say, the kitchenette of the single-wide trailer they holed up in after the previous owner died. They shouldn’t have made a habit of it, but they did. Finding obituaries is getting pretty easy nowadays, thanks to the internet. The overhead light flickers, but they’re lucky the lights are still on in this place at all. They’re all very lucky people, because Sledge is lucky his crying isn’t waking up the whole damn house. 

This time, he’s crying about guilt. He makes sure to catalogue that while he cries. That ugly thing that eats at his heart once a month, whenever the lights turn low and the girls count sheep. Truth be told, he’s the only one who thinks about those years anymore. Praline is always too busy asking what’s for dinner, and Enid only cares about sneaking the smokes from his jean pockets. They whine and laugh just like they always did, kicking the back of his seat in the car and flinging food at him while Stat goes to grab another beer. The world has moved on without him, and he’s still there, bowing and scraping in the mud for forgiveness. 

Most people say you should feel guilty for the rest of your life. Some people say it’s more selfish to keep groveling after you’re already forgiven.

Maso-fucking-chistic. 

Sledge is doing some stupid babbling like usual when he cries. Same old wash and rinse of ‘I love you and I’m sorry’ that went on for an hour at a time every full moon. Praline was never very savvy on human connection, so her face is contorted into an angry frown, the closest thing to sadness and concern she can muster. She looks pissed, even through the blur of his tears. The dull acrylics digging into his shoulders aren’t helping much. 

She presses her forehead to his, clumsy and rough like she’s trying to give him a concussion, and through his tears she’s now a cyclops. Two eyes fashioned into one big watery mirror. He can barely see his reflection, the curve of his sunken cheekbones blacked out in ink. The untamed hair on the nape of his neck is tangled in her fist, holding him there like she’s got a handle on some mustang’s mane. And just like one, he’s wild and afraid. Whale-eyed. 

“I am the only thing you care about,” she says it like a mantra, and in a way it’s true. “So quit it. Quit killing yourself because you think I should be doing it for you. You are so self-fucking-righteous.” 

It feels like she’s talking him off a ledge. He knows better than anyone else that a curse from her mouth is a beg and a plead. Gone and did it again, he did. Spooked so bad she’s trying to tug on his lead rope and control his head. That’s all she knows how to do. Control, control, control. Praline’s scared, even if she wont admit it. She’s holding her breath.

His hand can’t reach her neck to feel her pulse and he’s not sure he wants it to. He doesn’t want to risk scraping her collarbone or her shoulder, those were the worst parts. The ones he had the worst memories of having to hold so hard he thought they’d crumble. So he reaches up to feel it on her wrist, wrapping around the bones and feeling over the veins. Touching her feels too similar to pulling apart a warm rotisserie chicken. Really, it does. Bones and all. That’s why he always hated it, ever since he met her. He has to hold back some bile.

“Screw your head back on,” she says. It’s through her teeth, eyes wide, and her head presses harder into his. Sledge is gonna have a headache later, whether it’s from all the crying or Praline trying to give him the iron claw. He can’t blame her. He’s being fucking annoying and being rough is all she knows. He counts the beats from her radial artery, blood rushing in his ears to drown everything else out. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, zero, zero, nine, nine, zero, nine, nine, zero, nine, nine.

“I’m screwed,” he finally chokes out. Dumb, but he says it, and he finally gasps in a shaky breath. For a second, she doesn’t believe him. Nobody really would. But that pressure eases off his cranium and her claws snake out of his hair. He’s breathing alright, a little hiccup here and there, but it usually doesn’t get any better than that anyway. Praline sits back on her knees, and Sledge stays hunched over with awkward limbs like some marionette. Feels like he just got punched in the nose, pain radiating from his forehead down to his eye sockets. 

It’s only now that he sees the flakes of mascara under her eyes, the kind that said it was waterproof on the package when she picked it up. No longer a cyclops, just some girl sitting with him on the linoleum. She’s got her Betty Boop pajama pants on, seam busted at the thigh, inseams too short on her ankles, and it makes him wanna cry even harder seeing her look like such a kid. Sledge keeps a loose hand on her wrist and she lets him, holding her arm out like she’s waiting for an IV. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, zero, zero, nine, nine, zero, nine, nine, zero, nine, nine. 

“Don’t do that no more,” and her voice is a little more wobbly this time when she speaks to him. “I hate when you do that, when you go and cry. I don’t know what to do, Sledge.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” is the first thing that tumbles out of his mouth in a while, instinctual and pathetic. Sounded like the little bleat of a lamb, it did. Praline doesn’t like that answer, so her eyes harden up and she cocks her head into his line of vision. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” she repeats. The way she throws his words back in his face is probably the nicest slap she’ll ever give him, and it makes him choke out a little sob. “But you’re still here anyway, cause you don’t know when to fuckin’ quit, n’ maybe I don’t either.”

They go quiet after that. Not much else to say, and neither of them were ever very book smart. Lini got held back cause she couldn’t read a damn thing when she was real little. A few sniffles fill the prolonged silence, and he’s not sure how much time passes. Praline’s dull nails run over his forearm. Not gentle, not soothing, just tracing over the sharp curves of his tattoo like a toddler cutting with safety scissors. Bored and unpracticed. The time for being sentimental has passed. She scrunches up her nose and tugs at a few blonde arm hairs, and Sledge thinks it’s the Cain instinct when he wants to hit her in the jaw. Eventually he settles for smacking her hand away, and she does the same damn thing. Couple of idiots they were, always acting like they grew up in a chicken coop together. 

“Ice cream?” Is all Praline says. Sledge has to blink at her like an idiot a few times before it clicks in his brain. That’s what he always asks her about when she gets upset. Ever since her and Enid were younger, he’d always ask about some stupid ice cream when they’d cry, like it would fix everything. Maybe it did, if she’s asking now. 

They only had a half eaten pint, so she put a scoop each into two pebbled plastic cups they stole from a diner, and topped it off with some coke. A little warm still, they only popped the cans in the fridge an hour ago. Sledge took up residency on the couch and he watched her the whole time, cooing about how sweet she was and trying not cry again. He tells her she’s so fancy-schmancy making a coke float for him and she tells him to shut up cuz it’s gonna foam up if she can’t concentrate.

When she joins him on the couch, he puts his legs in her lap and she locks them in with her elbows. It’s times like these where he doesn’t feel like the oldest kid. Praline isn’t sixteen anymore. There’s no baby fat cushioning her sharp cheekbones, and she hasn’t gotten that stubborn pimple on her chin in years. But when he looks at her too long, he still sees a kid breaking her ankles in her mom’s clubbing heels.  Clumsy and unpracticed, like a baby deer learning how to walk. He’d seen her walk miles in those stupid shoes, though. Maybe she was getting older. 

Coke floats damn good. Not quite rootbeer, but this is how they did it in the good ol’ days. That’s what his father always said. Floats came from Philly, in his humble home state of Pennsylvania. He didn’t know what the hell his dad was talking about half the time with that Philly bullshit, cause he was from Pittsburgh. It’s dead quiet, and this is the point where he starts feeling embarrassed. How old is he now? Thirty, almost? But Praline doesn’t look twice at him. Doesn’t curl her lip or shrug him off. She’s too focused on licking the ice cream foam off her top lip. Speaking of which, she drank that thing quick. She burps and he knees her in the ribs, just enough to make her hit him on the shin. Like always, she gives him that laugh, something between a giggle and a snort. 

That bunny smile she gives him is refreshing, and it gives him the courage to crack one too. Endorphins were finally hitting, better than any heroin he tried. Usually that euphoria just ended with vomiting on her shirt. 

“Your face is gon’ get all puffed in the morning from bawling your damn eyes out,” she starts, and she’s already swinging his legs off of her lap to go scramble over to the freezer again. “Gotta ice it.”

Sledge doubts it’ll help, cause nothing she tries ever really does. But he lets her, and he can’t help but scrunch his face up and squeal a little from how cold it is. Like a girl, she says, and he tells her to stop being mean. That only does so much, cause then she drops the rest of the ice cube down the front of his shirt.

[oporayamm]

Roses and Thorns, never one without the other.[Chapter 2]

Canon and OC || Platonic love || Long lost friendship || Redemption (tentative), Angst, Acts of service, Words of affirmation || Romantic love (OC and OC) ||

TW: Slight depiction of violence (more to be added)

Summary:

All she wanted to focus on was her life, yet she can't shake off the feeling someone is watching her every move.

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It was already noon when I realized I’d completely lost track of where I was, the world around me had blurred, and all my focus had settled on the flower I was twirling between my fingers.

Purple petals. A closed rose. Its stem and leaves were so dark they almost looked black.

I turned it over slowly in my hands, my fingers brushing the smooth bumpy stem. Something about it felt... familiar. But no matter how hard I searched my memory, I couldn’t figure out why. 

Where had I seen this before?

I wanted to ask. I wanted to say something out loud. But the moment the thought crossed my mind, I felt my tongue catch against the roof of my mouth. 

It was strange. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d spoken to the outside world. When had it been? 

Why couldn’t I recall?

Before I could think about it more, a heavy thud sounded beside me.

“Hey, pom-pom, Picking random flowers again?” Leo’s voice cut through the silence like a warm breeze. He sighed as he sat down, leaving just enough space between us for comfort, familiar comfort as usual.

I nodded once and held the flower up for him to see, signing while I held the flower. [‘Someone randomly gave it to me. Said it matched my eyes.’]

Leo scoffed under his breath, shaking his head as he reached out. He took the flower carefully from my hand like he was afraid it might fall apart. He twirled it between his fingers the same way I had.

“Well, either they’re blind,” he said as he twirls the flower, “or they don’t realize your eyes are brown with a little pink in them.”

I blinked at him. Brown with pink?

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the compact mirror I always carried and flipped it open. Sure enough, he was right. Brown with the faintest hint of pink. 

I stared for a second longer. All this time, I’d just thought they were plain brown. I never noticed.

Does he really pay that much attention to me?

Leo glanced at me from the corner of his eye, then smiled a little. “Well then,” he said softly. “It still suits you.”

And before I could react, he leaned in slightly and tucked the rose into the folds of my hijab, just above my ear. His hand was careful, his touch gentle like he was making sure it wouldn’t slip.

I let him, he wouldn't do any harm anyway, 

“Something dark could complement something bright as the sun,” Leo quipped, looking entirely too proud of himself for saying that.

I gave him a flat look, then glanced at my reflection in the compact mirror again. The flower was tilted crookedly, sitting awkwardly against my hijab.

[It’s crooked.] I signed it quickly before reaching up to adjust it myself.

Leo let out an exaggerated sigh and rested his head on the table, his arms folded under him as he pouted. Like a sad puppy.

“Why can’t you pay attention to the plushies I gave you the way you do to a random flower from some stranger?” he mumbled, his lips pushing out in a full sulk.

I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped me.

[I keep them on the shelf properly. They get cuddles and kisses as much as possible. What more do they need?] My hands moved easily through the signs, and I gave him a teasing grin as I finished.

That got him. He brightened immediately, smiling so wide his cheeks bunched up toward his eyes.

“Carry them here sometimes,” he said, sitting up straighter, puffing out his chest like he was proud of the idea. “I bet the professor wouldn’t even care.”

I rolled my eyes, tapping my pen against my notebook.

[Childish.] I signed it fast, knowing he’d catch it without a problem.

“It’s free to be and yet fun!” Leo declared, the grin still plastered on his face. He sat up straighter, trying to look dignified, which only made me chuckle under my breath.

That was when I heard another soft laugh—one that didn’t belong to either of us.

My attention drifted down the lecture hall, since I was sitting at the top where I could hear the lecture better and take notes without distraction. Two rows below, I spotted them—the same girls who’d stopped Leo in the hall yesterday. They were whispering, their eyes flicking toward him as they giggled behind their hands.

At first, I thought they were just being their usual selves. Laughing about Leo. But when I glanced at him again, his expression had shifted. His usual playful smile was gone, replaced by something sharper. Irritated. Or maybe... uncomfortable.

His jaw was tense, his eyes narrowed just slightly, but enough for me to notice.

I watched him a moment, my fingers hovering over the page before they stilled. Then I turned back to my notes, tapping my pen against the table in a slow rhythm. It only took a few taps before Leo’s attention shifted back to me—quicker than I expected.

[How about you hang out with them? You know… normal people?]

My hands moved easily through the signs, the question casual enough, though I wasn’t sure if he actually felt casual about it.

The moment he read it, I saw his brow knit together, that worried crease showing up right between his eyes.

“You are normal too,” he scoffed lightly, but there was something underneath it. Defensiveness, maybe. I wasn’t sure who he was defending though—me or himself. “What are you talking about?”

I exhaled softly and clarified, [You should have more friends. Other than me, I mean.]

Another pause. [Come on, Leo. You haven’t done anything fun with anyone else in a while.]

Now it was his turn to watch me. Not just my hands—but me. His gaze was steady, focused. Sometimes I forgot how sharp his attention could be. It was like he could see past everything, right down to the root of whatever I was trying to say… or trying not to.

“You do realize I’m free to choose who I hang out with, right?” he said, tilting his head slightly. “And I hang out with you because I want too.”

There it was again—that grounded, stubborn tone of his. I sighed through my nose and signed,

[If you say so. I just worry you’ll get left behind, that’s all. You know I don’t go out often. Not with you guys, anyway.]

He shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing. “That’s alright. We’ll have our own fun. Our DnD campaign’s starting soon—new one this time. Since Luke trashed the last one.”

His expression shifted, eyes narrowing in that way they always did when he was annoyed. And to be fair, Luke had wiped out the entire party last time. We’d both ended up stuck calming Irene down after she lost her newly-leveled character and the fancy armor she’d been bragging about for weeks.

I signed quickly, [Okay, fine, fine. I’m not worried anymore. You have us, and we have you.]

I smiled a little as I did it, soft enough that I hoped he’d drop it. But Leo being Leo– 

“We?” he asked, voice going sly. The kind of sly that meant trouble. “And who’s ‘we,’ exactly?”

I gave him a flat look. He was grinning, smug as ever, waiting for me to say it out loud. Or… sign it out loud.

[Irene, Luke, and me. You’re our best friend forever.] I rolled my wrist in a circle as I finished the sign, knowing full well he wouldn’t be satisfied until I made it clear.

Sure enough, he smiled wide. That kind of genuine smile that made his whole face soften. If Leo were a dog, he’d be one of those scruffy shepherd types with brindle fur, floppy ears, and a tail that wagged every time you so much as looked his way.

I sighed again, but this time it was amused. [You’re my best friend forever, Leo.]

He nodded like he’d won something, grinning from ear to ear. Such a puppy. 

We both shifted our attention to the professor as she finally walked in. I clicked my pen once, then set it down, but from the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the rose again.

That rose.

To be fair, no one had given it to me on my way to campus.

I found it this morning.

I was about to open the window after finishing my morning prayer. My fingers had barely touched the handle when I saw it—nestled right there in the bed of dirt where my dead plants used to be. 

A single rose. 

It stood out, vibrant against the dry, lifeless soil.

I know I should’ve taken better care of my plants. It’s not like I forgot them on purpose. But… a single rose on a bed of dirt? That was a first.

And I couldn’t help but wonder—what superstition is this supposed to be?

A message? A prank? Something worse?

I checked outside, using "a morning walk" as an excuse i told Miss Katya as I ran to her this morning, 

I circled the view outside my window, but there was nothing unusual. The bushes had their usual brittle leaves, the trees were as dry and bare as ever, and nowhere could I find another flower. Let alone something like that purple rose.

It didn’t make sense.

Someone couldn’t have just left it near my window. That thought kept looping in my head. Over and over.

I tilted my head back, staring up at the building. My room was one of the top floors. Three stories up, at least.

Who would climb that high just to leave a flower on my window?

After wasting twenty minutes thinking in circles, I finally gave up and went back inside.

I had a class to get too, but I'll figure it out another day.

But for now, I kept the flower.

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When class finally ended, Leo and I made our way down the hallway toward the canteen.

I was starving. All I could think about were the cafeteria meatballs they made—perfectly soft with a sauce that was to die for. I was already daydreaming about them when I realized I forgot to ask him something.

I tugged lightly at his sleeve to get his attention, then signed,

[‘Have Irene and Luke finished their quiz?’], I tilted my head at him.

Leo let out a scoff, already smirking. “I think the quiz finished them instead.”

He pulled out his phone and held it up so I could see the group chat.

I leaned in closer. I hadn’t even checked my own phone yet. I rarely bothered holding it unless I had to.

[Drama Queen]: tell my mother i love her, my soul has left my body.

[Black Belt]: oh stop it Luke, we live to see another day. that quiz was only worth like 5% of our grade.

[Drama Queen]: then why’d you make me study with you, Irene!?

[Black Belt]: i don’t want a stupid boyfriend :)

[Drama Queen]: TT^TT

I chuckled softly, holding Leo’s phone in both hands while he kept it unlocked for me. I typed out a reply, 

[Leo]: guys, it’s hafsa. i’m using leo’s phone. we’ll see you at the cafeteria, ok? ^^

Luke was the first to reply.

[Drama Queen]: you’ll buy us food? :D asejfkdf—

[Black Belt]: hafsa, ignore that. Luke will be paying instead. we’ll meet you there!

I was still smiling when I tilted the phone to show him the chat, but before I could, Leo suddenly grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

It wasn’t rough. Just fast. His hand was warm around my arm and shoulder as he shifted me toward the wall, his grip steady like he was shielding me from something I couldn’t see.

I was about to protest, my fingers already twitching with a question– but then I saw it.

Someone fell.

It was her—the girl who’d been following Leo around yesterday. She hit the floor hard, hands scraping awkwardly against the tiles as she tried to sit up. Tears shimmered in her eyes before her friends rushed in, whispering to her in hushed, frantic voices.

I couldn’t catch the words. Only their expressions. 

Wide-eyed. Embarrassed I guess? But, almost as if afraid. I follow their eyes and sure enough– Leo’s glare pinned them in place before he spoke. 

“Watch where you’re going,” he said, his voice sharper than I expected. Low. Cold. 

And just like that, they scattered. Quick footsteps. Fading chatter. 

I stood there, staring after them for a moment, my heart slow and steady, but something felt…off, I glanced around the hallway, it wasn’t crowded. It was nearly empty.

Wide, open space. No shoulder-to-shoulder pushing. No accidents waiting to happen, no reason for anyone to fall.

How odd.

I reached out and tapped Leo’s arm. His hand was still braced against the wall, close to where he’d pinned me.

He finally looked down at me, and he took a step back, muttering, “Sorry about that… an idiot wouldn’t look where they were going.”

I fixed the sleeve of my abaya. It wasn’t like he’d pulled hard, but it was crumpled now, Odd how the hallways are empty anyway, I sighed as I smoothed the fabric out.

“Sorry… did I pull too hard?” Leo’s expression softened, the sharp edge from earlier fading into something quieter. 

His voice, usually teasing or smug, was gentle now. Worried maybe? Why would he really- 

I tilted my head up to look at him. My hands moved slowly this time, making sure he could catch every word.

[Leo,] I signed, [your touch is gentle. You would never harm me.] And I meant it. Every movement of his hands, every glance—he was always careful with me. I wanted him to know I wasn’t upset.

His shoulders seemed to relax after that, I'm glad, he looked very tense before. 

I turned away, already letting my thoughts drift toward the cafeteria. I was starving, and the idea of those meatballs was enough to push everything else out of my head.

Leo followed behind me, a little quieter than before, keeping just enough distance like he always did.

It wasn’t until we were halfway there that I realized I still had his phone in my hand.

He always does this, I'll return it once we are seated then. 

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“Okay, we need to hurry—they have limited milk pudding for dessert!” Irene grabbed my arm as soon as I set my bag down and practically dragged me toward the counter.

I didn’t argue. I sprinted right along with her. The meatballs today were too good to miss, and the pudding? Even better.

A few minutes later, we were both balancing two plates each and a dessert tray between us. Luke and Leo were nowhere to be found, so we were stuck juggling everything on our own.

“I swear, sometimes I love Luke,” Irene muttered, adjusting her grip on the trays, “but if he doesn’t get his ass here to help me, I’m kicking his jaw.”

I chuckled softly. I couldn’t sign back, not with my hands full, but she already knew I agreed.

Then the weight in my hands suddenly lifted.

I blinked as Leo appeared in front of me, casually taking the plates out of my grasp like he’d been there all along.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing down at me. “Luke and I had to talk about the quiz.”

[It’s no worries,] I signed, my fingers smooth and practiced now that they were free. 

I smiled at him, and he nodded without missing a beat.

“See? Why can’t you be like that?” Irene huffed, slamming her tray onto the table.

Unfortunately for Luke, his plate of meatballs went flying a little, the sauce splattering onto his shirt.

He winced. “Nooo! Irene, this shirt is brand new!”

“So wash it off,” she deadpanned, already digging into her food without a care.

Luke sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and trudged toward the bathroom.

I watched him go for a second, then turned back to my plate. I wasn’t about to let perfectly good meatballs go cold. I was happily digging into my food when I noticed Leo rummaging through his bag.

A second later, he handed Irene a bottle of hot sauce—the one I gave him a couple of months ago.

I paused, blinking at it, and set down my spoon.

[What’s that for? Luke hates spice—] I hadn’t even finished signing before Irene was already dumping a lot of it onto Luke’s plate of meatballs.

The sauce blended perfectly with the red of the existing one. Luke wouldn’t notice a thing.

“Well,” Irene smirked, swirling the meatballs around with a wicked grin, “he’s been irritating.”

She poured even more over it like she was marinating a steak instead of just playing a prank.

I sighed, but I couldn’t help smiling.

I wasn’t one to pry into other people’s relationships. But honestly, the love-hate thing Luke and Irene had going on? It was real. Messy, chaotic, playful– but genuine. Even when they were bickering—or pulling stunts like this—their feelings for each other never really felt in question.

Although, based on Irene’s late-night texts to me, I was pretty sure she was close to losing her mind over Luke’s antics on a weekly basis.

“Don’t waste it all,” Leo said, eyeing the bottle as Irene finally capped it. “I like that sauce.”

She scoffed and handed it back, but she didn’t argue, how surprising-

I leaned toward Leo, watching him tuck the bottle back in his bag.

[You haven’t finished it yet?] I asked, a little surprised. [You know you could get more at the Asian store, right?]

Leo chuckled softly. “I don’t handle spice like you do. One drop of this stuff makes me red, Hafsa.”

I smiled at that, already picturing his face turning bright pink.

[True,] I signed, [you’d look ridiculous.]

He gave me a half-smirk in return, and I just rolled my eyes and went back to my food.

A few more bites in, and Luke finally wandered back from the bathroom.

“Awh, you guys joke without me?” he pouted, plopping into his seat and grabbing his spoon. He cut into one of his meatballs and popped it into his mouth like nothing was wrong.

“You know, you’re supposed to— to—” He trailed off, chewing slower and slower.

Then he froze. His eyes dropped to his plate.

And then they cut sideways toward Irene, who was sitting there with the most innocent-wicked grin I’d ever seen.

Luke’s face turned bright red.

“Irene—” he managed to choke out, already standing, but she was too busy laughing.

By the time he bolted for the bathroom again, she had her phone out, recording.

“I’m saving this for my meme folder on Instagram,” she giggled, shaking her head as she zoomed in on his retreat.

I signed back, playful, [At least Luke loves you and won’t seek revenge.]

Irene only grinned wider.

Leo smirked. “Maybe not in real life,” he added, “but in the DnD campaign? He totally will.”

“Worth it,” Irene said without hesitation, dropping her phone and digging into her food at last.

I shook my head, smiling to myself as I scooped another bite of meatball.

And then I felt it.

That same prickling sensation creeping up the back of my neck to the top of my head, the kind that makes you look over your shoulder, expecting someone to be there.

I glanced up instead, my gut screaming to me.

Nothing. 

Just the ceiling lights—too bright, almost blinding if I stared too long. I blinked the feeling away and went back to eating.

Probably nothing.

But it had happened more than once these past few days, I chewed slowly and played with my food, this couldnt be a coincidence, is it? 

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Meanwhile…

Mourgarth sat on his throne, fingers moving with practiced ease across the chessboard before him. The pieces—each one frozen remnants of past players—stood locked in eternal silence, their final moments repurposed for his amusement.

Playing alone was the only real challenge. Against others, he had long since mastered the art of predicting their every move. A dull, repetitive cycle. None had ever truly entertained him.

Well… none but one.

“I want a garden next time!”

A voice, soft and full of youthful excitement, echoed through the chamber. A hologram flickered to life before him, casting pale light against the cold, cavernous walls full of wires. The past played out before his eyes—a memory so vivid it felt almost tangible.

“A garden?”

his past self asked, voice carrying an almost uncharacteristic warmth.

“Then what else?”

Mourgarth’s fingers idly traced the edge of an orange chess piece as the scene unfolded. A pawn moved forward.

“A house—uhh, a big house! So we can run around and play there forever!”

Little Hafsa’s hands clapped together, the sheer joy in her expression an anomaly in his world. He shifted another piece—a knight advancing toward a pawn, one of Larsen’s men against another.

“Then I promise to make that dream come true.”

The past Mourgarth smiled.

The present one mirrored it, just faintly, as he captured the knight with his pawn.

In the memory, young Hafsa tilted her head, innocent curiosity gleaming in her eyes.

“Don’t you make deals instead? And what do you get out of it?”

The queen stood vulnerable now, unprotected. The piece was different—no longer the deep orange of frozen time, but soft pink, shaped like a flower.

“Seeing you smile is enough. It’s… satisfactory.”

The past Mourgarth was smiling as he spoke, and Hafsa, in her childlike delight, had laughed. She had taken his hand, slipping a delicate flower bracelet over his wrist.

“A promise it is then! Mourgarth the Kind!”

Such innocence. Such foolishness.

His fingers made their final move, placing the king—Larsen—before the queen. Then, with deliberate precision, he swept the bishop across the board in a single, silent motion.

“Checkmate,” he murmured.

His gaze lingered on the flickering hologram, watching that long-gone smile. How he had enjoyed playing with her back then.

How he had waited, ever so patiently.

His eyes softened, watching his now little flower on another hologram all grown and ready to be taken. “Soon, you’ll be in my hands, dear flower.”

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[shravspeculates28]

Title: The Ripple of Choices

Tommy pressed his back against the cold, damp rock, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He could hear the distant crunch of boots in the forest, each step sending a wave of panic through him. Lily squirmed in his arms, her small body trembling as she pressed closer to him. He gently stroked her fur, trying to calm her—and himself.

“They’re getting closer,” he muttered under his breath, casting a glance toward the stream. It was his only way out. The water had become his escape ever since the changes started. But could he really leave Lily behind? His heart ached just thinking about it.

“Stay quiet, okay?” he whispered to her, though he wasn’t sure if he was telling that to her or to himself. His own voice sounded as shaky as her tiny meow in response. The truth was, he didn’t know how to keep going. He was tired. Of running, of hiding, of being afraid. Of feeling like a monster.

When did everything go so wrong?

Weeks earlier…

The day it all changed had been like any other. The sun struggled to break through the constant gray clouds that loomed over Walworth, a city forever bathed in the shadows of the chemical plant that towered above it. People went about their daily lives, trying to ignore the slow poison that hung in the air, the whispers of sickness, the unease that spread through the streets like a low hum.

Tommy was sitting at the breakfast table, poking at his cereal, listening to his mom and dad discuss the latest government mandates. The virus had come out of nowhere, they said. A new kind of plague, moving so quickly that no one could stop it. And the vaccine? A rushed solution.

“Everyone’s getting it,” his mom had said, her eyes filled with the same worry that had crept into everyone’s conversations these days. “It’s supposed to protect us.”

His dad nodded, though he hadn’t looked convinced. “Yeah… it’s supposed to.”

Tommy hadn’t cared much at the time. He just wanted things to go back to normal, for the world to stop feeling like it was teetering on the edge. But normal didn’t come.

Within days of getting the vaccine, something began happening to the kids around him. He started feeling it too—the headaches, the strange tingling that crept through his skin. At first, he thought it was just nerves. But then came the scales. Tiny, rough patches that appeared on his cheeks, like a rash. His reflection in the bathroom mirror stared back at him in confusion. What was happening to him? He scratched at his face, but the scales stayed, stubborn and permanent.

He didn’t say anything to his parents at first. They had enough to worry about. But the changes kept coming—scales spreading, his shoulders growing heavier, aching. He woke up one night to find the start of fins on his back. He felt like he was unraveling, losing himself piece by piece. What scared him more than the changes, though, was the way his parents started looking at him. They didn’t say anything, but there was fear in their eyes now. Fear they tried to hide.

Tommy wasn’t the only one. Other kids at school had started showing signs too—mutations, they called it. The news talked about it all the time. No one knew why, but they blamed the vaccine, the chemical plant, maybe even the virus itself. And then came the disappearances. One by one, kids like him were taken. No one said where, but everyone knew it was the government. They were taking them for tests, trying to figure out what was happening, why their genes were changing. Rumors spread that the government was detaining the parents too, locking them away to figure out why their kids were different.

Tommy didn’t want to believe it, but the fear was too real. The night he heard his parents whispering about “what to do next,” he knew he couldn’t wait any longer.

So he ran.

The forest had become his new home. It wasn’t perfect, but it was safer than the city. The trees shielded him, the streams provided him refuge when he felt the need to escape. His body was adapting faster than he could comprehend—fins on his shoulders, scales toughening his skin, and a strange connection to the water. When he was submerged, he could feel it calling to him, guiding him. He didn’t understand it, but the water felt more like home than anything else these days.

Then he met Eddie.

Eddie was a boy, not much older than Tommy, who had been living in the forest for longer. Eddie’s changes were more dramatic—gills on his neck, webbed fingers. They had bonded over their shared fear and confusion.

“They’re not gonna stop, you know,” Eddie had said one night as they sat by the water. “The government. They’ll find us eventually. They want to figure out what’s wrong with us. Or… what we’ve become.”

Tommy shivered at the thought. “And our parents? You think they’ll be okay?”

Eddie shrugged, his face hard to read in the dim light. “I dunno, man. My parents… they’re already gone. Took ‘em weeks ago. Yours could still be okay. But if they are, you gotta hurry.”

Tommy had felt the weight of those words pressing down on him ever since. Could he save them? Would they even recognize him now?

Then there was Lily.

He had found her by accident, a small kitten struggling in a pond, terrified and confused. Like him, she had changed—her body adapted to the water, though it seemed unnatural to her. Tommy remembered the way she had cried when he pulled her out, her tiny claws digging into his arms as she clung to him. She didn’t want to be alone. Neither did he.

Lily had followed him everywhere since. Her once soft fur was slick now, her eyes wide and frightened whenever Tommy strayed too far from the water. She didn’t know how to survive on land anymore, and that fear kept her close to him. They needed each other.

But every day, Tommy’s mind was torn. His parents… could they be alive? Were they locked away somewhere, waiting for him to save them? The thought gnawed at him constantly. But then there was Lily—small, vulnerable, clinging to him for safety. How could he leave her? What if he never came back?

The present closed in on him as the officers’ voices grew louder. He couldn’t keep running forever. His time was running out. Tommy felt a tear slip down his cheek as he stroked Lily’s wet fur.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if it was a promise he could keep.

She whimpered, her small body shaking as she nuzzled deeper into his chest. Tommy could feel her heartbeat, fast and panicked, matching his own.

“Stay hidden,” he said again, placing her gently in the shallow water by the stream. She looked up at him with wide, confused eyes, as if asking, Are you really leaving me?

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The weight of his decision crushed him as he turned and dived into the stream, the cold water enveloping him in a familiar embrace. His fins sliced through the currents, the scales on his face shimmering under the moonlight as he swam further away from the approaching danger.

But even as he swam, guilt gnawed at him. Could he really leave his parents behind? Could he really leave Lily alone in this strange, unforgiving world?

The conflict raged inside him, a never-ending battle between the boy he used to be and the creature he was becoming. He didn’t have the answers. All he had were choices. Impossible choices.

And so Tommy swam, hoping that, in the end, the water would carry him to a place where the weight of those choices would finally let him breathe.