#but no telephones or radios it looks like

[little-baski]

Being boosted up the wall was easy, Lokni seemed far stronger than they were, and with the help of the interlocked arms, they were able to stretch much further than if they'd tried to climb it on their own. They managed to hoist themself up to their belly, and then pull themself over the ledge completely, their dangling legs disappearing. They peeked further down the corridor for a moment, before turning and trying to secure a position that would make it easy to lever Lokni's weight.

There of course was a chance that it would fail, but they didn't want to think about that right now, so they focussed on their own breathing and the sound of muscle working, their hands fused together for a moment as Baskar pulled and Lokni reached.

Raised religious but never one to practice, Baskar almost wanted to reach for the tiny cross that hung from their neck, when some sound down the corridor snapped them to attention. Instead of turning however, they helped Lokni further up, their heart starting to race as their mind conjured up apparitions that weren't there.

"Alright," Baskar whispered, their eyes following where Lokni pointed too, which was also the direction of the sound.

If it was ghosts, they wouldn't be alone.

If it was ghosts, they wouldn't be alone.

If it was...

"It uhm... it depends," Baskar whispered still, their voice small. "So... uhm... coms on boats have these uhm... area codes," they tried to explain. "Depending on where in the world you are sailing. But... generally... they can be as small as a walkie-talkie or as big as a server." They recalled the walkie-talkies having been fascinating, with their range. But that was at school, years ago.

They started to make their way towards the bridge as they spoke, hoping to chase away the ghosts. Their skin crawling.

If it was ghosts, they wouldn't be alone.

They repeated their mantra.

"I'm just hoping that they'll have an emergency radio there, it will most likely be in a case, like a suitcase, heavy but not too heavy to cary." Their mind conjured up the different communication devices they'd seen. Sensors and communication devices were important to robotics, information had to be received, but in a way that it would allow for some freedom.

"We're looking for some kind of symbol, like a telephone or an emergency sign. But... it might not be there, if there was ever a crew, they would've probably taken it."

If there had ever been a crew, and if they'd ever made it off of the ship alive.

Lokni watched as Baskar seemed to ponder his question for some time. If Baskar thought that he could do it, why not at least try? "Alright, let's give this a go," Lokni replied, interlocking his hands together, preparing to give Baskar a leg up. He'd done this thousands of times back at the ranch, helping people up on tall horses or climbing up to the hayloft, a second nature motion. Baskar stepped into Lokni's interlocked hands, and with that, Lokni was able to boost Baskar up the wall. A couple moments of scrambling and shuffling passed before Baskar was reaching down to give Lokni an arm up. Taking a deep breath, Lokni grasped their hand firmly as Baskar began to tug him up, Lokni's boots scuffing against the metal wall where the ladder had once been. By the grace of the Creator, Lokni managed to get high enough to grip the edge of the wall with his free hand, releasing Baskar's grip and with all his strength just barely managing to pull himself up and over the edge. Rolling over onto his back, Lokni took a couple seconds to breathe, filling his lungs with delicious, fresh air. Still gasping for air on his back, Lokni pointed in the direction of the door that led to the bridge. "It's just over there" he panted, "just let me catch my breath." After a couple moments, Lokni got to his feet, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "So what does this COMMs thing look like again?" Lokni asked, genuinely curious about what they were looking for.

[can-of-pringles]

I wish for a list of all the technology in the Arcane universe. And I don't mean the super scientific Hextech stuff, I mean common appliances(?) And household items.

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

Give the old elk's lodge president the true meaning of the 33rd degree

32 he is, always and forever.... apparently

[h0neylevi]

post-war, canonverse, semi-public sex, fingering, fem!reader, some light degradation, dry humping, MDNI

w/c: ~ 1630

Everything has been so new lately.

Moving to Marley after the war had been an easy decision, but that didn’t mean the physical act of settling into a new place wasn’t without its hurdles. Mostly, it was about adjusting—getting used to the advances in technology that wasn’t present on Paradis. Telephones, cars, radios, even electric stoves were commonplace things that Levi still marveled at.

And then, there was also you.

More specifically, the way you’d both found yourselves quite suddenly thrust into a life after war, a life without titans and the looming threat of death hanging over your heads like a dense fog. 

As former comrades, it only made sense once the smoke cleared to navigate this new world together. And Levi was more than happy to experience all manner of firsts at your side.

It’s through this different layer of companionship that Levi learns so many new things about you. How you like your eggs in the morning, how tired you get after having too much pasta, the way the hair at the back of your head always sticks up the next day if you go to sleep with it still wet. He learns how you organize your books on your shelves (by size) and how when you’re having a bad day and tell him to leave you alone, you don’t actually mean it.

He’s always known how to make you laugh, but after eight months of living together under the same roof, he learns how to make you moan. It’s a sound he’d like to bottle forever, the sight of your body arched beneath him a vision too precious to look away for even a second. Even with only one good eye, he soaks it in like you’re a dream that’ll fade if he blinks.

He learns that he likes kissing, and you do too. So, when you lean across the center console of his brand new car at Marley’s drive-in movie theater one summer night, he doesn’t think much of it. At least, not until your hands start wandering and he finds himself pulled into the backseat.

You give him very little time to recover from the surprise of being pulled from his seat before your lips are on his again. The leather of the upholstery groans as you straddle his narrow waist and on instinct, Levi reaches out, eyes still closed as he guides you onto his lap.

His palm splays over the skirt of your dress, hiking it up a little in his haste. When he feels the fabric, he pulls away slightly.

He gently squeezes your thigh, watching the cloth bunch a little in his grasp. The sound of your breath hitching in your throat makes him look up. “What’s got you so worked up, hm?”

Above him, forming words feels borderline impossible. Not while his thumb is drawing circles on the inside of your thigh and he’s looking up at you through those delightfully full lashes. It strikes you that this facet of your relationship is still relatively new, so the warmth on your cheeks doesn’t feel out of place when you swallow around your meekness and say, “You.”

“Me?” Levi’s brows raise, but he thinks he gets it. The moment you’d walked out of your room in this little number, his mind had gone straight to the gutter.

Like he’s revisiting the memory, his hands begin to slowly trail every part of you his eyes drift over—thumbs tracing the tantalizing curve of your breasts, down the silky material over your waist before resting his palms on your hips. When he gives you another subtle squeeze, you roll against him, feeling the hardening outline of his cock through his trousers against your core.

“Can’t help it,” you breathe out slowly, like you're making every effort to remain composed, but the strain in your voice betrays the neediness beneath. 

Your palms drift over the soft fabric of his shirt, moving over firm muscle. They’re not as defined as they once were, but you relish in his solid warmth all the same. Enamored by him, always.

He lets you explore unimpeded. You’ve always been handsy—checking him for signs of injury or illness when he inevitably pushed himself too far during expeditions. Now he’s grown used to the way that protective tendency has turned into an act of appreciation and fondness. It makes something light and airy form in his chest when you lean down again to kiss him.

“These windows aren’t tinted,” he says a moment later. The warning is half-hearted and murmured mostly against your lips, in conflict with the way his hands keep you anchored where you are.

His feeble hesitation makes you laugh.

You settle further into his lap, nearly chest to chest now. You can feel the way his breathing has grown labored against you. “No one’s looking at us, Levi.”

It is dark, at least. He has enough sense still to acknowledge that the large screen up front will be capturing most peoples’ attention, even though it’s currently in an intermission right now. There are only fifteen minutes between the double features tonight. A shame, he thinks. When it comes to you especially, he always likes to take his time.

You move your attention to the curve of his jaw, peppering hot, pillowy kisses down the expanse of his neck before suckling the sensitive flesh of his clavicle, and every thought not focused on the present stops. 

He closes his eyes, caught between the feeling of your lips on his neck and your warm cunt gliding over his cockhead. Even through several layers of clothes, pleasure rushes through him with each rut of your hips. You’re so warm and pretty that it’s dizzying.

In retaliation, a thumb swipes over your clothed clit, and Levi smirks when your movements almost completely stop. Behind you, the large screen lights up and Levi watches in the soft blue light as you lean back slightly, mouth slightly agape in a silent gasp.

“Never took you for an exhibitionist,” he says, the reflection of the movie behind you mirrored in his unclouded iris.

Before you can say anything, he hooks two fingers around your panties and pulls them to the side, sliding the digits through the arousal that’s already beginning to soak into the cotton.

“I-I’m not,” you attempt to defend, but the protest comes out weak and shaky with his movements.

“Is that right?” Levi asks, his tone mildly condescending. “Well, the fact that you’re grinding on top of me right now says otherwise.”

The pressure of his fingers on your cunt makes it difficult to think. If you were in your right mind, you might be embarrassed about the way the windows have started to fog, but you can only be grateful for the extra coverage.

The air is thick and your body feels like it’s on fire. Every brush of Levi’s fingers on your skin sends you aflame. His injured hand anchors you in place, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the flesh of your hip while his other hand continues to pick you apart, making your knees quiver.

Your voice is a strained gasp against the shell of his ear. “Like you’re not hard already just from kissing.”

“I never said I wasn’t.”

The hand on your hip lowers, and for a moment you think he’s gesturing for you to get up, but the new position allows his other hand to slide down. Two fingers quickly bottom out inside your cunt.

Your features pinch with the effort it takes to keep yourself quiet.

“There you go,” Levi coos, smug as your fingers struggle for purchase on his shoulders. “Is that what you wanted?”

His cock, his fingers, his mouth. All three. You want to tell him that you’d gladly take anything he’d give you, but all you can do is pant uselessly into his neck and try to hold on.

“Couldn’t wait until we got home, hm?” Levi continues, his fingers pumping and curling in such a way to make you see stars in your vision. “Needy thing.”

You clench around him, spurred on by his words. “Levi.”

He keeps talking, undeterred. A glow appears in his eyes as you rock into his palm, meeting his movements. “Dirty girl, fucking my fingers like this in the open.”

Pleasure coils in your belly. You grasp helplessly against his sturdy neck, cheeks burning and nails dragging over the soft fuzz of his undercut as it continues to build and build. The pressure of his thumb on your clit pulls all of your muscles taut.

When your moans become wispy and delicate gasps of air, he knows you’re right on the edge.

“Let go, sweetheart,” Levi murmurs. “You can come.”

Your orgasm hits you like a train. With a single gasp of his name, you come undone. Levi holds you through it as you shudder and spasm, his free arm now wrapped around your waist.

When you pull back, your eyes are bleary and content. Every muscle in your body seems to relax against him.

Levi pulls his hand from between your legs. “Satisfied?”

“Mmm,” is all you can manage. The aftershocks still continue to wash over you, making you feel boneless and tired.

When they subside, you give him a quick peck and slide off of his lap, climbing back into the front passenger seat.

Levi follows with a grunt. When he settles back into the driver’s seat, he buckles his seatbelt and starts the car.

You turn, confused. “What are you doing? The movie isn’t over.”

Slowly, he eases out of the parking spot toward the exit. Just before he turns onto the road, he gives you an incredulous look.

“You think I can focus on anything else after that?” From the streetlight above, you can finally see the deep shade of pink tinting his neck and face. “I’m taking you home so I can really make you scream.”

[rip-quizilla]

Impossible to Hate You ~ Part 8

Pairing: Eddie Munson X fem!Reader

Summary: "We were friends for a long time... and then we weren't."

Word Count: 4.3 K

Divider was created by @hellfire--cult ❤️

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

New Years Eve, 1983

There was always so much noise at Granny’s house.

People were everywhere. In the kitchen, in the bedrooms, in the den, even outside in the cold. There was no escaping from the noise no matter where one went in this house.

So why, then, as you sat on Granny’s little gossip bench staring at her pale yellow phone, did you feel completely suffocated by its silence?

“Are you expecting a call?” 

Startled, you looked up at your grandmother and answered, “Yes… maybe…” you looked down at your lap, feeling utterly childish as you tumbled through your sentence. “He didn’t say when he would call, exactly. Just said that he would.”

Granny watched you with understanding, nodding her head as if you were making complete sense and not ignoring what an entire week of silence from that phone must mean. 

“Well dear,” Granny said softly, “the way I see it, you have two options.” 

You listened intently, worrying the telephone cord between your fingers as you had been for who knew how long by now. 

“-Ether you risk missing that call- which I’m sure any sorry soul who waits a week to call a girl as pretty as my granddaughter would understand- and spend some time with your family,” you didn’t miss the knowing smile she gave you or the raise of one near translucent gray eyebrow. “-or you can sit by the phone for the rest of your time here letting some boy take over your entire holiday.”

You cringed, looking back at the phone for one more longing second before smiling at your granny as you stood from the chair. 

“Need any help in the kitchen, Gran?” 

She grinned, hooking your arm with her own as the two of you made your way to the already crowded kitchen to find something to occupy your mind other than some boy. 

However, you still chanced a look over your shoulder at the telephone before it disappeared from your sight. Eddie said he would call. It’s been a week, why hasn’t he called? 

He said he would call.

Eddie was staring at the phone too.

He’d been staring at it ever since Robin had told him what happened with Alan. Been staring on Christmas Day, been staring every day after that, stared at it on New Years Eve when he wondered if he’d ever get to claim your New Year’s kiss one day. Fantasized, more like. He knew it wasn’t a possibility now. 

He’d already made up his mind, and that was why he wouldn’t touch the phone.

For the best, he told himself. It’s for the best. 

The radio silence continued for far longer than you’d thought it would. 

Eddie knew when you were coming home- you’d told him that he could see you as soon as you got home the Friday after New Years’. He’d said the two of you could make up for the lost holiday time over the weekend before school began. 

But there was no call from Eddie. And even though you knew he was in the wrong, there was a part of you that was laughing at yourself for being so naive that you’d expected this to actually happen. Dating Eddie Munson… who were you kidding? He didn’t even want you wearing his jacket around school; for a moment you had thought that he may feel the same way about you as you felt about him, but even if that were true he wasn’t about to let the whole of Hawkins know that. Now, you weren’t even worth a phone call.

You shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up.

These were the thoughts that plagued you as you crossed the frigid parking lot of Hawkins High on the first day of the spring semester. It felt strange to drive yourself to school again… it had been almost a year since you’d done that, since your usual ride was a 1971 Chevy Astro. You couldn’t help searching the lot for that very brown and yellow van, and weren’t sure if it was relief or disappointment you felt when it was nowhere to be seen.

You didn’t see him in Latin class. Or History. Or Pre-Cal. You were beginning to think he’d just cut school for the day when you walked into the cafeteria and saw him sitting at his normal spot, head of the table as always. 

Your face started to get hot, palms sweating and heart racing- you thought about sitting at a different table since he obviously didn’t want to see you. Let yourself down easy, let the memory of him fade from your life, let him have his way. 

But then he saw you. 

For a split second, he looked as ghost-white as you felt. The next second, he was smiling and laughing at something one of the guys was saying. 

As if you weren’t even there. As if the elephant- the mammoth- in the room wasn’t even there. 

Maybe… maybe everything was fine? Maybe he had simply forgotten that he’d said he would call? What if you had remembered the conversation you’d had wrong, and it was you who was supposed to call him, and he was only avoiding you because he’d thought you were mad at him. 

A thousand possibilities were running through your head as you made your way to the lunch table, setting your things down and sitting in your usual spot beside Eddie. 

You received a couple of greetings from the guys, but not from him. That wasn’t good.

Your heart was racing; you must have done something, said something. There was some kind of misunderstanding, but you would work it out. You just had to extend an olive branch. 

Nudging Eddie’s elbow with your own got his attention, but not how you’d wanted. Instead, he flinched away as if you’d burned him. Flinched. His eyes were wide, surprised and slightly skittish as he looked at you for the first time since you’d sat down. 

Why is he so jumpy? You thought, What did I do?

“How- ahem,” your voice was surprisingly hoarse, and it dawned on you that you’d hardly spoken since you’d told your parents goodbye that morning. “-how was your break?”

He stared at you for a moment, blinked, then donned a mask of indifference as he turned his attention back to his meager lunch of pretzels and a Slim Jim and shrugged. “Good.” 

His voice was light, airy. Noncommittal and monosyllabic. The tone of voice someone used when speaking to a person they’d rather not be speaking to. You’d heard that tone from him before, but never directed at you. 

“You…” you stuttered the end of that word, struggling to make up your mind about which words would follow it. “...you said you would call, Eddie…”

If you’d thought his face was white before, you knew it was now. You noticed his chest heaving underneath his layers of jackets, and for a split second you wondered if maybe everything would be okay after all. Maybe you were just in your head, and this was all some big mistake, that everything was fine and you were just being dramatic. 

“Yeah, I…” Eddie gulped, and suddenly he was indifferent again, aloof and uncaring. “...I was busy. Sorry.” 

Nothing about this made sense. Not a single thing about this interaction made any damn sense. Eddie was never aloof with you. Never uncaring. 

“You were busy?” You repeated, and the edge in your words must have been stronger than you’d intended because the conversations around you were starting to taper off into silence in favor of listening in on the quarrel at the head of their table. 

Eddie narrowed his eyes on you, annoyed. “Yeah, I had a busy week, I already said I’m sorry.” 

“So busy you didn’t have time for even one phone call?” you whispered, keeping your voice down. You were upset, but giving the boys a show wasn’t on your agenda. “Eddie, I… we… I had a good time before we left, I thought it…” you were feeling so many emotions right now, a cocktail of embarrassment, anger, frustration, everything but sureness of yourself was swirling in a cyclone behind your eyes, and Eddie saw all of it in only one glance. It’s why he looked away and searched desperately for something else to train his gaze on. 

“...Eddie, I thought we-”

His eyes refused to meet your own, but his tone was biting when he interrupted your whispered plea with a bitter mumble. “It was one date, you’re acting like we’re married or something. Don’t be so dramatic about it.” Then he bit down on a pretzel, breaking it in half with a single crunch. 

You felt like you’d been slapped across the face. “I…I- you…” What were you trying to say? What could you say? Nothing came to mind. You didn’t have words for what you were feeling, and your brain was already moving a mile a minute. You’d thought things would be different now, but not like this. Not worse. That one date hadn’t just made things weird, it had apparently caused irreparable damage to your friendship. It was too late to take anything back. You couldn’t go back to normal after this. You didn’t want normal after this. Not when you knew what what could have been felt like, and especially not now that you knew he wanted absolutely nothing to do with what could have been. Nothing to do with you.

The thoughts were swirling, and the cyclone was growing louder and more dangerous. Suddenly your eyesight was blurry, and something wet was falling down the slope of your cheek, and your heart felt as if it was clawing its way up your throat. So up you stood, snatching your unopened lunchbox from the table and crashing through the exit door. You didn’t care that it was freezing out and that you had nothing but your cable-knit red sweater for warmth, you ran anyway. You ran until you reached the black cherry tree, collapsing against its steady bark as you finally let the tears fall. 

Your heart finally found freedom from your throat when a sob wrenched its way out of you, shaking your shoulders with a violent gasp. How did this happen? How had you gone from being completely and totally sure of where you stood with him one week, and weeping over him the next? You had whiplash, you felt like you were dreaming. This wasn’t your Eddie; he was acting like a different person, why? What had you done to upset him like this?

You heard footsteps crunch across the dry, dew-frozen grass behind you, and you didn’t need to look to see who it was. You also didn’t want this particular person to see your tears; they would only serve as proof that he was right about you being too dramatic. You stared daggers into the trunk of your tree and tried to sound as unfeeling as he had. 

“I want to sit out here today.” you said, cursing the hiccup that escaped you in between sentences. “You can go back inside.” 

Eddie just stood there, silently. He didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t in his nature- being hateful. Being mean. It killed him to do this, to know he was even capable of hurting you. Yet here he was, doing it anyway.

“Okay.” he mumbled, “If you’re sure.” 

Every fiber of his being was fighting him. No rational part of him wanted to go along with this twisted plan that the darkest part of him had created- the side of him that knew deep down that he never deserved your friendship in the first place. The side of him that knew if he stayed on the path he’d been on until last week, you would get hurt again- people like Alan would make sure of it. He would drag you down, he would hold you back, and you would stand by him taking hit after hit for him all the while like the perfect angel you were. 

Simply put, he hadn’t done a damn thing to deserve you, and you didn’t deserve the shit that came with having anything to do with Eddie Munson. So here he was- righting the balance. 

He turned to walk away from you, leaving you shivering and sobbing in the cold, and just when he didn’t think he could feel like any more of an asshole, he heard your soft quavering voice from over his shoulder and his heart just about shattered.

“What did I do wrong, Eddie?”

He was glad his back was turned, or else you would have seen his expression crumple for a moment before he regained his composure. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” 

He had to make it hurt. He had to be brutal, he had to be heartless. If you thought there was a way to talk this out, you’d take it, and he’d be weak enough to let you. Then all of this would be for nothing.

He had to hurt you now; it was the only way he could make sure he never hurt you again. 

“I mean, come on. You’ve had a crush on me from day one, if I’d wanted anything serious I would have acted on it before now.” Eddie was facing you now, but he couldn’t look at you. His eyes were staring at his Reeboks with such intensity, he wondered if he might burn a hole through his toes. “I only asked you out because I felt bad for you. You were so desperate for attention… I mean, we had some fun, yeah, but that was all it was. Girls like you are just too easy to be anything serious.”

He saw your head snap up out of his periphery, and despite his better judgment, he lifted his gaze to get a better look.

Your eyes were red and wild, tear stained cheeks grayish from your makeup and upper lip slick from what your sniffles couldn’t quite catch. 

“Girls like me?” You repeated; he felt a chill run down his spine at the tone of your voice, and he knew it wasn’t due to the cold. It was low, eerily quiet and foreboding. He couldn’t help but feel like he may have gone too far, but it was too late to take it back now. 

“Well since you’re an expert on girls like me, Eddie Munson, let me tell you a thing or two about boys like you.” The tears were still flowing down your face, but the look in your eyes was anything but sad. He’d seen that look on everyone important in his life but you up until now. 

Disappointment. 

“Boys like you,” you said, “are liars. Because the way I see it, either you’re lying to yourself and to me right now, or you’ve been lying to me every day since we met and you’ve finally decided to show your true colors.”

You hiccupped through a breath, stifling a sob as your composure threatened to crinkle in on itself. 

“I can’t reconcile that the person I’ve known this whole time and the person you’re being right now are the same guy! I don’t know if you’ve always been this way and pretended you weren’t or if you’re lying right now for some reason that you aren’t telling me… But Eddie, you’re a liar either way.” 

You saw right through him; he’d almost hoped that you would. He couldn’t do anything about it, though- he wouldn’t deny nor confirm, because if he spoke he might break. He just stood there, eyes lowered to the ground like a scolded child.

You marched toward him, and his heart felt as though he’d put it behind bars. He’d silenced it, shoved it in a cell and locked the door. Even when you were standing within arms reach, he couldn’t bear to look you in the eye. “I know when I’m not wanted, and I’m not going to fight for something that means so little to you that you’re willing to throw it away without even telling me why.”

You reached down to pick up the lunchbox you’d dropped during the onslaught of your sobbing, and caught his eye contact on the way back up. You held it menacingly and without question as to who held the authority to break it and who didn’t. “You want to let this lie? Fine. I’ll let it lie. It can lie right under a gravestone for all I care.” You shook your head slightly, face crumpling into bitter disappointment. “Bye.”

Then you walked right past him, and he did nothing. 

He didn’t chase you. He didn’t argue, he didn’t fess up about how all of this is an act meant to convince you not to spend another minute associating yourself with the likes of him. He didn’t even say ‘bye’ back. He stared at the ground and prayed to whatever god was listening that it would swallow him whole. 

It was surreal how quickly a routine could change when necessary. 

One day, Eddie was an integral part of your life. He was the reason you were excited to go to school every day. He was the source and recipient of nearly every smile you gave. 

The next day, he was gone. His presence in your life had disappeared into thin air, and while there was a part of you that had started out hoping that Eddie would come back to you with apologies and explanations, that part was never satisfied. 

It was like the last year had never happened. Eddie hung out with his Hellfire friends and you hung out with Robin. You gravitated back into your old social circles and never overlapped.

You had explained everything to Robin immediately, reeling when she told you what she’d divulged to Eddie about the incident with Alan and wondering if somehow, that had something to do with Eddie’s sudden shift in behavior. But in the end, it didn’t matter- he’d dropped you this quickly, and no reason could justify that to you. You wanted nothing to do with someone who didn’t care enough to try harder to keep you.

Winter subsided to spring, and when the time came to think about college you set your sights on schools as far away as possible- Hawkins might have been your home, but there were so many pockets of your small town that reminded you of Eddie. The lake, Benny’s, the Starcourt mall… so many places were haunted by memories of him, preserved like flowers that had begun to mold because they hadn’t been pressed quite right. 

You passed your exams in the spring easily. Despite your better judgment, you worried about Eddie doing the same without you to help him study, and that worry proved it wasn’t in vain when you heard down the grapevine that he had failed enough of his core classes that he wouldn’t be graduating with the rest of you. Funny, you thought, how you had spent so much time helping him figure out his learning style only for him to forget all of it the moment you were gone. 

If you could have seen through Eddie’s eyes, however, you would have known that he remembered everything. Painfully so. He wished he could forget, that way he might not feel so guilty when deciding not to try anymore. At a certain point, graduating just didn’t feel like something he deserved anymore.

And graduation came and went without him. You moved out to New York for college at the end of the summer, and Eddie stayed in Hawkins. You remembered hearing a rumor that he planned on dropping out. You tried not to feel responsible. 

You resolved to remember your friendship with Eddie Munson as a strong, but short lived connection. You told yourself that’s all it was ever meant to be- a powerful connection with an expiration date. With time, the pain would begin to numb and you would learn to forget about him. 

All it would take was time. 

~ 10 Years Later ~

“Okay, how about this- I take the monstera, but you get to keep all of the succulents.”

You sighed, keeping your new wireless telephone wedged between your shoulder and your ear as you worked your way through unloading the dishes from your dishwasher. It was a quaint, compact appliance designed to fit perfectly in one-butt-at-a-time kitchens such as the one in your New York City apartment. 

“Kate,” you started, wondering if she was ever going to drop this or if you were going to have to force her to take all of the plants with her when she moved out. “You have always been the one that takes care of these damn plants. You know me- am I ever going to remember to water these things?”

Her voice was quiet for a moment before you heard her defeated “...No.”

“Correct.” you confirmed, nodding sagely as you lined thrifted mismatched water glasses into a cupboard. “Do you want a single one of your precious babies to die while in my care, Kate?”

“But maybe you’ll decide you want to take care of them because they make the apartment so pretty!”

“I will not! You know that I will not, and that is why you are taking all of the plants.”

You snorted when you heard her disgruntled sigh garbled through the phone. “Don’t you want at least one of them? They brighten up the place so much, and I’m sure your new roomie would appreciate the extra oxygen it would bring-”

“-Then he can bring his own plants.” you countered, drying off your hands after unloading the last dish. 

“I still can’t believe I’m moving out…” Kate’s voice took on that nostalgic, mirror-glazed tone that you’d heard so many times this month already. It broke you down a bit- always did. You and Kate had lived in this little apartment together for the last five years. You’d seen each other through college graduations, new jobs, good dates, bad dates- and now, new living situations. 

“Kate,” you warned, “if you were going to talk yourself out of moving, it would have been a lot more convenient before you signed a lease across town and I found a new roommate.” You let yourself fall into the worn out corduroy sofa under a window where your cat, Icarus, liked to perch on the sill and soak up the sun. You reached up to scratch between his ears absentmindedly. “He’s on his way here now, so it’ll be pretty awkward if I have to tell him to get lost.”

“You’re sure this guy isn’t some weirdo?” Kate sounded concerned, which was typical of her. While she may be two years younger than you, she still worried about you like a doting big sister. “You haven’t even met him, and he’s already moving in.” 

“Well if he is,” you said, gazing at the door to what used to be Kate’s bedroom. “Then I just don’t resign the lease with him. He’s only subletting until the end of the summer anyway, so there’s nothing binding that’s keeping him here. And besides, he’s friends with one of Cathy’s brothers’ girlfriends.”

You could practically hear Kate rolling her eyes through the phone. “Right, he’s basically family at that point.”

A knock at the door caught your attention, Dun-dun-dudun-dun… dun-dun.

“Well he’s here now, so if you don’t hear from me by tonight you’ll know he’s an ax murderer.” 

“Not funny!”

You chuckled, finding it very funny. “Love you!”

“Love you too. Seriously, call me tonight!” 

You hung the phone up on its wall mount as you made your way to the door. You were curious who this mystery roommate was. When your coworker had heard you talking about how Kate was taking a job that would relocate her across town, she’d raved about this person who she’d met at a Christmas party back home who would be moving to New York and needed a place to stay. She went on and on about how he was the nicest guy, easygoing and down to earth- you’d initially wondered why Cathy wasn’t inviting him to move in with her before you remembered that she was married. 

You plastered on a welcoming smile as you turned the knob of your front door and swung it open.

You saw the eyes first. They still looked the same, sweet chocolate brown eyes framed in lashes that a Covergirl would envy. You noticed traces of eyeliner around the edges- that was new- but the eyes were the same.

The hair… there was so much more of it now. It was longer, it was shinier… it fell over his shoulders in waves and matched the scruff that dusted his cheeks and jawline. You saw light glint off an earring somewhere in all that hair. 

Your eyes zeroed in on the bats before you could focus on any of the other tattoos that now littered his arms. They were more faded now, patchy and fuzzed at the edges. Yours didn’t look too different- it looked pretty much the same, minus the bluish tint that his had taken on from too much sun exposure. 

He dressed a little differently; seemed taller too- but it was him. There was no mistaking those eyes.

On one side of your doorway, you stood in complete and utter silence. On the other side, a ghost stood in equal silence with a suitcase in one hand, a beaten guitar case in the other, and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. 

The irony of it was funny, really. The person who had shut you out all those years ago, standing at your door, waiting to be let in. 

It just had to be you, you thought bitterly, didn’t it, Eddie?

It had to be you.

Part 9

Taglist: @rustboxstarr, @josephquinnsfreckles, @rozxartaki, @sheneedsrocknroll92, @melodymishahiddlestan , @stylesxmunson , @fishwithtitz , @elvendria , @carrotbunnies21 , @the-unforgivenn , @munson-blurbs , @writinginthetwilight , @ghost-proofbaby , @hellfire--cult , @nix-rose , @chaoticgood-munson , @3rd-conchord , @aphrogeneias , @definitionwanderlust , @aheadfullofsteverogers , @artsymaddie , @mopeymopeymouse , @alwaysbeenfamous

[mr-cha-n]

Chapter One: How to Not Get Stabbed

Pairing: Lee Chan x reader

Genres: action, smut, angst, fluff, superhero AU

Warnings: violence (heavy), sexual content, penetration, mentions of death, profanities, drinking

Word Count: 22.2k

Summary: The peace of quiet of your garage is only broken by the hum of machines and clanking tools, and you like it that way - until a superhero crashes his car straight into your door.

The garage hums with the familiar sounds of clanking tools and low rock music playing from your dad’s old radio, its worn dials barely holding the station through the static. The air stinks of oil and metal, a mix of grease and gasoline lingering in the corners of the shop that reminds you of home. Rusted car parts and half-disassembled engines are scattered across workbenches in an organised chaos that only someone who spends hours here could understand.

Most of the time you spend in the shop is alone – you haven’t expanded enough to need to hire a second mechanic, although you’d been considering getting someone to do your telephone and books after you dropped the phone behind an engine block, trying to juggle too many things at once.

But, that’s how you like it. Being surrounded by machines and metal brings you far more contentment than interacting with your customers – a necessity, although often a frustrating one. The beautiful complexity of the mechanisms feels like creation in your hands, the ability to mend and perfect a power usually reserved for God alone.

Something about the surety of everything having its place, and knowing what that is, brings you a solace well needed in your grungy corner of life.

Your garage sits on the edge of the city, tucked in a dodgy part of town where most people would think twice about wandering after dark. It’s not unusual to see someone rush by with their hood up, or hear the occasional screech of tyres speeding away from something best left alone. Keeping to yourself is the chosen lifestyle here, and you are no stranger to the consequences of choosing to get involved.

Over the years, you’ve managed to build yourself a reputation – not just for your skill with a wrench, but for being a place where no one asks too many questions. You’ve seen all sorts roll past: street races, ex-cons, people looking for a little discretion. You don’t judge. As long as they respect the rules and pay their bill, you don’t pry into their business. It’s a system that keeps you afloat amongst an unforgiving landscape. Every time you flip the newspaper over to see another store shot up or looted, you feel even less obliged to know anything about your customers.

But, peace and quiet is never-lasting.

You’re stuck at the bottom of a lifted car, trying to wrestle a stubborn bolt loose from the undercarriage as the high-pitched squeal of your doorbell rings out through the shop. Your hands, slick with oil, slip on the wrench and you mutter a curse under your breath.

Heavy bootsteps lumber into the shop, stopping a few feet away next to your squat wooden desk.

Finally, with a grunt of effort, the bolt loosens. It comes free with a satisfying click, and you slide out from under the car, swiping your forehead with the back of your hand. You wipe your hands on a rag, and take a quick glance out toward the street, taking in the dark, rusty tone of the early evening sky.

“How’s she lookin’?” A familiar, gravelly tone calls out towards you.

A lopsided smile crackles over your lips as you tilt your head with a small shrug, your gaze finally locking with the customer. “She’s looked better – but I think you already knew that.” The car is an old classic, its parts worn and rusted like they haven’t seen a proper tune-up in years.

Mr Corallo lets out a huff of laughter. His arms cross together over his broad chest, revealing a snake tattoo on his lower left forearm – a reminder to everyone of who he is loyal to, and who protects him. “Yeah, alright. And you’ve got a cure, doc?”

“Give me a few days and she’ll be as good as new.” You tap the hood of the car lightly with your fingertips, wiping off a speck of oil that had dripped from your shirt.

Mr Corallo nods, pulling an envelope from his jeans’ back pocket. “Half now, half later, right?”

You give a small hum of agreement, walking around to wash your hands of the oil.

"Mr Scott thanks you for your business," Mr Corallo says, throwing the envelope down. The corners of his mouth curl up, revealing just a hint of teeth, and his eyes gleam with a dangerous glint, revelling in the uncomfortable shift in the air at the namedrop of Mr Scott.

“Always a pleasure.” You reply with a tight-lipped smile. The invocation of Mr Scott bothered you less than it would others, but he wasn’t a person you wanted to be associated too greatly with your garage. The ‘lawyer’ has a reputation for criminal activity more well-known than any of his actual court cases, and you’ve seen the evidence of his anger splattered across the Lower South Rim back alleys. But, like many of your seedier customers, his business kept your shop out of harm’s way, and so you could get over his more displeasing mannerisms.

“Oh, hey-” Just as you think he’s gone, Mr Corallo turns around one more time, his gait falling to a stop with one hand on the doorknob. “-you haven’t happened to see or hear anything about that incident at Brewer’s Quarter, have ya? Mr Scott’s been interested in finding out more about what went down.”

You pause, drying your hands on the towel, careful to keep your expression neutral. The incident at Brewer’s Quarter had been all over the news – a warehouse fire, but not of the accidental variety. Word on the street was that it had been a targeted hit, a gang skirmish that went too far. Brewer's Quarter is just a few blocks over, close enough to your shop that you’d heard the sirens blaring late into the night.

You hadn’t seen anything, not directly at least. Of course, there was that incident with the car, but you aren’t sure that had anything to do with the fire…

It was the early hours of the morning, police had scattered, the fire had been put out, and anyone involved was long clear of the area. You were walking back from the shop, having had a late night trying to sort out your accounts for the last month – a job that required at least two glasses of whiskey to get through it.

You didn’t tend to stay late at the garage often, and the prospect of walking around these streets late wasn’t one that sat well with anyone who knew them. But there was a shortcut to your apartment through the old dump on 64th that cut down your journey to a five-minute run, if needed.

The night air had been cool, the kind of eerie silence that clung to the aftermath of violence. You had been walking quickly, your hands shoved deep into your pockets, eyes darting around out of habit. The whiskey buzz had made the shadows seem a little more sinister than usual, but you were steady enough on your feet.

You’d first noticed something odd when you’d reached the outer chain-link fence cornering off the dump – a faint, metallic glint, barely visible in the low light. At first, you’d assumed it was just junk, another rusted-out shell of a car left to rot. But, as you got closer, you could see the car was too new for this area, and wrecked – badly wrecked.

Instinct told you to keep moving; this kind of thing usually spelt trouble. But something about the car had caught your eye, something familiar. The lines of it were sleek, too well-crafted to be an average street racer.

You had crouched down, running your hand over the dented hood, feeling the grooves where it had clearly taken some kind of brutal impact. The whole front end was smashed in, the windshield cracked and splintered like a spider web. There were scorch marks, too, as if the car had been through a fire.

Either this car’s owner was involved in some dodgy business, or he was a terrible driver.

And then you had seen it – the unmistakable emblem, barely visible through the soot and grime. The flaming star, the symbol of the Red Comet. For the past two years, you’d seen headline after headline regaling how the Red Comet had saved the city once again, always seemingly one step ahead of the people who threatened to tear it apart. You know hardly anything about the superhero, although apparently nobody does. Even his name is a phantasm of the media, given in the aftermath of his first appearance which happened to be on the day that a red comet streaked through the sky. And this was his car.

Your heart had skipped a beat. What the hell was it doing here, and in this state?

You knew you should have walked away. But something in you just couldn’t. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was the whiskey making you bolder than you usually were, but you couldn’t just let the car sit there. Maybe, it was your way of giving something back to the hero who’d saved the city time and time again.

After making sure that no one was watching, you’d decided to tow it back to the garage. You’d covered it up, keeping it out of sight, hoping that no one would come looking for it. For the next few nights, you’d worked on it in secret. The damage was extensive, but you’d seen worse. Underneath the mangled metal and burned parts, the car was a marvel of engineering. You’d never worked on anything like it before – high-tech gadgets, reinforced steel, the king of stuff you only saw in movies. Every time you popped the hood, it felt like uncovering another layer of mystery.

Some of the damage seemed aeons old – definitely not the product of its latest encounter. The craftsmanship suggested that its owner knew his way around the car, but the lasting injuries let you know that he wasn’t a trained mechanic.

You only left one trace of your involvement – a small note, scribbled on a scrap of paper and tucked neatly in the wheel well. It simply read: ‘Fixed her up. No charge. -M.’

You figured if the Red Comet ever came back for the car, they’d know someone had taken care of it. You hoped that the note would calm their suspicions of foul play...

“Nope,” you reply to Mr Corallo, your tone light and steady. “I heard about it, like everyone else, but I was two drinks deep by the time I heard the sirens, and I wouldn’t have been able to get down the stairs even if I’d wanted to.”

Mr Corallo watches you closely for a moment, trying to gauge whether you’re telling the truth. You’re good at this game, though; slipping in half-truths to conceal the true extent of your knowledge.

“Smart,” he says after a beat, the tension in his stance easing just a bit as he releases the door handle. “Wouldn’t want you getting in the middle of anything … unpleasant.”

He flashes a grin, but there’s a hint of warning behind it. You match his smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. With that, he finally turns and makes his way toward the door, his boots scuffing the concrete floor. You let out a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly as he steps outside. But just before he leaves, he calls back over his shoulder one last time.

"And if you do hear anything… well, you know where to find us."

The door closes with a soft click, and the garage is silent again, save for the low hum of the radio.

Every bone in Lee Chan’s body aches, and he’s surprised his skin hasn’t turned green and blue all over. Any little move hurts – and that’s with days of much-needed recuperation. Groaning as he pulls himself up out of bed, he looks down to inspect the damage. A few cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and a particularly nasty swipe along his left thigh that has begun to scab over.

Chan winces as he gingerly presses his hand against the cut, the sting reminding him of just how close things had gotten. It had been a mess – a confrontation with Tempest as the Brewery Quarter. The whole thing had escalated far faster than he’d anticipated. What should have been a routine patrol had turned into a disaster as Tempest decided to unleash a barrage of electrical blasts, wrecking half the district in the process.

The fight is a blur now, fragments of shattered glass and the acrid scent of smoke lingering in his memory. He’d been so focused on taking Tempest down that he hadn’t fully realized how much damage he had taken in the process.

In the end, it was brute force and desperation that won out. He had managed to hold up the building just long enough to knock Tempest off balance, forcing the villain into retreat. But victory had been fleeting. Tempest had disappeared in the chaos, vanishing before Chan could deliver a final blow. By the time the authorities arrived, Tempest was gone, leaving behind only destruction and debris, and Chan had barely made it out himself, collapsing in a nearby alley as sirens blared in the distance. He’d limped home under cover of darkness, his mask barely shielding him from prying eyes.

A low groan escapes him as he stretches. He limps over to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks like hell—his skin is pale, dark circles linger under his eyes, and the bruises that cover his torso are turning an ugly shade of purple. He splashes some cold water on his face, trying to wash away the fatigue, but it doesn’t do much. His body is spent.

God, he needs a hobby.

A small laugh ripples through him at the thought, getting stuck painfully in his scratchy throat. Seungkwan had told him just as much last week when they finally had time to hang out. 

"You're not talking to enough people," He'd said, and he'd been right - Chan has hardly talked to anyone as himself in days. Making quippy remarks and telling people to get out of the way isn't quite the same as having a proper conversation with a friend.

Chan towels his face and stumbles into the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee while his mind drifts. Maybe a hobby wouldn’t even help. Maybe what he really needs is to let go of the whole hero thing, at least a little. Being the Red Comet 24/7 is exhausting, and lately, it feels like it is swallowing him whole, leaving nothing for himself.

The coffee smells good, but Chan's stomach twists at the idea of caffeine. He sits at the kitchen table, cradling the warm mug in his hands but not drinking, staring blankly out the window. He can’t help but wonder if next time he’ll be able to handle it. Tempest is growing stronger, more reckless, and each encounter is becoming more dangerous. He doesn’t know how long he can keep doing this, how many more nights his body can take the punishment.

I have to get ahead of this, he thinks, rubbing the back of his neck. Figure out where Tempest is hiding before he strikes again.

The thought of rest is tempting, but he knows there is no time for that. Not with Tempest still out there, licking his wounds and plotting his next move. Chan glances at the clock. Morning is just creeping in, but his mind is already racing through the next steps - tracking Tempest, preparing his gear, and finding his car.

The nagging feeling of unfinished business crawls under his skin. Chan hadn't had time to think about it amidst the chaos of fighting Tempest. His ride had been totalled - again - and left behind in the fray.

He stumbles over to his laptop, ignoring the stabbing pain in his thigh, and pulls up the city's traffic cams. His fingers clumsily tap at the keys as he rewinds footage from last night, scanning for any sign of the car. He remembers the last place he'd seen it—by the Brewery Quarter, just before Tempest had thrown him through a storefront.

The footage shows chaos: explosions, debris flying, panicked civilians running. For a moment, it’s overwhelming—too much movement, too much destruction—but then he spots it. His car, smashed and smoking, left abandoned next to the dump.

His stomach twists as the camera catches something else: a tow truck pulling up beside it. But not a city truck. The logo is fuzzy, and there’s something strange about the way the driver moves—hurried, almost too careful for a standard recovery job. The truck hooks up his wrecked car and drives off, disappearing into the shadows of the industrial district.

"Who the hell…?" Chan mutters to himself.

His heart races as he shuts the laptop. If he’s lucky, whoever has the car just wants to strip it for parts. If he’s not, well… there are people out there who would pay a fortune for the tech inside that car. And some who’d use it for much worse.

He forces himself up, grabs his jacket, and heads out the door, ignoring the protest from his still-aching body. He knows the industrial district well enough to navigate it, even in his current state. If the car was taken there, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down.

The sun is starting to set by the time he reaches the dingy outskirts of the industrial district. This part of the city is a graveyard of old factories and warehouses, the kind of place where no one asks questions. Chan walks down the narrow streets, scanning every alley and garage for a sign of his car.

Turning the corner to the large, decrepit dump, the first thing that hits him is the overwhelming stench of rust and decay. The place is a sprawling mess of discarded metal, twisted scrap, and a mountain of broken-down machinery.

But, there it is. Chan immediately spots his car nestled between two towering heaps of rusted junk. The sleek frame, now only slightly dented, stands out against the twisted metal and debris.

As he gets closer, he notices that the car’s exterior, though damaged, has been worked on. The front end, which had been complete wreck, is now at least partially repaired. Fresh metal panels have been welded on and the wiring had had once been exposed in neatly tucked away. Someone’s been fixing it.

Chan’s mind races. Who would do this? And why?

As he begins inspecting the car, he notices a small white flap peaking out from the front-left wheel well. He's been in one too many fights to trust that pulling it out won't immediately blow him and the car up, but curiosity gets the better of him. Pulling a glove out of his backpack and creating a small blast shield from a nearby sheet of scrap metal, Chan takes a deep breath, positioning himself cautiously as he reaches out. 

Carefully, he pulls the note free. Nothing explodes, nothing clicks ominously. The paper is crumpled and worn, as if it’s been shoved in the wheel well in a hurry. Chan straightens, exhaling the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and unfolds it with cautious fingers.

''Fixed her up. No charge. -M.'

Chan stares at the note, his mind racing. It still feels like a trap to him, but nothing about this situation makes sense. The repairs, the hidden note—it’s too deliberate to be a coincidence, yet not malicious enough to feel like a typical setup. Whoever M is, they didn’t just stumble upon his car. They knew exactly who it belonged to, and for some reason, they’d chosen to help. The fact that the repairs are real, tangible, and expertly done is a gesture of… what? Trust? A warning? He can’t decide.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The car is functional—enough to get him back on the road, at least. 

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Chan checks the dashboard. The wiring looks as pristine as ever, the engine hums quietly when he turns the key, and though the car still bears the scars of its encounter with Tempest, it’s ready to move.

Pulling out of the dump, he glances into the rearview mirror, half-expecting someone to step out from the shadows and reveal themselves. But the place stays still, abandoned, as the setting sun casts long shadows over the heaps of twisted metal.

Between the note, the footage, and the repairs, he's got enough to work out who this mysterious mechanic is, and what they want.

It’s about 11 pm, two weeks after you finished fixing up Mr Scott’s car, that you hear the crash.

The sound is unmistakable – the sharp screech of something heavy colliding with metal, followed by the distinct echo of glass shattering. The garage rattles slightly from the impact, and you pause mid-wrench, heart immediately kicking into overdrive.

What the hell was that?

You set down the wrench gently, wiping your hands as you strain to listen for any other signs of disturbance. The city is loud, but the crash came from too close – maybe just outside the garage. You mind runs through a quick list of possibilities: a car accident? A break-in? Something more sinister?

Instinct kicks in, and you head toward the door cautiously, flipping off the lights in the main work area to stay hidden in the shadows.

As you edge closer to the garage door, you hear another sound—a low, metallic groan followed by the clank of something heavy being dragged. There’s movement outside, slow and deliberate. You risk a glance through the small window in the side door and immediately spot the source.

There, just outside the window, the sleek black car that you fixed up all those days ago sits awkwardly on the side of the road, the front end crumpled around a streetlamp. The driver’s side door is hanging off its hinges. Standing next to the wreckage is a figure – tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a long coat, their silhouette barely visible in the dim streetlight. They seem to be inspecting the damage, unfazed by the mess.

But there’s something off about the way they move, something too calm for someone who’s just been in a crash.

As the figure leans around the edge of the unhinged door, peering inside of the car, you realise that that’s because they are not the one who was in the crash.

Grabbing a heavier tool from the nearby workbench, you edge towards your door, heart pounding.

The figure straightens and, as if sensing your presence, slowly turns toward the garage. Even in the dim light, you can see their eyes – cold, calculating. The figure doesn’t move for a moment, just staring, and you can’t tell if they’re sizing you up or deciding whether you’re a threat.

Finally, the figure steps forward, their footsteps slow and deliberate as they close the distance to the garage door. You brace yourself, unsure if you’re about to get a question or a fight.

Then, you see something rustle from the corner of your eye. A blur, barely visible in the darkness, moves faster than you can register. One second, the mysterious figure is advancing towards the garage door, and the next, they're violently thrown back into the wreckage of the car. The sound of impact echoes through the night - metal crunching, glass shattering anew.

You blink, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to make sense of what just happened. From the shadows, another figure emerges, slightly hunched, moving with a combination of grace and exhaustion. The way they move—the fluidity of it—immediately gives them away. It’s him. The Red Comet.

He stumbles slightly, but regains his balance, turning toward the crumpled figure near the car. You can see the strain in his posture, the way his breathing is laboured. He’s injured.

The man in the long coat struggles to his feet, groaning as he wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” the figure sneers, pulling something from the inside of his coat. A gleam of silver flashes in the dim light.

Before you can react, the man lunges, moving with startling speed, the blade aimed straight for the superhero. You want to shout, to warn him, but it all happens too fast. The Red Comet dodges, just barely, the blade slicing through the fabric of his suit as he twists to the side. But even though he avoids a fatal blow, the movement causes him to stagger, his injuries slowing him down.

The mysterious figure presses the attack, slashing again and again with precision and fury. The Red Comet blocks and counters, but it’s clear he’s at a disadvantage. You grip the wrench tighter, your knuckles white, debating whether to rush in or stay hidden.

Before you can make your decision, the Red Comet manages to disarm the man with a swift kick, sending the blade clattering to the ground. The figure growls in frustration, throwing a wild punch, but the Red Comet catches his arm and twists, throwing him hard into the side of the car. There’s a sickening crunch as the man’s body slams into the metal, and he falls to the ground, unconscious.

For a moment there’s silence. The only sound is the superhero’s ragged breathing as he stands over the fallen figure. His shoulders heave, and you can tell that every movement is causing him pain.

Then, without warning, his knees buckle, and he collapses to the ground.

“Shit,” you mutter, your body moving before your mind has fully caught up. You drop the wrench and rush toward him, your pulse racing. He’s still conscious, but barely. Up close, you can see the gash across his side, blood seeping through the torn fabric of his suit.

“Hey, hey—stay with me,” you say, kneeling beside him, your voice low but urgent.

The Red Comet’s masked face tilts towards you, his breathing shallow as he tries to sit up. “I’m … fine,” he manages to rasp, though the wince that follows tells you otherwise.

“Yeah, sure. You look like you’re just peachy,” you mutter, glancing at the wreckage around you. “Come on, let’s get you inside before someone else shows up.”

He nods, clearly too exhausted to argue. With some effort, you manage to help him to his feet, guiding him toward the garage. He leans heavily on you, his weight almost too much to bear, but you grit your teeth and push forward. You’re not sure how much time you have before the figure wakes up—or if they’ll wake up at all—but right now, your focus is getting the superhero somewhere safe and outside of foreign eyes.

You heave him onto your makeshift cot, the one you use when you decide to stay in the garage overnight. He groans as he lies back, and you can see the toll the fight has taken on him now under the garage lights – bruises, cuts, and that deep slash across his side that’s still bleeding.

"I'm going to grab a first aid kit," you say, your tone more commanding now that the adrenaline is kicking in. "Don't move."

He doesn't seem to be in any state to do so anyway.

You grab the kit and hurry back, your hands surprisingly steady as you kneel beside him. "Alright, I'm going to have to cut the side of your shirt away." You say, looking up at the masked face for confirmation. But, nothing comes. Moving forward, you realise that he's completely out cold, his breathing shallower than it should be. You know you need to patch up the wound before he loses too much blood.

Taking care to avoid causing more harm, you gently cut away the fabric of his suit. The fabric peels back to reveal the deep gash along his side—angry and red, still oozing blood. Your heart pounds, but your hands remain steady. You’ve dealt with injuries before - though, usually your own.

Working quickly, you clean the wound, wincing as you realise how deep it really is. This isn’t good. The gash will need stitches, but there’s no time for that now. You press a gauze pad against the wound to stem the bleeding, your mind racing.

"Stay with me," you mutter under your breath, wrapping a bandage tightly around his torso to hold the gauze in place. "I’m not letting you die on my cot."

Once the wound is secure, you check his pulse—faint, but there. The man’s been through hell, and whatever fight he was in tonight clearly pushed him to the brink. You can’t help but wonder how often this happens. How many times has he barely made it out alive?

You glance up at his masked face, wondering who exactly is lying before you. There’s the urge to check, the man completely vulnerable to you, but you think better of it. What would be the point of knowing anyway? It would just bring you more trouble.

You sit back on your heels, a shaky sigh of disbelief exiting your body. For now, he seems stable, but you know he’ll need more help than you can provide tonight. In the morning, you’ll redress the wounds and take him over to a hospital, if he wants.

You grab two blankets from underneath your desk, draping one over the suited man. Dropping a spare pillow down on the floor beside him, you make sure that you’re close enough that you’ll wake up if his condition gets dramatically worse. The floor is cold and hard, but the exhaustion hits you as the adrenaline drains from your body, and you fall into a dreamless sleep, your mind still half-occupied with thoughts of the masked hero bleeding out in your garage.

It takes Chan a whole minute after waking up to work out where he is. All of his instincts tell him to run, to get out quickly and quietly before anyone finds him, but the pain in his torso when he squeaks even an inch is enough to keep him bedbound.

Touching his hand to the wound, he feels the soaked-through gauze. That’s going to need replacing.

His hands trail up, confused at the suffocating stuffiness that labours his face. He quickly notes the cause – his mask is still on. You didn’t take it off last night, and he’s suddenly very grateful for the stuffiness.

Twisting his head to the side, careful not to strain himself any more than necessary, he spots you.

You’re slumbering next to him, your back crooked at an awkward angle from sleeping on the floor. Oil and grease still stain your skin and shirt, the liquids mixing with a darker substance – his blood – on your hands and wrists.

Chan can barely recollect what happened last night. He remembers being chased down, and not knowing where to go. He remembers typing something in the navigation pad and your shop being the first thing to come up. He remembers getting stabbed, you helping him in here, and nothing more.

Letting out a small sigh, he can’t believe that he actually came here. It was a reckless move that not only relied on an unknown person’s charity, but also put you in danger. It had been stupid and, more than that, selfish.

Yet, he’d made the right call. Anyone else could have left him to bleed out on the sidewalk, shut up their doors and windows and ignored him entirely. But you’d helped him, patched him up, and given up your bed to allow him to rest.

Chan isn’t sure the last time someone else had done so much for him.

A low groan escapes his lips as he tries to adjust himself slightly, wincing from the sharp pain that shoots through his torso. He catches his breath, forcing himself to stay still, even though every fibre of his being wants to push through the pain and figure out what to do next.

"Alright, Chan, just move carefully," he mutters under his breath, trying to psych himself up. Gritting his teeth, he gently pulls himself into a sitting position, groaning as the movement aggravates his injury. Every breath feels like fire in his ribs.

Before he can do much else, you stir slightly, blinking groggily as you wake. You stretch your arms and rub your eyes, clearly disoriented. It takes you a second to remember where you are, and then your gaze locks onto Chan.

"You're awake," you mumble, pushing yourself off the floor with a grunt. "And sitting up? That’s ambitious."

Chan gives a half-hearted chuckle, though it turns into more of a pained exhale. "Yeah, well, I thought I’d try not to bleed all over your place anymore."

You shake your head, already reaching for the first aid kit on the nearby table. "You should’ve woken me up. That wound needs fresh bandages."

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he replies, feeling overwhelmed by your instinct to help. “You’ve done enough already.”

You pause, glancing at him as you grab the supplies. The look in your eyes makes him feel like a child again, shivering at the intensity of your gaze. “You must be my worst patient – the cars never try to leave in the middle of being fixed.”

Chan watches you work as you kneel beside him, carefully unwrapping the soaked gauze. Your movements are precise, steady, but there’s a certain gentleness there too. It strikes him how unphased you are by all of this. He shivers as your hands ghost over his obliques, careful not to irritate the damaged tissues. 

As the gauze comes off, you let out a little hum of confusion, tilting your head. Chan looks down, and understands your surprise. The cut, which had been deep and angry last night, is now scarred and blistering, not fully healed but significantly better than it should be.

You pull back slightly, your brows furrowing in confusion. “I’m no doctor, but that’s not normal,” you murmur, eyes flicking between him and the nearly healed wound.

Chan shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. He’s always kept his abilities under wraps, never letting anyone else get close enough to notice the odd things that happen to his body – especially when he’s injured. But here you are, kneeling beside him, piecing things together faster than he’s ready for.

“Yeah … it’s … complicated,” he stutters. “I heal quickly. Doesn’t help much with the pain, though.”

You blink at him, clearly processing what you’re seeing. “So this is … normal for you?”

Chan shrugs, wincing as the motion pulls at his side. “Sort of. Part of the whole... superhero thing.”

Your eyes narrow a bit, but you don’t press him. Instead, you shake your head and return to reapplying fresh gauze. “Well, whatever’s going on, it’s saving me a lot of work,” you joke, though your voice is tinged with curiosity.

He lets out a low chuckle, though there’s still tension in his voice. “I guess so.”

When you’re done, you sit back on your heels and meet his gaze. “You really should rest more,” you say softly, the concern in your voice genuine. “Even if you heal fast, pushing yourself like this is ... well, it's a bad idea.”

Chan nods, knowing you’re right but unwilling to admit just how much he’s been pushing himself. “I’ll try,” he says, offering a half-smile.

“Good,” you reply, standing up and brushing the dust off your knees. “And when you’re ready, maybe you can tell me more about what’s going on."

He looks at you, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. The last thing he needs is to bring someone else into his mess, but after crashing (literally) on your doorstep and bleeding all over your floor, he supposes that he probably owes you some explanation.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "I can do that."

You seem satisfied, and start to walk back over to your desk, pulling out a rusty, old kettle and a bottle of long-life milk. After a moment, you notice him looking at you, and quirk an eyebrow. "Still awake?"

A small laugh reverberates through his chest as he feels himself being pulled back into the darkness of slumber. 

By the time that the superhero reawakens, you’ve achieved a number of things. After making yourself a cup of very strong coffee, tidying up your sleeping nest, and checking that he’s still alive, you descended into a deep panic, and then you solved it.

The events of last night had been freaky, although it isn’t unusual for crashes or violence to populate your area. But something about the way that man had moved, the look in his eye, had put you on edge. And now, you have a banged-up superhero sleeping in your garage, who can apparently heal himself at an extraordinary rate. The whole situation feels like being dragged into something you don’t understand or have the ability to deal with.

The one thing you are certain of, however, is that you feel better for helping him.

The weariness in his voice, the untrusting flinch of his body – it all spoke to a man who knew loneliness as well as you did. And even if he could have survived without your help, there is a level of satisfaction in knowing that you’ve done something for someone else; someone who isn’t a crime boss or gang leader.

After deciding that you’d actually dragged yourself into this mess, and that you had to stick with your decision, you felt a level of calm.

You’d spent the morning repairing the Red Comet’s car for the second time, wincing every time you saw your previous alterations damaged by the impact of last night. The collision with the lamppost had been particularly harmful to the car, and you realise that you’re going to need access to the superhero’s technology to be able to have a chance at fixing the complex mechanisms fitted under the hood.

By midday, the Red Comet stirs again. For a moment, as he reorientates himself, you sit in comfortable silence, the noise of the city outside barely filtering in. It feels a little odd to have someone else here. Usually, the garage is your sanctuary – your place to escape everything and everyone. Yet, having him here, even in his battered state, doesn’t feel like an intrusion.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “I, uh … I guess I owe you an explanation.” His voice is rough, although less than it had been this morning, and it has a softer quality to it that you aren’t expecting.

You nod but keep quiet, letting him decide when to speak.

“I don’t normally ask for help,” he admits. “But I didn’t really have a choice last night.”

You watch him carefully. There’s something raw about him, something that feels more human than the stories you’ve heard. Right now, he’s not really a superhero – he’s a man, wounded, worn out, and trying to hold it all together.

“Well, you found the right place,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “I guess you found my note?”

His head snaps up, and although you can’t see his expression well through the mask, you think that he looks a little shocked. His gaze darts over to the car, now suspended in the garage, and back over to you.

“I did,” he nods, holding back from telling you too much.

When he doesn’t say any more, you sigh, wringing out your frustrations on a damp cloth. “Look, I know you probably just want to leave. I also know that I’m basically a stranger to you. So, I’m not going to force you to tell me more than you want to. But, some guarantee that this isn’t going to come down on my head would be appreciated.”

His head falls slightly at your words, a tired sigh echoing through the room. “I – I can’t guarantee that. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved at all, but now you are, and I can’t promise that nothing will happen.”

You feel your heart drop a little as your concerns are confirmed. You know that what he’s saying is correct, and that you’d expected it, but it still strikes fear through you to hear it put so plainly.

Before you can say anything further, the Red Comet pushes himself up from the bed, wobbling onto his feet. This pushes you a little too far.

“Nope. Stop. You’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but I’m not going to let you limp out of here and collapse two blocks down.” You grimace, your voice forceful and commanding.

He looks surprised that you’re stopping him. A moment passes between you, tension thick in the air, as you wonder if he’s going to push past you anyway. You know that he’s far stronger than you, even in his weakened state, and that he could leave any time he wants to. But he sits back down, a breath of relief releasing as he takes the weight off of his feet.

Another moment passes and he looks back over to the car. “It’s pretty bad, right?”

You nod. “About the same as you, I’d say.”

The superhero huffs a laugh, but the sound is strained and weak.

“Look, there’s a sink over there with some towels, and I can leave some water and food out for you to eat. I’m just going to go over to the shop to grab some extra supplies for my first aid kit, but no one will see if you want to take off the mask and get some air.” You explain, pulling a bottle of water out of the mini fridge next to your sink.

He seems apprehensive, until you pull up a chair. “You can sit on this – don’t strain that cut any more than you need.”

With that, you march out of the garage, grateful for the fresh air yourself. You’re not sure if he’ll take up your offer, or if, by the time you get back, he’ll be gone again. Either way, it’ll be his choice.

 Two days later, your garage is still shut.

You’ve had to make far too many phone calls to concerned customers asking why the doors weren’t open when they’d driven by, and when you’d next be open. News of the crash had spread quickly around this part of town, and that has given you an easy cover for your current closure. The repairs needed after your shop front was damaged mixed with the emotional toll of the crash happening so close to you becomes the perfect excuse.

In reality, you and the Red Comet had been working on his car. After doing the basic repairs, the superhero had returned to his place and brought back the technology he used to supe up the vehicle, and you’d spiralled into mechanical heaven. The gadgets were like nothing you’d ever seen before, and your mind was spinning with ideas of other ways you could use them in your shop.

Every now and then, the Red Comet would slip some more details into the conversation, slowly letting you in on the knowledge of what is happening in the city, and the threats he’s currently trying to tide. But it is a slow process, and you are still more in the dark than in the light.

Nevertheless, you have to admit that you’ve enjoyed the company. Contrary to his first impression, the superhero is chatty, having opinions on everything from the condition of the city’s transportation infrastructure to the performance of the Southville Stormriders in the upcoming championship. As his body heals, his spirit follows in suit, becoming more lively with every conversation. He has the aura of a kid forced to grow up too quickly, but you can tell that whatever passion and zest for life got him into the superhero gig still exists within him.

And he’s funny, which shocked you at first. He makes you laugh in a way that you haven’t experienced since your father passed, and the joviality is much appreciated in contrast to the looming fear that someone’s out for you.

You still haven’t seen under the mask, although he came back in normal clothes – a white tank under a black jacket, dark jeans, and heavy boots. Today, his face has been hidden behind a balaclava and chunky vizor glasses.

You’re working on the undercarriage of his car, lying side by side beneath it. You hand him a wrench, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the small space between you. The work is a little tedious, but satisfying, especially with the challenge of integrating his advanced tech back into the framework. It’s the kind of hands-on talk you’ve always loved.

“Pass me the torque wrench?” His voice is muffled by the balaclava, but you can hear the concentration in his tone.

You hand it over, your fingers brushing lightly against his gloved hand. It’s the closest you’ve been to him since this whole thing started, and there’s an odd comfort in the proximity. You’ve spent more time together in the last few days than you have with anyone in the past year, and the easy companionship is something you didn’t realise you were missing.

"It’s getting warm under here," he mutters after a while, loosening the final bolt on the undercarriage.

You glance at him and nod. The garage has become a furnace with the afternoon sun bearing down on the metal roof. Sweat is starting to bead on your forehead, and you can only imagine how hot it must be for him with the extra layers.

He shifts beneath the car and pulls off his jacket, tossing it aside. Beneath, the white tank top clings to his toned arms and chest, the fabric stained with grease. His arms are littered with scars – some fresh, some old. You try to focus on the work, but it’s hard to ignore the way his muscles flex as he reaches for the next tool.

"So, how exactly does this tech work?" you ask, trying to distract yourself and also genuinely curious. "It’s like nothing I’ve seen before."

He chuckles, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "It’s… complicated. But I can walk you through it if you want. It’s mostly about energy efficiency—getting more out of less, that kind of thing."

You raise an eyebrow. "Sounds useful. Ever thought about putting this stuff on the market? You could make a fortune."

His smile falters for a second, and he glances away. "Not really. There’s too much risk. The wrong people get their hands on this tech, and it could be dangerous."

You nod, understanding the weight of what he’s saying. "Fair enough," you say, going back to the bolts. "I guess we’ll just have to make sure it stays in the right hands, then."

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he nods. "Yeah. We will."

For a while, the two of you work in comfortable silence, the steady rhythm of the tools and the soft hum of the city outside the garage filling the space. Every now and then, you share a joke or a story, the conversation easy and unhurried. You realize that, despite everything, this feels … normal.

The sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the garage. The temperature drops slightly, but the warmth of the day's work lingers in the air. You sit up, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying ache of a job well done.

"That should do it," you say, wiping your hands on a rag. "She’s ready to go."

You can see the balaclava shift as a grin appears on the superhero’s face. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.” There’s a sincerity to his voice that makes you feel like his words are about more than just the car.

“You probably could have,” you admit, with a teasing smile. You offer him a hand. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm but not overpowering, and pulls himself to his feet. For a moment, as your hands connect through the gloves, you wonder what his life is like outside of this – what he does when he’s not saving the world or fighting villains. You wonder who it is behind that mask, and if he’s ever wanted a normal life, away from all of this.

But you don’t ask. You’re not sure you’re ready for those answers, if he would even be willing to give them. There’s something nice about the mystery – something comforting in not knowing everything.

"Drinks on me?" you offer, grabbing a couple of beers from the mini-fridge in the corner of the garage.

He hesitates for a second before nodding. "Yeah. That sounds good."

The two of you sit down, you on your makeshift bed and him on the hood of the car, facing opposite directions to allow him to drink comfortably. You take a sip of your beer, the cool liquid a welcome relief after the heat of the day. For a moment, everything feels still—quiet. Almost peaceful.

"Thanks for letting me lay low here," he says after a while, his voice sincere.

You have to stop yourself from glancing around at him, surprised at the weight in his tone. “Anytime. If you ever want to give up the superhero gig, I’d pay to have another set of hands around here.”

He chuckles softly, the low sound reverberating through you. “You wouldn’t want the business I’d bring.”

You shrug, a smile breaking across your face. “Eh, I’m not interested in what baggage you have. I’m really only about the money.”

A full, hearty laugh escapes him, and you feel warmed by the noise.  

“You know,” you say, leaning back onto your hands, “I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Being out there, doing what you do.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you think you’ve overstepped. But then he sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts.

“It’s complicated,” he finally says. “People think it’s all glory and heroics. A sort of celebrity lifestyle – free things, all the attention you could want, as friends or more. But most of the time it’s just … messy. You make decisions in the heat of the moment, and you hope you’re doing the right thing, but there’s always a cost, and sometimes, you don’t know if it was worth it until it’s too late.”

You feel your heartstrings tug at his answer. The idea of being a superhero always seems so black and white – good versus evil, right versus wrong. But you can see how every choice would have a consequence, and one that everyone else would have an opinion on. Given that, you admire that he’s stuck with it for so long.

“And I guess with your identity hidden you don’t get to reap those benefits very much.”

“Well…” He starts, and you can hear the grin in his voice. You let out a bark of laughter at the implication. “But actually, no, not really. Friends are a bit of a luxury when everyone you know is put in danger just by knowing you. The free doughnuts from Jupiter’s are pretty sweet though.”

“Ahh, a man with good taste,” you hum, nodding your head in agreement.

“I almost considered doing a sponsorship with them,” he chuckles.

“Do you ever wish you could just ... walk away from it all?” You ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“Sometimes,” he answers, not seeming bothered. “But it’s not that simple. Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s always something more, someone else who needs saving. And if I’m not there to stop it … who will be?”

You nod to yourself, understanding the weight of that responsibility even if you’ve never carried it yourself. “That’s a hell of a burden for one person to bear.”

A beat passes before he responds. “It’s the life I chose. Or maybe it chose me. Either way, it’s mine.”

You’re about to respond when a sharp pinging sound cuts through the quiet. You spin round, confused at the origin of the noise, and see the Red Comet pull out a burner phone from his pocket, glancing down at the screen. The balaclava scrunches up as something in his face ticks.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, standing up and moving towards the car door with one quick motion.

You feel the weight of your aloneness before he’s even left, but you just say: “Okay, be safe.”

The superhero stalls for a second, and you can feel his gaze lingering on you through the mask. Then, he nods a quick goodbye, dashing into the car and slipping into the night.

Your words have been echoing in Chan’s head all week.

Well, that whole conversation has. You’d asked him if he’d walk away from it all, and he had almost said yes. You’d asked him what it was like to be him, and he’d almost asked you if you wanted to find out. And you’d offered him something – a job, an escape, companionship.

Those are the words he’s thought the most about: ‘I’m not interested in what baggage you have’.

You’d said it so casually, like it was just part of the joke, but he’d felt it in his soul. The uninhibited acceptance of everything he is and has, the knowledge that a life around him could never be one of safety – it didn’t seem to matter to you.

It is that simplicity that tugs at him the most. You didn’t want anything from him, didn’t expect him to be more than what he is. And for someone who has lived his life under the pressure of constant expectations, that is a gift he hadn’t realised he’s been longing for.

When he’d woken up after that fight at the chemical factory, the night that he left you, the first thing he’d done was reach for his phone. For once, it wasn’t to check on the city’s news feed or get updates from the fiend. He hadn’t texted his informants or checked in with any of the underground sources he kept tabs on. Instead, he’d messaged Seungkwan.

He’d texted him out of the blue—no preamble, no explanation—just a simple: Hey, you free to hang out this week? It had been too long since he’d allowed himself to do something normal, something that didn’t involve running across rooftops or dodging bullets.

Seungkwan had responded almost immediately, and they’d planned to meet up at a quiet café on the edge of town.

Now, here, with his friend, Chan finally lets himself relax. As Seungkwan launches into another exaggerated story about his latest antics, Chan doesn’t once think about putting on the mask.

Seungkwan is mid-sentence, hands flying animatedly through the air as he recounts yet another ridiculous moment from his week.

"...and then I swear, the cat somehow managed to lock me out of my own apartment. I'm standing there, in the hallway, keys in hand, and all I can think is, 'Is this really my life now?'"

Chan can’t help but laugh – the kind of laughter that feels good, deep, and unburdened. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this, the simple joy of sitting across from a friend, talking about nothing and everything all at once.

Seungkwan grins, leaning back in his chair. “See, this is why you need me in your life, Chan. To remind you that no matter how crazy things get, at least you’re not getting outsmarted by a house cat."

Chan shakes his head, still chuckling. “Maybe if you let it outside once in a while, it wouldn’t hate you so much.”

His friend gasps, an overexaggerated, sprawling exclamation. “If you want him to get hit by a car and die, just say so.” Seungkwan crosses his arms in front of his chest, pouting out his lips.

“At least then you’ll be able to get inside your house,” Chan replies, unable to keep the smile off of his face at the horrified look that crosses his friend’s features.

“You’re incorrigible,” Seungkwan sulks.

There is a moment of comfortable silence between them, the kind that only comes from years of friendship. Seungkwan’s face softens into something more serious, a tender look in his eye.

“You’ve been busy,” he says. “I haven’t seen you in, what? A month? Two?”

“Something like that,” Chan admits, leaning back in his chair. “Things have been hectic.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow. “Hectic? I’m guessing that’s code for ‘I’ve been running myself into the ground again’?”

Chan grimaces. Seungkwan has always been able to read him like a book, even when he himself wasn’t sure how to explain things.

“You could say that,” He finally replies, his voice quieter now.

Seungkwan leans forward, his expression softening. "You know, you don’t always have to be ‘on,’ right? It’s okay to take a break every now and then. Hell, you deserve it more than anyone I know."

Chan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It’s not that simple. There’s always something. And if I’m not there…"

"If you’re not there, the world won’t end," Seungkwan cuts in, his tone firm but kind. "You’re not a machine, Chan. You can’t keep going like this forever. At some point, you have to take care of yourself too."

Chan looks down at his hands, the weight of his friend’s words settling over him. It isn’t that he doesn’t know Seungkwan’s right—it’s that he doesn’t know how to stop. Being the Red Comet has become so much a part of who he is that the thought of walking away, even for a little while, feels impossible.

But then he thinks about you—about the quiet moments in your garage, the way you’d offered him something without asking for anything in return. And for the first time in a long time, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to find some balance.

“I met someone,” Chan blurts before he can stop himself.

Seungkwan’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? Now this is interesting."

“It’s not like that,” Chan says quickly, though he isn’t entirely sure what it is like. “It’s just … they’ve been helping me out. And they said something that’s been sticking with me.”

Seungkwan tilts his head, waiting for him to continue.

“They said they weren’t interested in my baggage,” Chan murmurs, almost bashful to say it too loudly. “Like it didn’t matter. Like I could just … be there without all the weight of everything else.”

Seungkwan leans back, crossing his arms. “Sounds like someone who just likes you for you.”

“Yeah,” Chan whispers, surprised by how much that realisation has hit him.

“And that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it?” Seungkwan adds with a knowing smirk.

Chan can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head. “I can’t drag anyone else into this – I feel bad enough that you know.”

Seungkwan’s smile softens. “Look, Chan, whoever this person is, they sound good for you. Don’t let that slip away because you’re too scared to let them in.”

He wants to push back, argue that you deserve better, it wouldn’t be safe, but the truth is that you’re already involved. That the shadow of the Red Comet had already eclipsed you and you’d embraced it. And that scares him more than anything else.

The garage is dim, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the tools and scattered car parts. The air smells of oil and metal, and Chan can hear the soft hum of the city outside – far enough away to feel distant but close enough that the noise never truly stops. He understands why you like this place so much.

Tonight, he’d come without the excuse of his car. He feels a little bit embarrassed that the thought of visiting you without a clear reason is making him so nervous, but if you suspected his real reason for being here, you didn’t let on.

Instead, he’s helping you with a different car, and you’re teaching him more basic repairs that he can do to his own vehicle when it inevitably gets scuffed up again. The implication is that then he’ll need to use your services less, but Chan’s far less interested in that.

You’re standing behind him, your hands resting over his, guiding him as he grips the wrench, showing him how to loosen a particularly stubborn bolt. “Here, let me show you. It’s all in the wrist.”

“Am I bad at this?” He asks, puzzled as the bolt doesn’t move despite the extra force he puts through it.

You chuckle, taking the wrench from him. “Bad? No. Just hopeless, I think.”

He laughs, watching you remove the rusted bolt, his gaze shifting between the tools in your hands and the subtle way your brow furrows when you’re focused.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you say, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up about how I’m using the wrong size socket.”

Chan huffs a soft laugh at the absurd suggestion that he knows more about mechanics than you. You seem to have a way with the tools, the cars, the entire garage, that makes it all look effortless. There’s a confidence in the way you move, a fluidity to how you handle even the most rusted, stubborn parts, and Chan finds himself mesmerized by it. “I’m not always lecturing you.”

“Oh, please. I’ve had more mechanical critiques from you than my old boss did.”

He grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t blow anything up.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes playfully. “That sounds like a challenge.”

The low hum of the radio fills the quiet of the garage as you work. Suddenly, a voice crackles through the local news, catching your attention:

‘Another power outage struck the East Side last week, with authorities pointing to the recent attacks on the city’s power grid. Though no group has claimed responsibility, speculation points to the villain known as Tempest.’

Chan feels himself tightening a bolt with a little more force than necessary as the report continues:

‘Sources close to the investigation say the damage could take weeks to repair, and citizens are growing increasingly concerned about the city’s ability to handle these incidents. Vigilante Red Comet was spotted at the scene of the attack, but the damage seems to have eclipsed even his abilities.’

There’s a beat of silence as he grabs a wrench off of the bench, before setting it down with a sigh. “We should talk about it.”

You sit up, brushing your hands on your coveralls. “Tempest?” you reply, more softly now. He sits up too, his back against the car’s wheel, gaze distant.

“Yeah,” Chan replies, his voice dropping. “It’s getting worse. He’s not just causing chaos anymore. He’s targeting the city’s infrastructure. Power plans, grids, anything that’ll knock out a large portion of the city. The hit on the east side—it was a disaster. People are starting to panic.”

“Jesus. Why? What does he want?”

Chan runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. “He’s … unstable. I think he just thrives on destruction. There’s no rhyme of reason with him. He’s got power, and he wants to show it. Or, at least, that’s how it’s always been with him. Recently, he’s felt more calculated, like there’s something new at play.”

You nod, your face thoughtful. “You think he’s working with someone else?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “I can think of a few people who would profit from issues with the city grid.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you look like you’ve just had a realisation. Chan’s fingers tap the metal beside him, his adrenaline shooting up at the suggestion of new information. “So can I.” You say, slowly getting up from your seat on the floor.

“I have a few regulars that come by the store, less than clean people, if I’m being honest. They don’t tend to bother me much, but recently Mr Scott’s people have been coming around more than usual, and they were asking about you.”

Chan's eyes narrow at the mention of Mr Scott. The tension in his jaw is unmistakable, and his fingers curl into a fist by his side. "Scott’s people have been around here? Asking about me?" His voice is low, dangerous. He doesn’t like that you’re in the middle of this, that you’re even saying the name of a man he’s been trying to avoid for as long as he can remember.

You nod, your expression cautious. “Yeah, it was subtle at first. Just questions about who comes in, what work I’ve been doing lately, but the last time they came, they dropped your name. They didn’t ask directly, but it was clear they were fishing for information.”

Chan’s breath hitches. He pushes himself up from the ground, pacing slightly, his mind racing. “That’s not good. Scott’s been trying to get a foothold in the city’s underbelly for years, but if he’s working with Tempest…” He trails off, the weight of the implication hanging in the air.

“And you? Where do you fit into all this? Why are they after you?”

His head hangs back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. “I’m the only one standing between them and control. Tempest sees me as the only real threat to his chaos, and Scott... well, Scott doesn’t like people he can’t control. He’s offered deals, threatened me, tried to recruit me. But I’m too unpredictable for him.”

There’s a heaviness to his words that makes you pause. “So that’s it? They want you gone because you’re the last line of defence.”

He nods, eyes closed. “If I slip up, if I lose... the city falls apart.”

You let out a low whistle, trying to break the tension. “No pressure, then.”

Chan smiles faintly, but the weight of it is crushing him. “Yeah, no pressure.”

“You know,” you say, nudging his knee with your foot, “for a guy who spends his nights punching villains and saving the city, you’re pretty bad at explaining the whole ‘hero’ thing. No flashy speeches, no dramatic pauses. I’m almost disappointed.”

He snorts, feeling the pressure draining from his body, just slightly. “Yeah, well, I didn’t get the ‘how to be a superhero’ handbook.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Clearly. Maybe I should write it for you. Chapter one: How to Not Get Stabbed.”

Chan chuckles, the sound rough but genuine, and the tension eases. Your teasing banter cuts through the weight of everything, pulling him back to the present, away from the looming threats of Tempest and Scott. He looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s something about the way you’re sitting there, so calm and grounded despite everything he’s just told you, that makes his heart skip a beat.

He’s always admired your strength, the way you handle yourself in situations that would break most people. But now, sitting here with you, there’s something more—something deeper that he’s been trying to ignore for too long. The way your eyes light up when you tease him, the subtle curve of your smile as you try to lighten the mood, even though you know how dangerous things have become.

His chest tightens, a sense of longing creeping in before he can stop it. God, how did I let it get this far? He’s been trying so hard to keep you at arm’s length, to convince himself that this was just a friendship, that you were just a part of his life he could protect from a distance. But sitting here with you now, he can’t deny it anymore. He feels something—something strong, something that terrifies him.

“You know,” you continue, leaning back and giving him a grin that makes his heart race, “I’m thinking of starting a new side hustle – PR for superheroes. I can make you look all mysterious and broody, like the city’s very own shadowy protector.”

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest. This is dangerous. Not the banter, not the situation with Scott or Tempest, but this—this closeness, this pull he feels toward you. He wants to reach out, to close the gap between you, to tell you what’s been gnawing at him for weeks. But the thought of dragging you deeper into his world stops him cold.

You have no idea how much danger you’re already in just by being near him. If Scott or Tempest found out how much you meant to him … the thought sends a wave of fear crashing over him. He can’t let that happen.

He feels you watching him, your smile fading slightly as you sense his inner turmoil. “Hey,” you say, your voice softer now, more serious. “You okay?”

Chan nods, forcing a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But you don’t buy it. “You know, you can talk to me, right? You don’t always have to be the tough guy. I mean, I know you’ve got the whole hero complex thing going on, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, your words hitting him like a punch to the gut. I’m not going anywhere. That’s what scares him. Because the more you stay, the more you get involved, the harder it’ll be to keep you safe.

You are halfway through reorganising your toolbox when you hear it – a heavy, deliberate knock on the garage door. There’s something about it, the measured calm, that instantly raises your hackles. You look around, and realise that the noise of your work and the bright lights above your head are dead giveaways that you’re still in the garage.

It’s not long before the knock comes again, and you get the sense that the third time won’t be so polite.

Swearing under your breath, you straighten up, trying to look as menacing as possible. You walk towards your door, not bothering to temper the sound of your footsteps. Your boots make a deliberate, echoing thud with each step as the tension in the room increases.

You yank the door open, not wanting to give whoever’s on the other side the satisfaction of forcing their way in. Two hulking figures fill the frame, their shadows stretching ominously into the garage. Their suits strain at the shoulders, muscles rippling beneath as they size you up. The one in front leans in slightly, his eyes cold and calculating.

“(Y/n),” he drawls, his voice a low rumble. “We need to have a word.”

The sound of your name rolling off his tongue makes your stomach twist, but you keep your expression hard, unflinching. Crossing your arms, keeping your stance wide and shoulders square, you look up and down at the man. “Funny. I’m not in the business of chit-chat. What do you want?”

The response doesn’t seem to satisfy them, and the next thing you know, you’re being hoisted up, your arms and legs swinging around furiously as the two men move you inside the garage, placing you down your desk chair.

The edge of your chair digs into your back as they force you into the center of the room. For a moment, panic surges, your heart hammering in your chest. Your breaths come quick and shallow, but then you see him.

The man from the crash steps into the light, his coat swaying slightly with each step as his eyes bore into yours, and the sight of him makes your blood run cold. His smile is familiar, twisted with cruelty, and it sends a wave of nausea through you. The two goons stand like statues beside you, blocking any potential escape route. You force yourself to stay calm, but the icy grip of fear claws at your chest.

“It’s nice to see you again, (Y/n).” He says smoothly, his voice laced with mockery. “Didn’t think I’d be back so soon, but it seems you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something … unfortunate, and Mr Scott doesn’t like his pets to disobey his orders.” He stops just in front of you, towering over where you sit, pinned by his presence.

You grit your teeth, struggling to keep your emotions in check. Rage simmers beneath the surface, but your heart is still racing. “If you’ve come for more trouble, you’re going to regret it,” you spit out, your voice sharp despite the tremor you feel inside. You flick your gaze toward the two muscle-bound men, wondering how quickly you can move if this gets ugly.

The man in the coat laughs, a sound that chills you to the bone. “Oh, I think it’s you who’s going to regret it, sweetheart.” He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your cheek. “You’ve made some... interesting friends lately. Friends like the Red Comet. And that’s got Mr. Scott very curious. He doesn’t like being curious.”

Your stomach drops.

“I fix cars,” you say flatly, keeping your eyes trained in front of you. “Whoever walks through that door looking for a tune-up isn’t my business. Now unless you’ve got something that needs fixing, get out of my shop.”

The man straightens up, his smile fading as he gestures to the two goons. “Search the place.” They don’t hesitate, immediately scattering toward your workbench and tool racks, tearing through the space without any regard for your belongings.

You try to keep your breathing steady, but your mind races. If they find anything – any trace of the tech that linked you to the Red Comet – it could be the end for you.

“Stop!” you shout, jerking forward, but the goon behind you grabs your arm, yanking you back into the chair. Pain lances through your shoulder, and you twist against his grip, muscles straining, but he’s too strong.

“You’ve made this harder than it had to be,” the man in the coat says, stepping forward, his voice a mockery of sympathy. “But all we need are answers. Tell us what we want, and we’ll leave you in one piece.”

Your pulse races as you glance around, weighing your options. The tools are scattered across the floor, too far to reach easily. You know how to fight, but outnumbered three to one, it’s going to be a challenge. The man in the coat watches you closely, as if waiting for you to make a move.

The sound of metal clattering to the floor grabs everyone’s attention. One of the goons has knocked over a pile of parts, and in the chaos, you see your opening. With every ounce of strength left in you, you twist, wrenching yourself free. The adrenaline surges, your muscles burning as you lunge toward the nearest workbench, your fingers closing around the heavy wrench.

The sickening crack of metal meeting bone echoes through the garage as you swing the wrench at the goon’s head. He stumbles back, cursing in pain, but there’s no time to hesitate. Your breath is ragged, each gasp like fire in your lungs, and you scramble to your feet, racing toward the door.

But before you can make it, the second goon blocks your path. His fist swings toward you, and you barely duck in time, the force of the hit grazing your shoulder. The pain is sharp, but you ignore it, bringing the wrench up again and slamming it into his midsection. He doubles over with a grunt.

Before you can make it to the door, though, the man in the coat grabs you by the wrist, twisting your arm painfully behind your back.

“You should’ve stayed out of this,” he snarls, his voice dripping with venom. His grip tightens, and you bite back a cry as the pressure mounts, your muscles screaming in protest.

Just as you think he’s about to slam you into the ground, the door bursts open with a crash. In a blur of motion, the Red Comet sprints into the room, his fists a flurry of movement as he takes down the first goon in seconds.

His eyes lock onto yours, fury blazing behind his mask, and in a split second, he’s on the man in the coat. With a swift, brutal motion, he grabs him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The impact reverberates through the garage, shaking the shelves as tools rattle.

“If you ever touch them again,” the Red Comet growls, his voice low and dangerous, “you won’t be walking out of here.”

The man’s smug expression falters, but before he can respond, the Red Comet knocks him out with a single blow, the thud of his body hitting the ground echoing in the now silent room.

You collapse against the nearest wall, your breath ragged, your muscles trembling from the exertion. The garage is still, the only sound the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. The Red Comet turns to you, concern replacing the fury that had been there just moments before.

“Are you okay?” His voice is filled with worry as he steps closer, his hands hovering over your shoulders like he’s afraid to touch you, afraid you might break.

You nod, still catching your breath, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is shaky.

He shakes his head. “This is my fault. I should have never come here.”

You reach out, resting your hand on his arm. The fabric is terse and warm, and you can feel that his muscles are still tense beneath it. “I’m not some damsel in distress. I can handle myself.”

His jaw tightens for a moment, but he nods. “Still,” he says softly, “I’m sorry.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening as the weight of the situation settles between you.

The strained cough of one of the men is a quick reminder that the situation is yet to be over. You glance around, feeling panic building as you try to figure out what to do before they wake back up. “Do you have, like, protocol for this kind of thing?”

The Red Comet nods, his posture straightening as he seems to shift back into superhero mode. “Leave them with me.”

You hesitate, your eyes scanning the room again. The unconscious bodies of Mr. Scott’s men lay sprawled across the floor, and despite the superhero’s calm demeanour, the tension in the air still feels thick and suffocating. You want to argue, to insist that you stay and help clean up the mess. After all, this is your garage—they came here because of you.

But then you look over at him. His shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, but he seems more confident and sure of himself.

“I’ll be back,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “Fifteen minutes.”

He nods, his gaze never leaving yours. You can see the gratitude there, mixed with something deeper—something unspoken. And as you turn to leave, your heart feels heavy with the weight of everything unsaid between you.

You step outside, closing the garage door behind you and leaning against it, trying to steady your breathing. Your mind is spinning, replaying the events of the last few minutes over and over.

Fifteen minutes pass like a blur, and when you finally open the door again, the men are gone. The garage looks almost untouched, only the scatter of a few tools out of place letting you know that the confrontation ever happened. And the Red Comet is standing there, his back to you, head bowed slightly as if weighed down by something.

“All okay?” You call softly, stepping inside. Your voice feels too loud against the stillness.

He doesn’t respond at first. The silence that follows feels thick, uncomfortable, as though it's hiding words he’s not ready to speak. Your heart pounds harder in the quiet. You move forward, feeling unsure, and reach out to him, grabbing his arm and guiding him to sit with you at the workbench. His surprise flickers for a moment, but he doesn’t resist your touch.

"I can’t keep doing this,” he finally breaks the silence, his voice sounding so broken that it hurts to hear. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect you. That being around me doesn’t put you in danger.”

Your breath catches. For a split second, doubt clouds your mind – am I making a mistake being involved in this?

But before the uncertainty can take hold, you push it away. You take his covered hand in yours. “I know what I’m getting into. I knew the risks when I fixed your car, and I know them now. And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He exhales, shaking his head. “It’s different now. They know about you, and they almost hurt you.”

The words hang in the air between you, an admittance of the truth that feels too heavy. A cold chill runs through you, the fear creeping in despite your resolve. But hearing the despair in his voice—the way it trembles with guilt—makes you push past your own fear. Is it dangerous? Yes. But leaving him, letting him deal with this burden alone, feels worse.

Reaching out, you gently lift his chin so that he’s forced to look at you. A small, determined smile forms on your lips. “Hey, you may have saved the day, but I had it covered. Don’t underestimate my skill with a wrench.”

A choked, sob-like laugh leaves him, and his shoulders crumple slightly, releasing the bundle of stress he’d been holding.

“Look,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re just going to have to accept that I’m involved now; there’s nothing stopping that. And I don’t want it to. You’re not getting rid of me even if you try.”

A beat passes, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far. His posture is so still that you feel like you cannot move an inch either.

His hands are the first to move, slowly and a little shakily. When they reach the bottom of his mask, you realise what he’s trying to do.

In a flash, you pull your own hands back to cover your eyes, the instinct to respect his privacy taking over. “I’m sorry,” you blurt out, feeling awkward in the silence. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Don’t apologise,” His voice is softer now, more vulnerable. There’s a rawness you haven’t heard before, unfettered by material. You keep your hands over your eyes, and jolt slightly as you feel his own covering yours. His fingers wrap around delicately, and gently pull the cover away from you. “I want you to see me.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you open your eyes, your heart thudding in your chest.

When you look up, he’s there—entirely unmasked, fully exposed. Your lips part, and you instinctively reach out, your fingertips ghosting over his jawline. He lets you, his skin warm beneath your touch.

He’s beautiful, each feature perfectly balanced in its own way. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, a mix of concern, fear, and vulnerability that pulls at you. You can’t look away, and yet, you feel your attention drawn towards his soft, full lips.

For a moment, you just stare, processing the weight of what he’s just done. He’s standing in front of you, fully exposed, fully himself, no longer hidden behind the persona of the Red Comet.

And then you smile, a euphoric beam that lights up your face. The corners of his mouth perks up in response, slowly exposing his teeth and gums, and you realise that you’ve uncovered his most beautiful feature.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly, as if he’s afraid of what you might think now that you’ve seen him. “You’re too good for this, for all the danger that comes with me.”

You shake your head, your grip on his hand tightening as you refuse to look away from him. “That’s not for you to decide. I choose to be here, with you. And we’re going to figure it out. Together.”

His eyes search yours, and for the first time, your see something break in him – something deep and guarded that’s been locked away from far too long.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits softly, his voice trembling. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his words, and without thinking, you pull him into a hug. At first, he stiffens, like he’s not sure how to respond, but then, slowly, he wraps his arms around you, holding on tightly as if you’re the lifeline he didn’t know he needed.

“You won’t lose me,” you whisper into his shoulder, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “I’m right here.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The garage is quiet, the world outside seeming to fade away as the two of you sit there, holding onto each other in the dim light.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a softness in his eyes. “My name’s Chan. Lee Chan. I’d like you to know that, too.”

Your heart swells, and your head tilts forward. “Thank you for trusting me.” You say, hoping your sincerity is clear to him. “Chan.”

Hearing his name from your lips seems to soften his worry, bringing him a sense of calm. You both stay still, sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. The air between you feels charged with something unspoken. Your hand is still resting lightly on his cheek, your thumb brushing softly against his skin, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. His breathing hitches slightly. There’s a question in his eyes, a silent invitation.

Slowly, hesitantly, you close the distance between you. His breath mingles with yours, and just as your lips are about to meet, he pauses, as if giving you one last chance to pull away. But you don’t. You’re here, with him, and you want this.

When his lips finally press against yours, it’s soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of moving too fast. But then the kiss deepens, and all the tension, the fear, the vulnerability between you melts away. It’s as if everything you’ve both been holding back—the uncertainty, the emotions you couldn’t quite voice—comes rushing out in this one moment.

His hand moves to cup your face, pulling you closer as the kiss grows more urgent, more certain. You feel the warmth of his skin, the way his body moves against yours, and it’s like nothing else matters.

As you start to peel the suit from his body, careful to avoid touching the side he’d been stabbed, you reveal more and more of him. Your head swirls with thoughts of him – not just of the muscled body that now presses against yours, but of the vulnerability of the moment; the superhero allowing you to see all of him after so much hiding.

It makes you feel euphoric, being allowed a peak under the mask, knowing that he trusts you enough to let you.

As your own clothes are removed, you don’t feel any shyness. The tenderness of his reveal is enough to put you at ease, to want to give yourself to him.

He’s beautiful under your eyes, chest heaving as you wrap your legs over his, gently positioning yourself on top of him. The way your name falls from his lips, in the voice you know best of all, only makes you feel more eager to please him.

The movement of your bodies against each other is slow, subtle. It’s quiet, other than the breathy moans that escape you and him. It’s not the type of intimacy you’re used to – quick flings with rough strangers to satiate a need are completely different to the unhurried, deliberate push and pull between you.

It hits you part way through, as Chan’s hands flutter over your hips, that he must be holding back to not hurt you. A man with super strength, his grip the gentleness you’ve ever known. You wonder what it would be like to have him at full strength, pounding into you, another time. But, now, you’re addicted to the slow movements, the hesitant touches, and almost teasing way he’s dragging you both towards completion.

You fall flat onto him, your body twitching slightly with exhaustion as you finally reach the peak, unable to tear your eyes away from his face, scared that if you look away you’ll never see it again.

He’s panting beneath you, head thrown back in bliss, but he’s cradling your body, holding you up as you’re unable to do it yourself.

Here, curled up into his grasp, you feel the safest you’ve ever felt. You want to tell him as much, let him know how much you appreciate him, but you can’t say anymore, too fulfilled to do anything but let your eyes flicker shut.

The hum of the city has changed.

What once was the usual rhythm of car horns, distant chatter, and the thrum of daily life has been replaced by something more unsettling – a tension hanging in the air that you can feel in your bones. The streets seem quieter, but not in a peaceful way. It is the kind of quiet that came just before a storm. A charged silence.

You stand in the doorway of your garage, leaning against the frame, arms crossed as you take in the atmosphere of the Lower South Rim. Even in your rough corner of the city, people are moving differently. Heads down, quick steps, and nervous glances thrown over their shoulders. There are more empty storefronts than usual, their "closed" signs flipped down in the middle of the day.

The power cuts have been getting more frequent. A few seconds here and there at first, and then they started lasting longer—whole city blocks going dark for hours. You think back on what Chan said about Tempest, about his attacks on the power plants and grid, and wonder what the next step is.

You can hear the buzz of a TV playing from the diner across the street, the static of an emergency news broadcast cutting through the afternoon haze. The voice of the newscaster drifts through the open window, tired and strained.

‘...no official statement from the Mayor’s office yet, but sources say that tonight’s blackout could affect up to 40 percent of the city’s power grid...’

You can’t help but let out a slow breath, your eyes narrowing as you scan the horizon, the towering skyscrapers of downtown standing like sentinels in the distance. Even from here, you can feel the anxiety that’s creeping its way into the heart of the city. People are scared. And for good reason.

A flicker of movement catches your attention, and you glance down the street. Two men in heavy coats are standing outside the old hardware store, their eyes shifting nervously as they talk in low voices. Normally, you wouldn’t think twice about it, but something about their hurried conversation and the way they keep looking around sets off alarm bells in your head.

You strain to catch snippets of their conversation as they move closer to your side of the street.

"...another one tonight... Tempest, they say..."

"...power plant’s next... you hear about Brewer’s Quarter? That’s not just a coincidence..."

Your heart clenches at the mention of Tempest, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

The men glance your way, cutting their conversation short as they catch sight of you standing there. You raise your chin slightly, meeting their gaze, and they turn and disappear down an alley without another word.

For a second, you consider following them, but then you catch the low growl of an engine coming up the street. It’s a familiar sound—Chan’s car. The sleek, black frame pulls up in front of the garage, its polished exterior gleaming in the dull afternoon light.

His eyes meet yours as he gets out of he car, and you can see the tension in his shoulders, the faint lines of worry etched into his face.

“Another blackout,” you say, nodding toward the TV screen in the diner. “And it sounds like Tempest is involved.”

Chan’s gaze flickers toward the diner as he listens to the broadcast for a moment. Then he looks back at you, his voice low. “It’s worse than that. I think I’ve figured out what Tempest and Scott are planning.”

You frown, stepping aside so that he can follow you into the garage. The heavy steel door shuts behind him with a dull clang, sealing the two of you away from the restless streets outside. The familiar smell of oil wraps around you like a protective barrier, but even in here the tension of the city’s looming crisis feels suffocating.

“What’d you find out?” You ask, your voice low with concern as you monitor the stormy look on his face. Your hand stretches out, instinctively wanting to make him feel better, and you settle it on his shoulder, drawing small circles on the tense skin.

He rolls his neck, letting out a long sigh. “Tempest is targeting the main power plant. If he pulls this off, it’s not just going to be a few blackouts. The whole city will go dark. Emergency services, hospitals, everything will be offline.”

Your stomach drops. “He wants to take out the whole grid?”

Chan nods, his eyes hard. “And Scott’s working with him. He’s planning to seize control of the city once Tempest throws everything into disorder. They’ve been building towards this for weeks. Those smaller blackouts were just tests. Tonight’s the real deal.”

A chill runs down your spine as the weight of the situation sinks in. The whole city could be plunged into darkness – people trapped in hospitals, traffic systems down, everything coming to a halt. And in the chaos, Scott would swoop in, consolidating power and taking control while everyone else is scrambling to survive.

“How do we stop them?” You ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Chan straightens up, his gaze snapping round to you. “Nuh-uh, there’s no ‘we’. I’m not letting you put yourself in danger.”

You feel a slight prickle of irritation that he doesn’t trust you enough to let you help, but its tempered as you realise that he just cares about you. But, he’s wrong, and you think he knows it. There’s no way that he’s going to be able to stop Tempest and Scott at the same time, and your engineering expertise is too useful in this situation for him to stick you at home.

“Chan,” you say, softly, watching him shiver as you say his name. “There’s no way that you can do this alone. Please, let me help.”

The air between you feels charged, as if the storm Tempest is brewing outside has somehow seeped into the garage, thickening the tension. Chan’s eyes flash with conflict, his body tensing further at your words. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he looks away, his gaze fixating on the far wall as if searching for the right words there.

“No,” he says, but his voice is softer than before, lacking the firm conviction you were expecting. “I can’t risk it.”

Your hand remains on his shoulder, your fingers still tracing soothing circles, but you can feel the tension rippling beneath his skin. He’s at war with himself, caught between wanting to protect you and knowing deep down that you’re right.

“Chan,” you say again, more firmly this time. His name feels like a thread that connects the two of you, tugging at something vulnerable and raw beneath his guarded exterior. And when his eyes finally meet yours, there’s a flicker of fear, not for the situation, but fear for you.

“You’re not a liability,” you continue, your voice gentle but steady. “You know I’m not. I can help with this. You need me.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration, his fingers tangling briefly in the strands. “It’s not that I don’t think you can help. I know you can. That’s what scares me.” His voice is strained, the words heavy with the weight of something unspoken. “If anything happens to you…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. You can see the battle playing out in his mind—the need to keep you safe warring with the reality of what’s at stake. He’s terrified of losing you, of dragging you into a world of danger that he’s never wanted for you.

And you have to decide for yourself too. The city’s fate hangs in the balance, and you can viscerally feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders. This isn’t something you’ve done before, you’re not superhuman like he is, and even if you have a good swing, you’re not a trained fighter.

But, as the fear about what will happen to you ripples between you, you feel your own fear for him fighting back, equally as strong. “If you go out there alone, you might not come back. And then what? What do you think that’ll do to me?” You step closer, your hand sliding down from his shoulder to his chest. His heart is pounding beneath your touch.

He freezes at your words, his breath catching. You watch as his defences start to crack, realising that everything he’s feeling about you, you’re mirroring straight back to him.

“I’m not asking you to put me in harm’s way,” you continue, your voice soft but insistent. “But we’re a team. We’ve been through enough together that you know I can handle myself. And you know I won’t sit by while the city falls apart.”

His eyes close briefly, as if he’s trying to block out the truth in your words.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re filled with a mix of longing and fear, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You mean too much to me,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if admitting it aloud makes it too real. “I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

Your breath hitches at the vulnerability in his voice, at the raw emotion that’s finally breaking through. The tension between you tightens, like a taut wire about to snap. The air feels electric, charged not just with the danger outside, but with the undeniable pull between the two of you.

You step even closer, your body now inches from his. “Then don’t push me away,” you murmur, your hand still resting over his heart. “Let me stand by your side, Chan. We’re stronger together.”

For a split second, you think he’s going to close the distance, to give in to the longing that’s been simmering beneath the surface. His gaze flickers down to your lips, his breath coming quicker as he leans in just a fraction.

But then, just as quickly, he pulls back, taking a step away from you. The sudden distance feels like a physical blow, and you can see the pain in his eyes as he forces himself to pull away.

“Alright,” he says quietly, his voice filled with resignation. “But we do this my way.”

Relief washes over you, but it’s tempered by the new distance between you.

Chan straightens up, his face set with grim determination. You watch him morph into superhero-mode, no longer the man you know. “We go to the plant. Tempest won’t go down easy, but he’s not the brains behind this. Scott’s pulling the strings. Tempest just wants to destroy—Scott wants control. If we can cut off their communication and disable whatever tech Scott’s got rigged at the plant, we might have a shot at stopping them both.”

You let out a slow breath. “And what do you want me to do?”

“I’ll need you to guide me through the plant while I handle Tempest.” Chan continues, his voice frighteningly calm.

You watch as he begins emptying out his backpack – things you don’t recognise but know are meant for the kind of fight that’s coming. His suit comes out next, and you realise that you shouldn’t go in there unprotected either.

As if having the same thought, he pulls out a set of spare clothes. They’re his, and they sit slightly too large on you, but they give you some protection and hide your identity.

He moves to the garage door, pushing it open to reveal the darkening city streets beyond. The sun is already starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the buildings.

"We’ve got maybe an hour before they hit the plant," Chan says, his voice low and urgent. "We need to get there before Scott’s men lock it down."

You follow him to the car, your heart pounding in your chest as you climb into the passenger seat. The engine roars to life, and within seconds, you’re speeding through the streets of the Lower South Rim. The city rushes by in a blur of neon lights and dark alleys, but all you can think about is what’s waiting for you at the power plant.

The power plant looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the evening sky. The hum of machinery grows louder as Chan and you approach, its rhythmic thrum pulsing through the ground beneath your feet. The towering smoke and tangled networks of high-voltage lines have Chan biting his lip in anticipation of what sort of damage Tempest could do in this place.

He stops the car just outside the perimeter fence, far enough away to avoid being spotted by the guards patrolling the gates. He cuts the engine, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant buzz of electricity and the faint whistle of the wind through the nearby trees.

“We go in quiet.” Chan says, turning towards you. He feels almost unable to meet your eyes, and is suddenly grateful that the mask means that you cannot see his. His voice sounds urgent, pleading, and all he wants to do is tell you to stay here. But, instead, he has to be content with urging you to stay safe. “Tempest will be inside by now, and Scott’s men will be guarding every entrance.”

You follow his lead, slipping out of the car and crouching low as you both move toward the fence. The power plant’s lights flicker sporadically, casting eerie shadows across the yard.

“Here,” he whispers, pointing to a section of the fence he’d scouted out earlier that day. “There’s a gap in the security feed by the northeast corner. We can slip through there without setting off the alarms.”

You nod, your eyes scanning the perimeter for any sign of movement.

Chan pulls out a small cutting tool from his belt and makes quick work of the chain-link, creating a narrow opening just wide enough for the two of you to slip through.

"Stay close," Chan whispers, pulling you to your feet as the two of you creep through the shadows toward one of the smaller side entrances.

The place is heavily guarded – more than he expected. Groups of armed men patrol the exterior, their faces hidden behind black masks, each carrying enough firepower to take out half the neighbourhood. He can count at least three groups circling the building, their movement precise and practiced.

"They’re serious," you murmur under your breath, ducking behind a stack of shipping crates as one of the patrols passes dangerously close.

"Scott doesn’t leave anything to chance," Chan replies, his eyes narrowed as he watches the guards move. "But we’ve got an advantage. They don’t know we’re coming."

He feels like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“Can we take them?” You ask, glancing over. He has to stifle a small laugh, taken off guard by your instinct to run right into the fray of it.

Pulling a small device from his pocket, he shows it to you. “We don’t have to. This will scramble their comms for a few minutes – just long enough for us to get inside without raising the alarm.”

He activates the device and tosses it towards the guard post. Within seconds, the guards’ radios crackle with static, and they begin frantically tapping at their earpieces, trying to regain contact with their base.

"Now," Chan whispers, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door.

You move quickly together, your footsteps silent against the concrete as you weave through the shadows. The guards are distracted, their attention focused on their malfunctioning radios, and you slip past them without a sound. It feels almost too easy, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

As you reach the door, Chan presses his hand against the electronic keypad, and the door clicks open with a soft hiss. You slip inside, the dimly lit hallway stretching out before you. The air inside the power plant is thick with the smell of metal and oil, the low hum of the generators reverberating through the walls. He wonders if it smells is at least a little comforting to you.

"This way," Chan says, nodding toward the far end of the corridor. "We need to reach the control room. If Scott’s got his tech set up, that’s where it’ll be." His eyes dart around the darkened hallway. The place feels like a maze—industrial pipes and steel beams crisscrossing overhead, the walls lined with electrical panels and junction boxes. Every corner feels like a potential ambush, every shadow a threat.

"How far to the control room?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"Two floors up," Chan replies, glancing over his shoulder at you. "There’s a service elevator near the back. We can use it to bypass the main floors."

Just as you reach the service elevator, a crackling voice echoes through the plant’s PA system, sending a chill down Chan’s spine.

‘All units, be advised: intruders detected. Sweep the lower floors. Shoot on sight.’

Chan curses under his breath, his fingers hovering over the elevator button. "We don’t have time for subtle anymore," he mutters, pressing the button as the sound of footsteps and barking orders echo through the corridors behind you.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and you and Chan slip inside, the doors closing just as the first group of guards rounds the corner. He catches a glimpse of their rifles as they move past, their boots thudding against the concrete. He takes the moment to glance over at you, and although he knows you’ve seen the guards as well, you appear steady and calm.

The doors slide open with a soft hiss, and you step out into a narrow hallway, the control room just ahead. But before you can move, Chan grabs your arm, his eyes wide with urgency.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice low and serious. "Once we’re inside, things are going to get messy. I need you to stay close, and if things go south, you get out. No arguments. Just run."

You blink, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. "What are you talking about? I’m not leaving you in there alone."

Chan’s grip tightens slightly, his gaze locking with yours. "If something happens to me, you need to get out. Promise me."

You open your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stops you cold. He’s not asking. He’s telling you.

Swallowing hard, you nod. "Okay. I promise."

Chan lets out a breath, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "Good."

He releases your arm, and the two of you move toward the control room. The door is just ahead, the hum of machinery louder than ever as you approach.

With one final glance at Chan, you push the door open.

The massive door creaks open, revealing the control room – sprawling, cold, and sterile. Row upon row of screens flicker with data, tracking every part of the city’s power grid. You can see the central control panel at the far end, its flashing lights indicating the system's full capacity. If Tempest gets his way, the entire city will be plunged into chaos.

But there’s no time to appreciate the magnitude of it all.

Standing next to the control panel, you see Tempest for the first time. His eyes glow with a crackling blue energy that dances along his fingertips. His face is twisted in a cold, sinister smile as he watches the screens.

At the far end of the room, perched in front of one of the larger monitors, is Mr Scott. He’s leaning back in his chair, completely at ease, his sharp suit unwrinkled, as if this whole operation is just another day at the office. His eyes flicker toward you and Chan as you enter, a slow, calculated smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, well," Scott drawls, his voice oozing with smug confidence. "The city’s little hero, right on schedule. And you brought company. How quaint."

Tempest’s gaze snaps toward you, the crackling energy in his hands intensifying. His grin widens, and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as the air around him grows charged with electricity.

"Red Comet," Tempest growls, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "I’ve been waiting for this."

Chan tenses beside you, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to explode. You can see the weight of the situation bearing down on him, the knowledge that every second counts. One wrong move, and Tempest will fry the entire plant.

But it’s Scott’s next words that make your blood run cold.

"I’m impressed, Red Comet," Scott continues, his voice smooth as silk. "Not many people would be brave—or foolish—enough to bring someone they care about into a situation like this."

His eyes flick toward you, and suddenly, you realize what’s happening. Scott knows. He’s figured out who you are, and worse, he’s figured out how much you mean to Chan.

For a moment, everything seems to freeze. You can feel the weight of Chan’s gaze on you, the unspoken fear that he’s been trying to keep hidden now laid bare.

"Don’t listen to him," Chan whispers, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "He’s just trying to get in your head."

But Scott’s smile only widens, his eyes gleaming with malicious glee. "Oh, I don’t need to get in your head. I’ve already won. Tempest, if you’d be so kind…"

Tempest raises his hand, and in an instant, the air around you crackles with electricity. You can feel the charge building, the hair on your arms standing on end as the temperature in the room seems to spike. The power plant’s machinery groans in protest, the lights flickering as Tempest channels his energy into the room.

Chan reacts in a flash, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind one of the large control consoles just as a bolt of lightning crashes into the floor where you were standing. The air is filled with the smell of burning metal, and the ground shakes beneath you as Tempest unleashes another wave of energy, sending sparks flying.

"You okay?" Chan asks, his voice tight with worry as he crouches beside you, his back pressed against the console.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. "Yeah. I’m fine."

But there’s no time to catch your breath. The room is a war zone now—Tempest’s lightning bolts crackle through the air, shattering monitors and sending showers of sparks raining down around you. Scott’s men scramble for cover, their rifles raised, but they’re clearly outmatched by Tempest’s raw power.

Chan’s eyes scan the room, searching for an opening. " “We need to split them up,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the room. “I’ll keep Tempest busy. You get to the control panel and shut down the grid. That’ll cut his power supply.”

His body softens for a second, as if he’s realised something. “Please, be safe. I lo-”

A spike of panic riles your body, and you put your finger on his lips, shaking your head. “Not now. Afterwards.” You know what he’s doing, giving you one last goodbye in case something goes wrong, but you’re not going to let that happen.

With one last look, Chan stands, his body moving with a grace and fluidity that belies the tension in the air. "Tempest!" he shouts, drawing the villain’s attention away from the rest of the room.

Tempest’s head snaps toward him, his eyes narrowing as a cruel smile spreads across his face. "Running away already, hero?"

Chan doesn’t respond. Instead, he leaps into action, moving with lightning speed as he closes the distance between himself and Tempest. The two of them clash in a violent burst of energy, Chan’s fists moving in a blur as he dodges and weaves around Tempest’s attacks.

You watch in awe for a moment, until the pair crash out of the control room, leaving you alone with your task. And Mr Scott.

Ducking low, you sprint across the room, weaving between the shattered remains of monitors and control panels until you reach the central console. Your heart pounds as you reach the panel, your fingers trembling as you start scanning for the emergency shutoff switch.

The control panel is a mess—wires sparking, glass shattered—but you spot the emergency switch buried beneath a layer of debris. Just as your hand reaches for it, a shadow falls over you.

“Now, now,” a smooth, chilling voice says. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you turn to see Mr. Scott standing just a few feet away. His expression is cool and collected, but there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“Did you really think I’d let you shut down my operation so easily?” Scott steps closer, his presence suffocating as he corners you against the control panel. “You’ve been very helpful, of course, playing your little part. But I’m afraid your time’s up.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, your voice trembling slightly but defiant. “You can’t win this.”

Scott chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Oh, I already have. Tempest is keeping your little hero occupied. You really think Chan can save the city and you?” He steps even closer, his eyes narrowing. “He’s going to have to choose. And I know what heroes always choose—they save the city, and they let the people they care about burn.”

Fear claws at your chest. Scott’s words are like poison, seeping into your mind. You know Chan, you trust him, but in this moment, Scott’s chilling logic feels too real. You glance at the control panel, your fingers brushing against the switch. If you could just reach it…

But Scott is faster. He lunges, grabbing your wrist in a crushing grip, and slams your hand down on the panel, pinning you in place. “You’re not going anywhere,” he sneers.

Panic surges through you. You try to struggle, but Scott’s hold is like iron, unyielding. Your mind races, heart pounding as you glance desperately toward the outside, but Chan is nowhere to be seen.

Scott’s grip tightens on your wrist, and he leans in close, his voice a cold whisper in your ear. “See? He can’t save you. He’s too busy fighting for his precious city. And you… well, you’re just collateral damage.”

You grit your teeth, anger rising in you as Scott’s taunts cut deep. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot something – a heavy metal pipe, half-buried under a pile of debris.

Without hesitation, you spit in Mr Scott’s face.

He staggers back slightly, a furious yell retching out of his mouth. It’s all you need. You lunge forward, loosening his grip on your wrist, and close your free hand around the cold metal. With all the strength you can muster, you swing the pipe up and slam it into Scott’s arm.

He curses, and you yank your hand free. You fall backwards, breathless and shaking, but you don’t hesitate. You dive for the emergency shutoff switch, slamming your hand down on it. The room plunges into darkness as the power grid shuts off, the hum of electricity fading into silence.

Chan barely has time to move before Tempest is on him, unleashing a bolt of lightning that crackles through the air with a deafening roar. The strike slams into Chan’s side, sending him flying across the room. He crashes into a metal column, the impact knowing the wind out of him.

Tempest strides forward, his eyes glowing an eerie blue as arcs of electricity pulse around him. His grin is wide, feral, and filled with malice.

Chan groans, pushing himself up on shaky arms, his muscles screaming in protest. The force of the lightning has left a sharp, burning pain radiating through his body, his skin tingling and raw from the electric blast. He staggers to his feet, trying to catch his breath, but there’s no time. Tempest’s next attack is already coming—a barrage of lightning bolts raining down from above.

Chan dives to the side, rolling behind the column as the floor where he stood moments ago explodes in a shower of sparks and shattered concrete. The heat from the lightning is intense, the air thick with the smell of ozone and scorched metal.

He grits his teeth, struggling to keep his focus. Tempest is stronger than ever, feeding off the power grid, the electricity in the room swirling around him like a living thing. Every movement is effortless, every attack precise and brutal. Chan’s every muscle aches, and he can feel the burn of his injuries starting to slow him down.

He knows he’s outmatched while Tempest is drawing power from the grid, but there’s no backing down now. The city’s fate—and yours—rests on him holding Tempest off long enough for you to shut down the power.

He darts out from cover, launching himself toward Tempest in a blur of movement. His fists connect with Tempest’s chest in a rapid series of strikes, each punch landing with a dull thud against the villain’s armour. But Tempest barely flinches, his body crackling with electricity, his smirk widening as he grabs Chan by the arm, sending a surge of lightning coursing through him.

Chan screams, his body convulsing in pain as the electricity sears through his nerves. His vision blurs, his muscles locking up as he struggles to break free. Tempest's grip tightens, his laughter booming like thunder as he watches Chan writhe in agony.

"Pathetic," Tempest sneers, throwing Chan across the room like a ragdoll. Chan crashes into a bank of machinery, the sharp edges biting into his back as he collapses to the ground. His chest heaves, his body shaking uncontrollably from the aftershocks of the lightning. Every nerve feels raw, every movement like fire.

For a moment, he can barely move. He hears Tempest’s footsteps approaching, the crackling energy growing louder with each step. Chan’s vision swims as he tries to push himself up, his limbs sluggish, the weight of the fight pressing down on him. Tempest looms over him, the villain’s eyes glowing brighter as he raises his hand, ready to deliver the final blow.

“You’re done, Comet,” Tempest growls. “Your city is done.”

Chan’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his mind racing. He’s out of options, out of strength. But then, through the haze of pain, he thinks of you. You’re trying to shut down the grid—buying him time, risking your life to stop Tempest. He can’t let you down. He can’t let you face this alone.

With a pained groan, Chan forces himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he stands. His body protests every movement, but he grits his teeth, pushing through the pain. He raises his fists, squaring his shoulders as he locks eyes with Tempest. “I’m not done yet,” he growls, his voice filled with defiance.

Tempest’s smile falters for a moment, irritation flashing across his face. “You should’ve stayed down,” he spits, raising both hands, lightning coiling around his arms in a deadly swirl.

The air hums with electric tension, and for a heartbeat, time seems to freeze. Chan braces himself for the incoming strike, every instinct screaming at him to dodge, to move, but his body is slow to respond, his muscles stiff from the earlier shocks. He knows he’s not fast enough. Not this time.

But just as Tempest unleashes the full force of his power, the room suddenly plunges into darkness. The lights flicker once, then die. The hum of electricity disappears, leaving only silence in its wake.

Tempest freezes, his hands still crackling with fading energy, but his powers falter—flickering like a dying flame. His eyes widen in shock as the realization hits him.

The power grid is down.

Chan feels the shift immediately. The oppressive weight of Tempest’s electric aura vanishes, the air stilling as the last crackle of lightning fizzles out. Tempest stumbles, his control over the electric currents slipping through his fingers.

Chan takes the opportunity. With Tempest momentarily weakened, he surges forward, his body moving on pure adrenaline. His fist connects with Tempest’s jaw in a brutal uppercut, sending the villain staggering back. Before Tempest can recover, Chan grabs him by the collar, pulling him close.

“This ends now,” Chan growls through gritted teeth.

Tempest’s eyes widen in fury, but without the power grid to fuel him, his strength is faltering. Chan slams him into the ground, pinning him with a knee to the chest. Tempest struggles, his hands sparking weakly with residual electricity, but it’s no use. The fight has been drained out of him.

From across the room, he hears your voice crackle through the earpiece. “I did it—the power’s down, but—Scott’s here! I need—”

Your voice cuts off suddenly, and Chan’s heart drops.

“Hold on,” he mutters, his grip tightening on Tempest’s collar. He delivers one final punch to the villain, knocking him out cold, before rising to his feet, every part of him screaming in pain. But there’s no time to rest. You’re in danger, and Scott is still out there.

Without hesitation, Chan takes off, sprinting through the now-darkened room, desperate to reach you before it’s too late.

Chan races through the maze of darkened corridors, his heart pounding in his chest, every step driving him closer to you. His breath is ragged, and every muscle in his body aches, but the thought of you alone, facing Scott, fuels him. He can’t let anything happen to you. Not after everything.

He rounds a corner and skids to a halt as he hears voices ahead—yours and Scott’s. The sound sends a chill down his spine, the urgency in your voice mixing with the low, taunting rumble of Scott’s.

“I told you,” Scott says, his tone dripping with mockery. “Your little boyfriend can’t save you. He’s too busy with Tempest to even know you’re in danger.”

Chan’s heart clenches at Scott’s words, and he presses himself against the wall, moving silently toward the source of the sound. He peers around the corner and his blood runs cold.

There you are, backed into a corner near the control panel, Scott towering over you with a cruel smile on his face. His fingers trace a small, menacing blade in his hand, the tip glinting in the dim emergency lights. You’re holding your own, standing tall despite the fear that’s clear in your eyes, but Chan can see the tension in your shoulders.

Chan's breath catches in his throat as he watches the scene unfold. His first instinct is to charge in, but something makes him hesitate, his heart pounding even harder. It's you—there’s something in the way you’re standing, the way your movements subtly inch you towards the metal pipe lying next to the control centre. You’re not just holding your own—you’re planning something.

“I’ve been in worse situations,” you say, your voice tight but steady, the words slipping through gritted teeth. “And you’re not nearly as intimidating as you think.”

Scott laughs, a low, cruel sound. He steps closer, the tip of the blade catching the dim light, and Chan tenses.

“I’m not looking to intimidate,” Scott sneers, “I’m just making a point. Once Tempest brings the city to its knees, people like you won’t have a place anymore. There won’t be anyone to run to. No heroes. No Red Comet to save you.”

You shift slightly, your gaze flickering to the corner of the room. Chan follows, and his heart skips a beat as he spots it – a small metal canister tucked away near the base of one of the computer systems.

“Shut up,” you snap, your voice filled with a fiery determination Chan has always admired in you. “You talk too much.”

Scott’s smirk falters for a second, and in that moment, you move. In one swift motion your hand snatches up the heavy pipe from the floor and, with all the strength you can muster, hurl it towards the canister of compressed air.

The wrench strikes the canister with a sharp clang, and for a heartbeat, nothing happens. Scott’s eyes widen, his smirk faltering as he processes what you’ve just done. Then, with a deafening whoosh, the canister bursts open, releasing a blast of compressed air with explosive force. The sudden eruption knocks over machinery, sending a wave of sparks into the air, and ignites a small fire as it hits an exposed electrical panel.

Chan darts in, fear spiking as the room plunges into chaos.

Scott stumbles back, his arrogant composure shattering as the explosion disorients him. He throws his arms up to shield his face from the heat and debris, his confident swagger replaced with pure instinctual panic.

"WHAT—" Scott shouts, but his words are drowned out by the roar of the flames licking at the side of the control panel, smoke curling into the air. The ground trembles beneath your feet as the machinery in the room jolts, sparking uncontrollably from the burst.

You dive forward, using the confusion to close the distance between you and Scott. He’s still reeling, eyes darting around the room in shock, trying to regain his bearings, but you’re faster. You slam your shoulder into him, knocking him off balance. His knife clatters to the floor as he stumbles, barely catching himself on the edge of a console.

“No more talking,” you grit out, grabbing a broken-off piece of equipment from the floor. You swing it with precision, striking Scott’s leg just below the knee. He cries out, collapsing to the floor in a heap, pain and fury etched across his face.

You step back, panting heavily, and spot Chan. He’s standing in the doorway, his chest heaving with exertion, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and relief. For a moment, the noise and confusion around you both seem to fade, leaving only the two of you. His gaze flickers from you to Scott lying on the floor, and then back to you. He can’t help but be overwhelmed with pride for you.

He rushes forward, dodging a sparking cable that snaps to the ground beside him. “Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice filled with barely contained urgency. His hands hover near your shoulders, wanting to touch, to check for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you breathe out, though your hands tremble. “I had it under control.”

Chan shakes his head, disbelief mingling with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I saw that.”

Before he can finish, a groan from the floor snaps both of your attention back to Scott, who is struggling to push himself up, his face contorted in pain. His eyes, wild with anger, lock onto you and Chan, but there’s a flicker of something else there—fear.

“You think this is over?” Scott spits, his voice hoarse and filled with venom. “Tempest is already—”

“-is already beaten.” Chan cuts in, his voice low and dangerous. He steps forward, his body tensed like a spring coiled up, waiting for a release. Scott’s arrogant demeanour falters. His eyes flicker between you and Chan, weighing his options, and for the first time, it’s clear—he knows he’s lost control.

Scott's face twists in frustration as he struggles to comprehend his downfall. His once smooth and confident façade now appears cracked, broken by the realization that his carefully orchestrated plan has failed.

"You’re finished," Chan growls, stepping closer, his presence looming over Scott like a shadow. "Tempest is down, and your men are scattered. It’s over."

Scott’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists as he scrambles to pull himself together, grasping for the last shred of control. "You don’t understand," he spits. "You might’ve stopped me here, but this city... it’s already rotting. You can’t save everyone, and when it crumbles, you’ll fall with it."

Chan’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t flinch. "Maybe. But not today."

With a final blow, Chan knocks him unconscious. The room falls silent except for the distant crackle of the damaged electronics and the faint hum of the emergency lights flickering on.

As Chan turns to face you, his features softened in the dim light, a sense of relief washes over both of you.

He steps closer, searching your eyes for any lingering fear or doubt. But instead, he only finds exhaustion and a shared understanding of what you’ve both just survived. His hand reaches out, cupping your cheek gently as his thumb brushes against your skin, wiping away the smudge of ash from the battle.

His breath hitches, the emotion of it all threatening to overwhelm him as you stare at each other. He takes a deep breath, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly, afraid to let go. You cling to him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, a grounding rhythm to remind you that you’re both still here.

“I’m not letting you go,” Chan says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Not now, not ever.”

You smile, your heart swelling as you look into his eyes. “Good,” you whisper back. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, with the city still buzzing in the background, the chaos subsiding, and the weight of the battle falling away, Chan closes the gap between you, pulling his mask out of the way, and kisses you. It’s slow and deliberate, filled with the kind of tenderness that only comes from knowing that you’ve both found each other on the other side of something dark and dangerous.

And as you pull back, resting your forehead against his, he knows that whatever the future holds, you’ll face it together.

You look up at him, your eyes sparkling under the glowing light of the plant. A small, soft smile curves your lips, your face contorting as if you’ve remembered something important. “I love you.”

Chan’s entire body stutters at your words. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s complete still, feeling like the world has stopped spinning around him.

“I love you,” you repeat, your voice quieter now, more certain. The words hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw, yet filled with a warmth that settles into every corner of the moment.

Chan exhales slowly, his grip on you tightening just a little, as if anchoring himself to the reality of what you’ve just said. His hand slides up to cup your face, his thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek. He opens his mouth, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I love you too. And I don’t know how to do that without pulling you into this fight, but I know that I can’t keep pretending that I don’t feel this.”

The world outside might be chaotic, and the battles ahead uncertain, but right here, in this moment, everything feels clear.

Chan pulls back slightly, looking down at you with a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy. “Whatever happens next, we’ve got this,” he says softly, his voice steady with conviction.

And you know, without a doubt, that he’s right.

[radiosteve]

Call Me At Midnight

Summary: Your friend Steve invites you over for a late night movie. But you don't really like each other that much, right?

Note: Here's a shorter fic based on the song Apple Cider by beabadoobee. Hope you like it!

Warnings: No use of y/n, friends to lovers, a curse word or two?

Pairings: Steve Harrington x reader

Word count: 3.1k

The wind rattled brutally against your bedroom window, although you were none the wiser. Instead, you were lying face down in your bed, arms cradling your head as soft snores exuded from your lips. It's not like you meant to fall asleep when you got home from work, but the hours of standing on your feet and making coffees really did you in. So, when you toed off your shoes and laid back in your bed at 6 p.m., you couldn’t help but lose your ongoing battle with consciousness and let your eyes flutter shut. It was nice to get some shut-eye after a long day, even if it was short-lived. 

The telephone on your nightstand rang out, reverberating off the walls and waking you from your slumber. Your hand shot out on instinct, grabbing the receiver to quell the incessant ringing. It finally stopped as you peeled your eyes open and brought the phone up to your ear. 

“Hello?” you asked, voice strained and groggy with sleep. You were met with a chuckle on the other end of the line as you ran your hand over your face, attempting to rub the drowsiness from your eyes. It was a warm sound, like a blazing roar in the fireplace that encased the entire room in heat.

“Sorry grandma, didn’t realize you went to bed so early,” the smooth voice of Steve Harrington echoed through the phone. You and Steve had been friends for a while, meeting through Robin and the insanity that was working at Scoops Ahoy. Your eyes drifted to the alarm clock on your nightstand, its face reading 12:01 a.m. 

“Don’t grandma me. It's after midnight, which is a perfectly reasonable hour to be asleep,” you defended yourself, throat still hoarse as you slowly withdrew from your sleep-induced haze. “Why’d you call anyways?” you asked bluntly, wanting to cut to the chase and wondering why you were awoken.

“Wanted to know if you’d come over and watch The Princess Bride. I know you’ve been dying to see it and I finally snagged a copy from work,” Steve said, brushing his sweaty palms against his jeans. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous about asking you to come over. It's not like this would be a date, and he didn’t even like you that much, right? You considered his offer, going back and forth between how late it was and how much you wanted to watch The Princess Bride. The latter won. 

“Alright, I’ll be there in ten. But just know, I’m coming over for the movie, not you,” you shrugged on a sweater, struggling to keep the phone to your ear as you did. It was your favorite sweater, a forest green cable knit that was soft to the touch. Steve had complimented it once, said that it looked good on you, and from then on you found yourself wearing it more and more, though you didn’t like to read into why.

“Noted. See you soon, grandma,” Steve spoke through the phone, a smirk that you couldn’t see dancing on his lips. He hung up just in time to hear your groan from the other end, which only encouraged his smile to stretch further. 

The drive to Steve’s house never took very long, usually the duration of a song and a half from whatever pop station your radio was tuned to at the time. Steve’s house was dark when you arrived, no light seeping through the cold, empty window panes. It almost made you question if he was actually home, though you knew he was. The driveway remained empty too, save for Steve’s car, indicating that his parents were off on another business trip without him. Your car pulled up behind Steve’s in the driveway, the sound of some Tears For Fears song cutting off as you came to a stop and turned off the engine. You took a moment before getting out, trying to control the butterflies that suddenly bubbled up in your stomach. It’s just Steve. A loud thump startled you from your thoughts. Turning towards the window you found Steve knocking on it with a blanket wrapped around his head and shoulders.

“The hell are you doing?” you asked, getting out of the car and closing the door behind you. He looked like a baby swaddled in a blanket, the soft material obscuring his voluminous hair.

“E.T. phone home,” he outstretched his hand with his index finger jutting out towards you. It was his typical goofy Steve antics and you couldn’t let him know how much you enjoyed it. It’d go straight to his fluffy-haired head.

“Fuck off,” you smacked his hand away with a smile, walking towards the steps that led to the front door. Steve trailed behind you snickering to himself while his eyes drifted down your figure. He’d moved the blanket down from his head, letting it hang over his broad shoulders instead. His hair was disheveled, brown locks wildly out of place. It made you want to run your hands through his hair, tug on its strands, and bring him closer, hovering your lips close to his. But you didn’t.

With the turn of the knob, you opened the door, snapping your thoughts back to their regularly scheduled programming. You migrated to the couch across from the TV, taking a seat on its soft cushions while Steve disappeared to the kitchen.

“Want some apple cider? I just got it from the farmers market this morning,” Steve called out to you, catching the nod of your head that just barely peeked over the couch. The two of you bonded over your shared love of apple cider, ignoring Robin’s protests of how it was too appley, whatever the hell that means. You stood up, inserting the tape into the VCR and prepping the movie while Steve grabbed the snacks. He returned as the previews began to play, setting two glasses of apple cider and a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. 

You’d expected him to sit down then and join you on the couch. But he didn’t, wandering off back into the kitchen. You refocused your attention on the TV, watching a preview for a movie that you’d already seen so you seemed less interested in what Steve was doing. It was then that his head popped up next to you. Steve’s face was close to yours, only inches apart, as he leaned over the back of the couch to face you. You could smell his shampoo, its distinct scent reminding you of fruit punch.

“Left or right?” he asked and your eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“What are you talking about?” you questioned, unwilling to comply with whatever he was doing until you knew more.

“Just choose,” Steve insisted and you rolled your eyes. You studied him, searching for a sign of which one to choose. After a moment, you gave up and turned your head back towards the screen.

“Right,” you spoke confidently and a pack of Skittles dropped in your lap no more than a second later. Steve hopped over the back of the couch, landing in the spot next to you with a thump. He had a pack of Reese’s Pieces in his hand, tearing the wrapper open and shoving a handful in his mouth. You raised a brow and Steve chuckled, the sound made you want to laugh too.

“You chose the right side. That’s what was on the right,” Steve shrugged, looking away from you, unable to maintain eye contact while he lied. The Skittles were originally in his left hand, but Steve knew they were your favorite, so he switched them at the last second.

“Thanks, Stevie,” you nudged him with your shoulder, a small smile encasing your lips as you opened the candy. It was as if the world had stopped when you smiled, or at least it did for Steve. He’d do anything for you if it meant he got to see the wide stretch of your mouth pointed in his direction. Steve let his gaze linger on you for a moment, only redirecting his eyes away when the movie started.

The movie played, invoking giggles and gasps from both of you. As you swooned over Westley and Buttercup’s romance, Steve couldn’t help but swoon over you. His hazel eyes never strayed from you for too long as he pushed down the overwhelming urge to brush your hair from your face and kiss you. To live out a fantasy romance of his own where he could spend his days trying to save you. Steve could deny it all he wanted, but it was getting harder to hide that he did like you, that he always liked you.

The credits rolled and you immediately knew that The Princess Bride was your new favorite movie. It was perfect and everything you could have hoped for. The fact that Steve had been the one to watch it with you in no way affected that decision, right? Steve stood up, distracting you from the pull of your thoughts. He ejected the VHS tape and put it back into the case. It was then that you noticed how late it was, catching sight of the clock on the wall behind Steve and the television.

“Shit, it’s late. I should probably go,” you rose to your feet, shuffling to grab your empty glass of apple cider and discarded candy wrappers. 

“Wait,” Steve stopped you, his voice almost panicked. He didn’t want you to leave, didn’t want the night to end. “You could stay over. I don’t think you should be driving so late,” he suggested, hoping it would convince you to stay. Truthfully, you didn’t want to leave, so when Steve made his offer you easily accepted. Steve led you upstairs where you dug through his dresser drawer to find a shirt and a pair of sweatpants you had left the last time you stayed over.

You shut the door to Steve’s bathroom, ignoring the jitters that ran through you. It’s just Steve, why were you so flustered? Granted, Robin was usually there too when you stayed over at Steve’s house. So the idea of staying alone at Steve’s felt new and exciting. It was like finally being allowed to do whatever you wanted, no watchful eyes lurking over your shoulder. 

Steve was sitting on his bed when you emerged from the bathroom in your makeshift pajamas. Even in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, you still stole the air from Steve’s lungs, momentarily ceasing his breathing. Steve had changed too, his pajama pants hanging low on his hips and bare chest exposed to the cool night air.

“Where am I sleeping?” you asked, setting your clothes down on top of Steve’s dresser and hoping you wouldn’t forget them in the morning. You restrained yourself from letting your eyes drift to Steve’s shirtless figure, his chest hair taunting you with its curling tendrils from across the room.

“There’s a guest room down the hall,” Steve couldn’t help but notice the twinge of sadness that encompassed your expression when he spoke, one that he shared internally. “Or you could sleep in here. The house is kind of creepy at night,” Steve added, giving you a way in, an excuse to share a bed with the brown-haired boy. 

“I’ll uh, I’ll just sleep in here then if you’re okay with that,” you spoke approaching Steve’s bed to join him where he sat. He nodded, ensuring you that he was indeed okay with sharing his room with you for the night. Honestly, he’d be more than okay to share his room with you every night.

The two of you laid back in Steve’s bed, making no argument about one of you sleeping on the floor. It was no use, and you both knew you’d just end up sharing the bed anyway. Steve flicked off his lamp as you pulled the bed sheets up to cover your shoulders.

It was late and you were tired, but the warmth that radiated off of Steve kept your mind alive, incapable of drifting off. He was like a fire that burned just for you, flames flickering in the cool night to make your skin slick with sweat. It didn’t help that the fruit punch smell from Steve’s shampoo was laced into the fabric of the pillowcase underneath your head, filling each inhale with the overwhelming scent of the boy that you tried to deny liking.

You turned to Steve, unable to feign sleep any longer, eyes searching his side profile. It was unclear what you were looking for, even to yourself, but you still felt drawn to him. Steve, who couldn’t sleep either, felt your eyes on him, invoking a smirk to uplift the corners of his mouth as his eyes opened. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Steve teased, turning to meet your gaze, his hand laid under his cheek, flat against his pillow. You let out a sarcastic laugh at his joke, eyes narrowing in faux anger.

“It’s kind of weird being here without Robin,” you spoke softly, still letting your gaze drift over Steve. His brow furrowed at your words, worry washing over him. Did you not want to be here with just him?

“What do you mean?” Steve shifted in his spot, tucking an arm under his pillow, smoothing its edge to better see you.

“She fills in the gaps with her little rambles,” you answered, unable to hide the fond smile that stretched your lips at the thought of your talkative friend. Steve hummed in agreement, reminiscing over Robin’s inability to stop talking when she should.

A silence settled over the two of you, only accentuating your point. But it was comfortable and pleasant, leaving you to swallow the air that passed between the short distance from each of your lips. Steve glanced at your hair then, admiring the way it spread across the pillow, his pillow.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you shot back, repeating Steve’s own words from earlier after noticing his prolonged stare. You expected Steve to shift his eyes then, settle his gaze on some object across the room. The last thing you expected was for him to reach out, to run his thick fingers through the tangled strands of your hair. You sunk into his touch, feeling the gentle scratch of his nails against your scalp. A sigh fell from your lips, soft and shallow as if you were barely breathing at all.

“Have I ever told you how much I like your hair?” he asked, voice calm and quiet, hardly audible despite the silence in the air. You shook your head, suddenly incapable of forming words. “Well, I do,” his hand rested there for another moment before dropping down, finding your hand that rested on the mattress. Steve laced his fingers with yours and you could’ve sworn that your skin tingled at the feeling. The brush of his hand against yours, ridged fingerprints pressed to the back of your palm.

“Steve,” his name escaped your lips in a whisper, the silence emphasizing the crack of your voice. You said his name like it was your favorite word, like you’d never speak any other name again. He simply kept his gaze on you, unwavering and surprisingly calm given how fast his heart was beating in his chest. “What are you…” you began, letting your question hang in the air. You didn’t want to break the moment, but you were desperately curious about Steve’s sudden shift in behavior.

“I just-” Steve breathed out, his voice shaking with nerves. “I just really like talking to you,” he finished, and your heart swelled within your chest as a feeling of anticipation filled you. You read between the lines, taking Steve’s words for what they truly meant, not just what he said. It was like seeing the sun peek through the clouds, making your first friend in kindergarten, hearing the final ring of the bell on the last day of school. It was the hope, the realization, that maybe Steve liked you too.

“I like talking to you too, Stevie,” you inched closer, Steve’s hand still wrapped around yours. You looked up at him, doe-eyed and hopeful. If there was ever a chance, then this was it. Steve observed you, admiring the flutter of your lashes as you blinked, the plush of your lips, the curve of your cheeks. 

He wanted to kiss you, and he was starting to get the feeling that you wanted to kiss him too. So he put on a brave face, leaning in ever so slowly, giving you a chance to pull away if this wasn’t what you wanted. God, Steve hoped you didn’t pull away. You didn’t, meeting Steve halfway as his breath fanned your face, his lips ghosting over yours.

A gasp expelled from within your chest as Steve finally closed the gap, brushing his lips fiercely against yours. He swallowed your gasp, relishing in the feeling he craved since he first met you. His lips were soft, the lingering taste of apple cider invading your taste buds as he slipped his tongue against yours. You melted into Steve, your body now flush with his. One of his hands cradled your face while the other untangled from yours, snaking around to pull your hips closer to his. It was a bruising kiss, one you never wanted to pull away from.

But then you started laughing, your teeth bared in between kisses with the uptick of your lips. Steve couldn’t help but reciprocate your giggles until the two of you broke apart, foreheads pressed together as your chuckles broke through heavy breaths.

“What’s so funny?” Steve finally managed to get out, his hands still caressing your skin. His soft gaze held you comfortably in place, keeping you right where you wanted to be. 

“Didn’t think I liked you that much,” you spoke with an air of levity in your tone. The repressed feelings you had for the boy beside you, your friend Steve, finally coming to light. Steve’s smile only grew, his fingers dancing across your cheeks in a gentle stroke of your skin.

“I didn’t think I liked you that much either,” he shrugged, and you wanted to laugh. You were two fools, hopelessly and desperately pushing aside your feelings for no good reason. Steve liked you and you liked him, it was as simple as that. It made you think about all the time you both wasted, all the kisses you could’ve shared. So you dove back in, sinking into the plush of Steve’s lips once more. And he welcomed you warmly, swallowing your shallow moans as he thought about how lucky he was that you accepted his midnight invitation.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

More Curly Shepard Headcanons

-Him and Angela used to go ‘swimming’ in the ditch when it rained and Tim always got SO pissed

-Him and Ponyboy share music and it’s the worst music in the universe and everyone else in both the Shepard and Curtis gang refuse to ever let them control the record player, cassette, or radio

-Was that kid who could not handle red dye in his food and whose parents could not care less so my guy was tweaking in his first grade classroom

-Angela once dared him to eat grass and he did

-He is good at flirting to distract someone or get out of trouble or to look tuff but HORRENDOUS at flirting with someone he’s actually interested in so for a while before him and Pony got together his behaviour was strange af

-Angela once dared him to moon a Jehovah’s Witness who kept coming to their door and he did

-Marlboros are kind of considered ‘girly’ cigarettes in Tulsa but they’re Curly’s favourite until he gets together with Ponyboy who converts him to liking Kools best (because Pony always smells like Kools and they’re the only kind he ever has on him and Curly isn’t gonna smoke his own cigs when he can steal his boyfriends so)

-Angela once dared him to snort pudding powder and he did. He had to mouth breathe for three days until all the pudding was gone but he swears he met god himself and that it was worth it

-Not a fan of any sort of physical contact, partially because he’s used to contact meaning pain, and partially because he just doesn’t like it. He’ll allow a hug from Angela when he gets home from the reformatory, and he used to hold her hand when they were little and one of them was upset, but usually the only person he actually likes to touch him is Ponyboy

-Angela once dared him to climb a telephone pole and he did and he broke his arm in three places and Tim was pissed

-He goes to track practices to support Ponyboy but it’s less support and more living heckling. If anyone else joins in on the heckling though, Curly throws hands. After the third fight Curly got banned from spectating on any school sporting events or practices so now he stands just off school property and throws gravel at the track team when they run past

-Angela once dared him to shave off both of his eyebrows and he did and then they grew back SUPER thick

-He used to bait alley cats into fighting each other until he got invited to a chicken fight by one of the guys in the Shepard gang and realised it was SO much better to watch

-Angela once dared him to rob a liquor store and he did. Tim made Angela stop giving him dares after that.

-Curly is smart enough to not antagonise Darry Curtis any more than he antagonises anyone else but he absolutely DELIGHTS in annoying Sodapop whenever he gets the chance and Soda is ready to fight on sight atp

[harrisonarchive]

Press conference, July 27, 1971. Footage courtesy of AP.

“The war had been going on for a bit, and I had hardly even heard of it, so he fed me a lot of newspaper articles about it. He was saying, “I’m going to have to do something to help. Attract a bit of attention to it, raise a bit of money, much more than I could make doing my own concert, maybe like ten or twenty thousand dollars.’That for him was like doing a big one. And so I got involved. The priority was to attract world attention to what was going on. It wasn’t so much the money because you can feed somebody today and tomorrow they will still be hungry, but if they are getting massacred you’ve got to try and stop that first of all.I said, ‘Okay, I’ll go on the show and I’ll get some other people to come and help. We’ll try and make it into a big show, and maybe we can make a million dollars instead of a few thousand.’ So I got on the telephone trying to round people up. We pinpointed the days which were astrologically good, and we found Madison Square Garden was open on one of those days — 1st August.” - George Harrison, Raga Mala “George Harrison was a very powerful and influential man, and a good friend of Bangladesh. I was in the war, fighting on the front against the Pakistani Army. We had only a one-band radio and that was for getting information from the outside world. After liberation, we came to know that a concert for Bangladesh had been held in Madison Square Garden. That concert acted like a catalyst. The U.S. government did not support Bangladesh, but we got the people’s support, and that concert helped a lot.” - Mahbubul Alam, Los Angeles Post Examiner, December 5, 2013 “George Harrison brought the attention of the world to what was happening in Bangladesh during the independence war because of his concert on behalf of the country in New York in 1971. Without his effort, much of the suffering endured by the Bangladeshi people at the time would have gone unnoticed. Millions were killed, made into refugees or raped.” - Masood Sobhan, BBC, December 11, 2008 “We felt the magnitude of this act of private individuals reached so many people and moved the whole Bangladesh tragedy into the public consciousness before even the governments were willing to face up to it. The world was looking on in stunned horror, not doing anything about it, when Ravi and George drove it into their minds, particularly the young people’s. Why, they even inspired us to get… to work. You should have seen how what they did affected even the people at UNICEF." - Paul B. Edwards, New York Post, June 2, 1972, via UNICEF Archives (x)

[trashmouth-richie]

Alright, babe. Let's do Angsty, and your words are: crunch and parking lot

xo -Amanda

@curiositydooropened you asked for angst and bby i’m delivering hot and ready in 30 minutes or less, like surfer boys pizza or a real horny boyfriend. 🍆💦

18+ HEAVY ANGST, upside down themes, s1 canon events with reader thrown into the mix. you’re dating eddie! yay!

<650 words

send me a prompt! from this post :)

A strong western wind bristled the leaves.

Wrestling colors of burnt persimmon and chestnut hues around in a whimsical swirl of a colorful tornado. Some stuck to the inky wet of the grass from the early morning rain. Others found their way like Magellan to a faraway land (a nearby leaf pile) or maybe into the yard of a lucky kid able to rake enough of them up to earn a few dimes in the pockets of their Levi’s. 

It was chilly for the unusual Indian Summer Hawkins was experiencing this fall. As if winter broke through the endless seams of  the late humid summer, demanding to be felt, to be seen.

Could you do that? Be seen? 

You heard the screech of the ailing boy nights before. The squeal of tires from the police station. His mother—you presumed, frantically called his name into the town, like a lone wolf howling into the harvest moon hung sky. 

Yet, the boy remained missing. 

Would you be missed…like the Byers’ boy? Who would call for you? Would he?

Flyers went up, crunching beneath the metallic thump of a steel staple. Into telephone posts, poked through cork boards around the school with colorful tacs. Taped to pay phones and called across radio stations. 

Eddie had assured you that he had probably run away, typical for kids that age who didn’t get what they wanted. But you felt something. Heard things in the night while curled into his chest. It spoke to you. Begged you to look for It.. 

Barbara Holland went missing. Last seen at a party of Harrington’s that you heard him loudly strutting around the hallways about to impress the quiet, pretty freshman girl. 

Again, you told your boyfriend of your worries. Cried to him about the lack of sleep you’d been getting, the nightmarish creatures you’d seen when your eyes were closed. He pulled you into him, forefinger hooked under your jaw, and like a fish on a line, you succumbed to him. It was hard not to when somebody loved you the way Eddie did. 

Had it been days? You couldn’t be sure. 

Street lights flickered. They always did at Eddie’s— it was normal. But maybe you should have been more self-aware. Maybe you would have noticed It. 

Long spindly arms clawed at your coat as you ran, bony fingers hooked into the belt around your waist, pulling you back, further and further towards the opening at the base of a tree. 

You fought, clawed at dirt and muck and shit to escape its clutches. Badly bleeding, injured, breaths away from death— until you weren’t. Until you were somehow nestled beneath foliage— safe, hiding, alone. 

The treeline behind the trailer park was where you laid. Unable to make a sound, caked with dried blood, colored dark on your body, the sharp stink of infection and decay permeated the chilly air, and you knew it was from you. 

Would he know how much you loved him? How proud of him you were for sticking up for kids who needed it?

You’d miss his smile, his dimples, that giddy dorky laugh he couldn’t hide when you tickled his sides. The way butterflies swarmed in your stomach when he kissed you.

Would he miss you…cry for you?

You lie in wait watching the leaves scatter across the dirt parking lot. Body cold and broken, blood trickling to the earth. Time ticking down to what could possibly be your inevitable end. 

[neroushalvaus]

Tumblr in the 60s – Part 2

Part 1 / Deleted Scenes

💁🏼‍♀️brigittebardots Follow

anyone want to get fake married so i can get the pill to slut around

💋 marrymetwiggy Follow

Just say you have painful monthlies, I heard it works if you have a nice doctor!

💫 treatmetendermaureen Follow

Remember you still should use the sheet whenever possible. Stay safe ♡

1087 notes

♒ let-the-sunshine-in Follow

i think there's something wrong with me, i'm just so sleepy all the time, it's not fair

👭 marvelettesofficial Follow

That's because you spend all your nights listening to radio luxembourg

♒ let-the-sunshine-in Follow

i heard nothing last night so i built an antenna out of poultry net, iron wire and bits of tin. i cut my fingers and our family chickens ran away

☁️ ankin-vaimo Follow

A small price to pay for some music.

♒ let-the-sunshine-in Follow

the antenna fell apart before the german guy stopped talking

34 notes

🗣 ilovejohnlennon-deactivated19660729

me: chilling

my brain: if you were shot and weren't sure whether you'd live or die should you call the cops to make sure your murderer gets caught or call the ambulance to increase your chance of survival

me: what

🗣 elviskneesofficial-deactivated19631119

There should be a number that'd reach both of those

🕺 elvisherselvis Follow

That number already exists. It's been used in my city for like a two decades.

🏆 petebest-or-bust Follow

🕺 elvisherselvis Follow

Fuck you I'm British.

🪛 patrickwhoghton Follow

Oh my G, this post from -62 sounds so prophetic now that they're trying to make the 911 thing catch on, where's that jagger meme

🖖 spock-in-tardis Follow

🕺 elvisherselvis Follow

This is literally not gift of prophecy. I told you back when this post was first made that this number has already existed in UK for years. It was obviously going to spread elsewhere, even US was bound to catch on at some point.

🏆 petebest-or-bust Follow

you are still here?? keeping an eye on this post??

💋 marrymetwiggy Follow

you're so grumpy @elvisherselvis maybe you should phone the emergency number and get a wahhh-mbulance

98,9 t. notes

📼 bisexualbarbaradane Follow

my date: Oh I listen to folk as well!

me: That's so cool! Who are your favourites?

my date: I'm sooo into Bob Dylan.

me:

my date: Is everything okay?

me, stuffing jelly babies into my purse: I have to go, like, right now, immediately, sorry

#it's okay if you liked dylan before he became the judas he is #but you can't call yourself a folk fan if you still support him #ugghh i hate him #electric guitar using lil bitch #sigh #jelly baby meme #bob dylan critical // #anti bob dylan // #bob dylan hate //

2 notes

🛸 premisendgame Follow

Cock and balls, I'm watching this previously banned american film where an american man is trying to fuck a soviet spy (played by famously very russian Greta Garbo) by offering her champagne and he is like "have you never had champagne?" and Greta is like "never 🥺 only goat's milk and a ration of vodka in the army" and the tv screen freezed and was like "ERROR!! CHAMPAGNE HAS BEEN SERVED IN SOVIET UNION SINCE 1936" I'm 😂😂😂

🪐 stalincredible Follow

You Americans will say anything to make Soviet stuff look silly

🛸 premisendgame Follow

Where do you think I am watching soviet tv from?? Or did I miss the memo where americans have the monopoly on joking about their own damn country??

322 notes

🥁 ringoforpresident Follow

"In future there will be telephones you can take with you anywhere" I can't even fucking listen to Radio Luxembourg without building a goddamn satellite, sending it to space, reciting spells and prayers, and sticking the radio out of the window at 2am EET. And even then it needs to be snowing for it to work because the radio wave fairies like snow or some shit

♒ let-the-sunshine-in Follow

preach

540 notes

[carmensbrain]

You asked and I am here. Cole Cassidy x Reader pretty please? 🙏

No specific criteria - write whatever you feel like :))

Ugh this man has infected my brain😵‍💫

Thank you humble anon for this blessing🎀

Contains- Cole Cassidy x Reader RAHHHHH

Rating- E for every brain!!

Warnings- mentions of mcree (i wanted to incorporate the name change I hate the real guy!)

Authors note- this is mostly self indulgent but I just got my phone back, cut me some slack✋🤚

Fic starts below cut!!

You had met Cole back in his deadlock days while working at your family’s diner, the Panorama. He was still a scruffy teen, toothpick between his lips as he entered the warm building. A girl your age followed in behind him, her long pale hair scruffed and messy.

“Damn you mcree!” She huffed, pushing him roughly before fixing her hair. You knew you’d seen him before, something about his face and the way he carried himself that seemed familiar, he and the girl were plastered all over wanted posters in the area with hefty prices attached.

You decided to give them the benefit of the doubt and let them take a seat at the bar as you took their order. The girl, who you would come to know as Ashe, ordered a grilled cheese and the boy ordered a burger while his gaze drifted to the apple pie in the case across the bar.

“And would either of you want some pie with that?” You ask, seeing the look on the girls face as she quietly reminds the boy of their financial situation.

“Oh no not tonight” the boy says setting his hat onto the bar, scruffy hair falling over his forehead messily.

“On the house, Mcree” you hum, placing a slice of pie in front of the two. The girl looks at you with a cocked eyebrow and stops the boy from eating or even touching the dish.

“It was gonna get thrown out anyway” you clarify with a warm smile and the girl seems to relax as the boy houses the food. They eat silently as you clean glasses and tune into whatever music was playing on the radio, feeling the boys gaze on you as you worked. As they pay their bill and the boy hands it to you he speaks up.

“The names Cole by the way, Cole Cassidy” His voice has a smooth southern tone to it, his cheeks having a noticeable dusting of pink as he speaks.

“Oh sorry… I’m f/n l/n”

Cole and Ashe leave for the night and as the weeks pass you start to notice the lootings and fights drift farther from the diner, bringing in more business during the day. Cole visits regularly “just for pie”, complementing you far too much for something he’s had so many times before but you didn’t mind, not in the slightest.

He treats you like an angel, ensuring that no one speaks to you even slightly rudely as he chats with you. The cooks quickly took notice and began teasing you for ‘straightening him out’, which you laugh at while denying it. Every once in a while he’d bring in flowers for the vase next to the register, hands clammy as he hands the flowers to you.

For about a year and half that’s how it was, until overwatch caught wind of deadlock. Rumors where all you had to piece together where he went, apparently being forced into overwatch in order to avoid arrest. You couldn’t help but miss him, watching as the rain withered the final wanted posters tacked up on the telephone poles. Inevitably you had to grow up, to take full control of the diner as the years pass and locals move in and out.

When overwatch disbanded you were coming up on your late thirties and you couldn’t defend your diner as well as you used to, criminals getting bold again with flashy weapons and body modifications. That’s when rumors of a certain cowboy rolling into town again began circulating through hushed whispers. A red beat up motor cycle came to a halt in front of the entrance of the diner,a cloud of dust pillowing beneath it as the bell above the door rings.

It was a slow morning so the only sounds were the sinks, grills, and the man’s boots and spurs hitting the tile floor. His gaze rose to you as he took his hat from his head and held it to his chest with a gentle smile.

“Ya miss me?”

[jaidens]

Hopelessly Devoted (To You) - D.L.

pairing[s] : daniel larusso x reader

warning[s] : none

a/n[s] : hi! if i made any mistakes tell me please! <3 also writing for unpopular fandoms is fun lol.

wc : 1,107

Daniel was your best friend. He had protected you whenever your ex-boyfriend got angry, finding out that you were not into him anymore. This ended up in Daniel, leaving a black eye and a bloody nose. After the fight, you helped him and brought him to your convertible. You opened the door and sat him in the passenger seat with a napkin held to his cut, temporarily stopping the blood.

You drove to your house as he held a napkin to the cut on his face. You put the radio on to take over the silence wrapping around each other. You sang quietly and tapped your wheel on your driveway.

You opened the door and helped Daniel out of the car and held his waist, and his arm was wrapped around your shoulder. His cologne took over these senses as you pulled him into your house. You let him go grab stuff from your medicine cabinet as he walked to your bedroom and sat on your bed. He admired your room, running his hand down your comforter.

You anxiously ran into your room and shut the door softly, your hands filled with medicine, and things to help with the cuts on his face. You sat on your bed in a cris-cross position and wet the cotton pad with an antiseptic to begin running over the open wounds. You padded it to the cut above his eyebrow, and he stared at you with a look of appreciation. It was comfortable tranquility, as the only thing heard was the crickets outside, the passing cars, and your soft breathing as you concentrated on the Jersey boy in front of you.

That is when you realized that you were in love with Daniel. His brown eyes were half-lidded, and his cut lip was pouted. He smiled at you and said, “What I got somethin’ on my face?” You smiled and shook your head, “No I jjustcan't believe you did that for me. Thank you. Really.”

He quickly closed his eyes when the antiseptic touched his cut lips, and hissed in a breath. You let out a soft apology and take it off your lip. “It’s alright. I swear. It just stung.” You put the pad to the side to bandage his cut with a butterfly stitch and pull it away from his face. “Your lip is a gonna take, maybe a week to heal. Just be careful okay?” You tell him before getting up to throw away all your pads and put the antiseptic away. He nods yat ou and smiles.

Once you put everything away, you returned to the room. He stares at you before asking, “How did you know how to do all of that?” You sit down next to him and fall into your bed and huff. “One of my family members is a nurse. They taught me after one of my cousins got hurt real bad. They wanted us to be all safe so we were taught how to stitch things up.” You explained that he had watched your face. “Oh wow, Ma’ usually cleans me up. She would get mad if she saw what I looked like right now. Speaking of her, I should call her.” He speaks.

You point him to your telephone that sits on your side table, and he punches in his house phone number, and it begins to ring. He sits on the call with his mom, explaining how he is staying the night at a friend's house, he will go to school with such a friend tomorrow morning. He mumbles her about how he loves her. You hear a thick accent telling him to speak up, and he does, finally saying “I love you Ma. Goodnight.” You smiled at him, domestically, making your body tingle.

You're in love. With your best friend. The beautiful, handsome, strong, and hilarious Daniel Larusso. You cannot blame yourself, and many girls begin their affection for him. You were definitely not the only one.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He states Before you realize that you have been zoned out on him. Thinking about him. You catch yourself and look away, going to stare at the many romance movie posters you have staples on your wall. Olivia Newton-John staring back at you. “Nothing. I just blanked out and didn't realize where I was looking.” He turned around on your bed, kicked his conversation off the floor, and began lying on your bed.

You begin and turn your head to look at him and he turns as well; staring into your eyes, “Why did you do that for me? Truly. Like, why did you get your ass kicked for me?” You question him before he blows out air.

“Well, I mean, I felt like I had to. You are my best friend, and I think it is my duty to make sure you are safe. And, gosh, watching that dick try and grab you made me angry. I'll always protect you.” He turned to look up at the ceiling and his hands on his chest as you continued staring at him.

He looks at you and you gain eye contact. You put your hand on his face gently and pull your lips together. You can feel that your hand touches your waist softly. You pull away and let out your breath. “I think.. I think I love you anniously. And I do not know what to do. You're my best friend.” You admitted. All of your feelings began to pool in your chest, threatening to come out if they were not let out. “You’re so kind to me. How could I not love you? You are the best guy ever. So many people would agree.” It comes pouring out your hold onto him and feels so close to you.

“If it helps, I've loved you too. I remember seeing you and thinking you were the prettiest girl I've ever seen.” The patient mumbled into your shoulder. You laid him further into him. “Does this mean we're dating now?” Daniel always tries to make light of things, which is what he is doing now. You take your head out of his chest and place your lips once again. “Yes. Definitely yes.” You told him to lie down after going back.

You woke up the next morning, sunlight pouring through your window and laying on Daniel's warm skin. You admired him for some time as he slept. You were so lucky. Maybe you can now officially understand Mrs. Olivia Newton-John when she sings about being hopelessly devoted. Now, you have your boy to be devoted to. Hopelessly, devoted.

[stervrucht]

Proximity - Part 8

● Part 1 ● Previous ● Next ● AO3 ●

cw: sexual content

“They think I’m doing drugs.”

Steve's voice sounds soft and distorted by the electric sound of the telephone.

It’s late at night. Eddie should be sleeping already if he wants to get anywhere near the recommended hours of sleep. Tomorrow is another early morning; a day filled with heavy lifting. Only Steve can’t call unless his parents are asleep and he hasn’t been over in a few days because his dad wants him home for the nights. 

Now Eddie knows why.

“Drugs?” Eddie echoes.

“My neighbor, Mrs. Sanders, saw you at the house a couple of times. Guess she told my parents about some weird dude’s nightly visits.”

Eddie tightens his grip on the phone. It bothers him—bothers him a lot—but he doesn’t want to let Steve know. It’s one of the few moments they have during the week and he won’t let the words poison him. Instead, he does his best to make his voice sound light.

“You picking a fight, Harrington?” Eddie quips. On the other side of the line, Steve chuckles and Eddie feels the tension melt away.

“Depends.”

“Depends?”

“On what I get when I inevitably win.” 

Eddie is grinning into the phone. Grinning so broadly it hurts his cheeks. He thinks that maybe he kinda loves Steve. Just a little.

“You are very confident for a guy who is known to lose fights.”

On the other side, he hears Steve let out a soft gasp. “That little traitor.”

Eddie laughs. “Trust me, Dustin sings your praises like a fucking bard.” 

“He better or it will be back to biking for him.”

For a moment it’s quiet on the other line and Eddie had almost forgotten why Steve called him in the first place.

“So I guess there’s no more sleepovers, huh?”

“Eh, depends. I’ve gotten pretty good at sneaking out over the years.”

“Just gotta make sure we get you back in time, right, Cinderella?”

“Or I let down my long, long hair and sneak you in.”  

Well, that just sounds like music to his ears. The thought of breaking the rules with Steve sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

“Surprisingly fitting for someone known as ‘the hair’.”

Steve laughs and even through the phone’s distortion, the sounds fills him with delight.

“You should get some rest. Don’t want you in zombie-mode tomorrow,” Steve says, then follows up in a far more gentle tone, “Good night, Eddie.”

“Rest well, princess .” Eddie hears Steve snort and then the beep on the other line indicates Steve has hung up. Eddie places the phone back in its socket on the wall and looks around the trailer. 

Tomorrow he’ll be tired as shit, but hearing Steve’s voice was worth it. He walks back to his room, still smiling to himself as he lets himself fall back on his bed. The objects on Steve’s shelf sit unmoved and Eddie sighs as he moves to turn the lights off. 

Just as things were looking up, Steve’s dad had to come in and ruin it.

Eddie’s bed isn’t particularly large, but all by himself it feels bigger than ever. He rolls over to his chest and pulls his pillow close.

When he buries his face in it, it still smells like Steve.

It’s Friday, nearly 11 PM when Eddie drives up to Family Video. It’s raining and the puddles outside shine red with the reflected neon light of the store sign. His guitar lies in its case in the back—coming back from another rehearsal—and he’s a little high on the excitement of the night; a little drunk on Gareth’s unyielding optimism.

The electric shrieking of a guitar dies down from his radio as Eddie kills the engine, and suddenly the van is cast into silence. When he jumps out of the van, his boots land heavily into a puddle and he feels water soak his socks.

Gross.

Eddie pushes his way through the doors and is greeted by the familiar jingle. Robin looks up from behind the counter while she’s helping a customer. It’s one of the few people still lingering in the store this close to closing time. 

She gives him a little nod and Eddie makes his way into the store. He mulls about, browsing some of the new arrivals while he waits for Robin to finish up. Once the customer has left, he wanders over to the counter and throws himself on top of it with outstretched arms.

“Robin,” he wines. “Why do they make you work on movie night.”

Robin opens the register and pulls the drawer out. The jingle of coins hitting plastic sounds loud amidst the quiet of the empty store. 

“Technically, every night here is movie night,” Robin says.

Eddie groans in response. “You know what I mean.”

“I take it you’re here for your boyfriend?” 

Eddie cringes.

“He’s not my—” the words die on Eddie’s tongue, killed by Robin’s piercing stare, “Just…don’t say that to his face…lest you wish the king’s wrath befalls you,” he finishes dramatically.

“I think the king,” Robin pauses and looks towards the backroom, “Could use some exposure therapy.”

She clicks her tongue, eying the store entrance. “Will you get the sign? I’ll go get him for you.”

Eddie turns towards the door and flips the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’. Behind him, he hears a ruckus stirring until Steve’s voice transitions from muffled complaints to perfectly clear objections. 

Eddie turns around just in time to see the door close behind Steve’s back. 

“For fuck’s sake, Rob, I was working on that.” Steve sighs before looking up and when his eyes meet Eddie’s a shy smile appears on his face.

“Hey, stranger.” Eddie smiles at him. 

The last few days have been hard. He didn’t know it was possible to miss someone so quickly—to have the feeling be so immediate. And yet, he finds Steve’s absence in every corner of his house — the untouched shelf, the extra toothbrush in his bathroom.

The single mug of coffee he makes in the mornings these days.

Eddie hadn’t realized how gradually their lives had intertwined over the past few months. It happened so seamlessly that Steve’s presence had become the default and his absence a deviation.

Steve smiles back but doesn’t say anything. Instead, Eddie watches as Steve disappears behind the counter, only to pop back up with an arm full of VHS cases. 

“Here,” he says as he shoves a pile in Eddie’s direction, “Help me put them away.”

Eddie takes it, almost drops it in the process, and stares at Steve. “I have a feeling you’re abusing your powers here.”

“I know nothing of these powers you speak of.” Steve shoots him a cheeky smile and walks to one of the shelves. 

They stock the shelves in silence and Eddie thinks it may be the highlight of his day, as stupid as that sounds. 

He is working for free after all. 

Behind him, Eddie hears Steve’s soft breathing over the hum of TL light, backed by the quiet patter of rain against glass, and the sound of plastic cases being put back into place. Squatted between the shelves they’re hidden from the street and Eddie thinks he might risk it, with the store being closed and Robin tallying the register in the back. His heart is beating fast with anticipation, and it feels forbidden, part of it, because this isn’t the privacy of their homes.

Eddie lets himself fall back onto the floor, making a soft thud as he shoves himself into the shelf, beside Steve. He’s close enough that his thigh is touching the rubber of Steve’s sole.

Eddie leans his head back against the shelf as he watches Steve work. “You’re doing that wrong.” Steve looks over and gives Eddie a questioning look. And that’s when Eddie moves. He tugs Steve gently by the back of his neck, pulling him closer until he can kiss him. Pulls until he feels Steve transition from rigid surprise into soft acceptance as his lips move in response. 

It’s gentle and unhurried, and in this moment Eddie thinks Steve may love him too. 

“Oh my god.” 

Eddie pulls away as if burned, only to see Robin towering over them at the side of the shelves. Steve’s cheeks are flushed as he focuses on restocking once again, pretending that nothing happened.

She smiles, a little bit too happy—a little bit too cheeky. “Hurry up, yeah? I want to go home.” And then, before she turns around to leave. “I’m watching you, Munson.”

Eddie can feel the glee radiate off her and when he catches her gaze from behind the counter. 

She looks almost proud.

It feels like the stuff of movies, Eddie thinks as he stands beneath Steve’s window.

Eddie parked his van a couple of streets away, just outside the fancy part of the neighborhood to avoid having the cops called on him. It took him a good five minutes to reach the Harrington Residence by foot, but when he got there, Steve’s window was open, just as they discussed on the phone. 

It’s late. The light of day is only an indigo echo against the blackness of the night sky. Steve worked late and Eddie started early. And that seems to be the way things are these days.

He hates how their schedules conflict now. It makes him ache for the days when free time seemed abundant; when he could hang out at Family Video during the day while Robin and Steve worked.

The urge to run away is increasingly hard to suppress and he wonders what Steve would say. If he’d join him in his madness.

Eddie looks at the gentle pouring of light from Steve’s room.

It feels kinda thrilling — a little dumb too — to be sneaking into someone’s room at twenty-one. On the bright side, that’s one high school cliché he can cross off the list, even if it’s a little late. 

Eddie grabs the drainpipe and gives it an experimental shake. It seems sturdy enough. And it’s one thing that Eddie is actually good at—climbing. 

He may not be the best at basketball, but he can run just fine and he can climb, and roll, and jump. Back in high school, whenever he was dealing at the occasional house party, he had his fair share of close calls when running from the cops. Some of which definitely included a little climbing every now and then. 

Eddie hoists himself up on the drainpipe and is pleasantly surprised by the ease with which he does so. Seems like construction work, despite being generally horrible, has some perks after all. It doesn’t hurt that Steve seems to like the added definition Eddie has gained.

Once he pulls himself onto the roof, he can walk the last part to Steve’s window. He takes care, walking slowly and placing his feet thoughtfully so as not to create a sound. He cringes when he hears the room creak under his boot, waits a second to gauge a reaction, and when none comes, continues.

When he reaches the window he finds Steve lounging on his bed, messing around with a sketchbook in his lap. He’s wearing sweatpants and a simple T-shirt and seems deeply focused as he draws illuminated in the warm hue of a lamp on his desk. 

Eddie stares a moment, watching the tranquility on Steve’s face, and feels a fondness settle in his heart. 

“I’m kinda missing that hair you promised,” Eddie says as he rests his head on crossed arms on the window sill. Steve jumps up, visibly surprised, and quickly makes his way over to the window.  

“Tone down on the volume. My parents are at the end of the hall,” Steve whispers as he shoves the window open a little further. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Eddie slips his legs through and quietly — as quietly as he can manage — lands with his heavy boots on the carpeted floor of Steve’s room. 

Steve cringes at the sound and looks towards his bedroom door. Eddie follows his gaze.

“I don’t suppose you can lock that?”

“My parents don’t believe in privacy. It comes with some trauma, believe me.”

Eddie raises an amused eyebrow. “Daddy caught you choking the chicken, slapping the ol’ salami, stroking the one-eyed sn—”

Steve slaps a hand over Eddie’s mouth, his eyes wide. “Oh my god, will you stop it,” he hisses.

Eddie just laughs and licks a wet stripe over the inside of Steve’s hand. Steve pulls his hand away, grimacing.

“Dude.” Steve rubs his hand on his sweatpants. “But no, it was my mom. More than once, unfortunately. I’m pretty sure she’s equally traumatized.”

“But not enough to get you a lock.”

“Apparently not.”

Eddie feels something brewing in his gut. An irrepressible need for some mischief; to tease Steve a little.

“It’s kinda exciting too right? The possibility of being caught?” Eddie takes a step towards Steve, walking him back until the back of his calves hits the bed.

Steve’s eyes widen slightly, a flush creeping up his neck. “Really? That’s your takeaway?”

“What? Like this isn’t a booty call?” Eddie pushes Steve back until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, then moves the straddle him, placing himself heavy on Steve’s thighs. His hand finds the curve of Steve’s neck, thumbing at his jawbone and ghosting his lips there. 

Steve rests his hands on Eddie’s hips, fingers playing absent-mindedly with the hem of his shirt. He looks back to the door again, brows furrowed as he seems to think. 

“We have to be quiet,” he whispers finally, turning his head back to Eddie. His lips are so close that Eddie can almost taste the words; feels them prickle on his skin with heat and intention.

“Then you better be quiet.” Steve opens his mouth to protest, but it’s reduced to a quiet groan as Eddie softly moves his lips over Steve’s.

He pulls back abruptly and Steve whines in response. “Hold on, I got you something.”

Steve eyes him curiously while Eddie digs through his pocket. When he feels his fingers hit soft plastic, he wraps his hand around it and pulls it out. He holds it out in front of Steve’s face and smiles broadly.

“A joint?” Steve looks at the baggy with a frown.

“I can’t stand having you falsely accused.” 

“And your solution is to have me rightly accused?”

“Exactly!”

Steve slaps a hand over Eddie’s mouth, making a shushing sound. This time, Eddie pulls it away gently and holds the hand, intertwining their fingers. He leans in, speaking his words against Steve’s lips. 

“What do you say?”

“I say,” Steve breathes, “You’re every bit the bad influence Mrs. Sanders thinks you are.”

Eddie leans forward, briefly capturing Steve’s lip before pulling back. Steve chases them and Eddie feels a flutter in his chest at the movement. “Let’s get on the roof. This stuff kinda reeks.”

Eddie steps away from Steve, pulling him up to his feet by their intertwined hands, and guides him to the window. Eddie climbs through first, followed by Steve whose exit is smooth and quick, painted by experience, and Eddie wonders how often Steve has sneaked out and why. It’s probably girls, and it stirs something ugly in his gut.

Jealousy , he thinks. 

Eddie isn’t stupid, he’s heard the rumors. He knows Steve has been around and it makes him a little insecure. He doesn’t mind it, not really. He’s hardly set on that purity bullshit. It’s just that Eddie hasn’t had much experience.

Eddie sits down on the roof and waits for Steve to join him. He puts the joint between his lips and strikes his zippo — one, two, three times — to light it. He takes a few short drags to let it truly catch and when it does finally inhales fully before handing the joint to Steve.

The scent drifts around them, up into the cloudless sky. Before them the pool glows blue and the trees outside the garden are little more than black smudges against the midnight sky. 

“It’s been some time since I’ve done this,” Steve says as he shifts a little closer to Eddie’s side. They’re as close as they can get, side to side, and Eddie slides his arm behind Steve to try and keep him a little warmer in the night’s chill.  

Steve takes a tentative pull, and breathes it in, not too deep, before releasing the smoke from his lips with his head tilted towards the sky. 

They sit in silence and smoke until the joint is halfway gone. Eddie stubs it, saves it for later, as he leans back as well. It’s a clear night and stars dot the sky more brightly than he’s ever appreciated in Hawkins. 

“When did you know you liked me?” Steve asks from his side. His voice sounds a little slow.

“Bold of you to assume I do.” Eddie stares straight ahead, keeping his face as neutral as he can manage. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

Steve playfully slaps at his arm and Eddie breaks, a grin growing on his face. “Fine, guess I will—shut up that is.”

“No, tell me,” Steve whines. 

And Eddie feels like he can’t refuse Steve anything. He’d probably set the world on fire for this guy if only to keep him warm.

“Alright, alright,” he relents, “It was probably somewhere after you started dating that girl.”

Eddie doesn’t know why but he feels himself grow nervous. His hands are itching for something to do and he briefly considers lighting the joint again. It’s too soon. Instead, he twists at his rings — the skull one on his ring finger — with his thumb as he waits for Steve’s response.

“What? Jennifer?” Steve frowns.

“Right. That’s the one.”

For a moment, Steve is silent. Eddie can hear his lips move as if he’s silently speaking to himself, and then he does. 

“Can I tell you something? Promise not to laugh.”

“Cross my heart.” Eddie lays a hand over his chest.

“I think I only started dating her because I was confused.”

Steve’s voice sounds fragile and from the corner of his eyes, Eddie can see Steve looking at him—gauging his reaction. But that can’t be right, because Steve always seems so confident. So unapologetically affectionate and intimate that it makes Eddie’s head spin. Now Steve looks vulnerable.

“Confused?” Eddie echoes.

Steve is playing with the hem of his shirt. Folding it over and back again between his fingers. 

“About my feelings….for you.” Steve looks away. He’s blushing. Eddie is making him blush . 

It’s the first time it really hits him, that maybe he affects Steve just as much as Steve does him. That maybe all that time he anguished over Steve’s confusing behavior, Steve actually was confused himself.

That maybe there was little to rationalize. 

“Pray the gay away, huh?” Eddie feels the words slip his mouth, and they feel more mean than he intended them to.

“I’m not—” Steve cuts himself off, “Anyway, yeah, that’s why it didn’t work out. She caught on pretty quickly that something wasn’t right.”

It stings because he knows what Steve was going to say. And perhaps he just needs more time, who can say? Eddie tries not to show the hurt on his face. Instead, he focuses on whatever Steve is willing to give him. And it’s a lot, isn’t it? More than he ever expected. More than he dared to dream.

“You tried to get her back anyway?”

“I don’t know. I was a mess. I just wanted to get out; wanted you there with me I guess.” Steve still isn’t looking at him; still fidgeting with his shirt.

“You know, that night I thought you were going to kiss me.” Eddie lets out a nervous chuckle.

Steve is silent for a moment.

“I thought so too,” he admits. It surprises Eddie—Steve’s frankness. Back then, he figured he had gotten it all wrong. That it only looked that way. Never did he dream it might actually be—

“You’re a confusing guy, you know that?” he tells Steve.

“Like you aren’t.” Steve sends him a little smile to soften his words and Eddie can’t help but smile back. 

They really are a bunch of idiots.

“Look, since we’re on the honesty train here, I’ll tell you something too.” Eddie starts. He fidgets with his ring, fixing his gaze back on the pool. He imagines its depths and from up here on the roof, it looks nearly bottomless — a blue void, or a portal to another realm. 

“In the beginning, I was just— fucking around with you I guess? Testing your limits, pushing your buttons. Trying to get a rise out of the great King Steve. You were a total buzz kill by the way.”

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is,” Eddie turns to face Steve—really face him as he shifts his arm from behind Steve, moving it lower to steady himself. Steve looks back, brown eyes searching his face. “I was getting close to you, like, physically close, only to push you away. But you, Mr. Harrington, are impossible to spook. And at some point, I began to like it. The way you would stand so close to me; touch me so casually. I guess I’ve never really had that. Never allowed anyone to. You totally broke me.”

“In a good way?” Steve eyes him questioningly, his gaze a little troubled.

“Definitely a good way. Like a piñata. Cracked me open and I’m full of candy.” Eddie lets himself fall back on the roof with spread arms behind his head.

“You are so weird,” Steve chuckles, then continues, “I bet you taste like candy too.”

Steve leans over then, capturing Eddie’s lips without hesitation. A small, more sensible part of his brain tells him that it’s kinda fucking dangerous to get frisky on a roof, even if it isn’t that sloped. But Steve’s tongue is like a dagger and Eddie’s sensibilities susceptible to piercing damage.

He allows himself to be pushed back; to have Steve press his weight into Eddie while he works his mouth. Steve cradles his jaw and wills his lips to part. Steve’s tongue slides hot against his own and Eddie lets out a small desperate sound as Steve’s other hand makes its way down until he finds the hem of his shirt. He moves over his skin, fingers leaving behind a trail of electricity as they feel and explore. 

It’s overwhelming, maybe more so than before. 

Eddie digs his hands in the back of Steve’s shirt, pulling the fabric taut until there is no more give. He aches for Steve, aches for his touch—everywhere. 

Steve breaks the kiss, moving his lips down until they find the crook of Eddie’s neck, and kisses him there. Sucks and bites in a way that gives him goosebumps all over.

“Do you think Mrs. Sanders is watching?” Eddie breathes in Steve’s ear. 

“So what if she is?” Steve rolls his hips and it sends a shockwave through Eddie. Makes him tingle all the way from his head to his toes.

“Then we better give her a sho—” Eddie’s words are interrupted by another roll of Steve’s hips and he feels himself gasp, fingers digging harder into Steve’s back, pulling at the fabric until Steve’s back is exposed to the world. 

He needs to feel Steve. Needs to be skin to skin as he pulls at Steve’s shirt—pulls it over his head until it comes off and Steve is looking down on him. But Eddie’s clothes aren’t that easy. He swears at himself. At his stupid choice of wardrobe—shirt and jacket over jacket.

“Let’s go inside, yeah?” Eddie feels slightly out of breath. Steve nods. 

Eddie removes his jacket and shirt with a haste he has never known in his life. Removes his pants for good measure, just like Steve, until they’re both naked.

When Steve pushes him back on his bed, it feels familiar against his back. He is reminded of the first time he slept here, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Only now the ceiling is concealed by Steve’s hovering form. And instead of nervous awkwardness, he feels a sense of giddy anticipation when Steve’s lips find his. 

He doesn’t try to think of the lockless door. Doesn’t try to, but somehow finds a renewed sense of danger and excitement in the idea.

He moves with Steve, parts his legs, and allows Steve to settle between them. To set a rhythm as he moves above him. And it feels good—so good—the slide of Steve’s dick against his own. Steve moves from his lips, down to the column of his throat, and then keeps moving, placing small kisses and sucking at the skin of Eddie’s chest without losing his rhythm.

Down—down.

Eddie’s heart is hammering in his chest with every kiss, every lick, and he doesn’t expect it when he feels a hand wrap itself around his dick. 

When he moves his head to look down, he sees Steve’s mouth ghosting over his cock. The sight alone nearly tips him over and that’s all the warning he gets before Steve runs his tongue, base to lip over the length of it. 

It’s so intense, so overwhelming that Eddie throws his head back into Steve’s pillow and he bite his knuckle to still the sounds begging to escape him. 

Steve takes it as encouragement, taking him in as far as he can, guided by his hand, and Eddie loses all sensible thought. It’s just him and Steve and the overwhelming sensation of Steve working him, sucking him in like he’s made for it. He whispers Steve’s name like a chant. Tries to keep his voice down as he moans softly in tune with Steve’s movements. His hands grip uselessly at the bedding as he moves with it, feels his hips dying to buck under the sensation, only to be kept down by Steve’s insistent hand. 

He’s good at it, so good. And it doesn’t take long for Eddie to feel that familiar heat bubble in his gut. 

“Steve,” he whispers uselessly, his hand moving towards Steve’s hair, burying it there. “Steve I’m close,” he crooks out.

Steve pulls back then, lips pink and plump from the abuse. He moves his thighs underneath Eddie’s until their cocks line up and then grabs hold of them together, leaning forwards on one hand next to Eddie’s head and kisses him again. 

And it’s too much—too much when Steve’s hand starts moving. When Eddie can taste himself on Steve’s tongue that licks itself into his mouth. It’s all it takes. Eddie drags his nails over Steve’s back, and Steve groans into his mouth as Eddie feels his hot release fall between them on his stomach. Pleasure is ripping through him—ripping him apart as Steve works him through it — swallowing every sob, every whimper. It doesn’t take long for Steve to get there too and he buries his sounds in Eddie’s neck as he adds to the mess on his stomach. 

Steve lets himself fall next to Eddie, catching his breath for a moment before leaning over again, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, then below his eye, and finally, his lips, lingering there for a sweet moment before getting up and fetching some tissues. 

Steve makes a show of cleaning him up. Does so gently and quietly, before moving back into the bed next to Eddie, one leg draped over his body as he buries his face into his pillow.

They lie there for a moment, and Eddie feels exhaustion overcome him.

“Steve,” Eddie whispers. Steve lets out a soft groan in return. Eddie turns to his side and tries again. “Steve.”

This time Steve turns his head with eyes still closed. “Hm?”

“I think I should go,” he whispers into Steve’s hair. Steve groans again, and it sounds like objection.

“Stay,” Steve whines softly. And Eddie wishes he could as he pries himself away. As much as he would love to, it wouldn’t be wise. Nothing about tonight was wise—as much as it was fun.

They shouldn’t tempt fate. 

Steve remains unmoved on the bed, opening a lazy eye as he watches Eddie dress. Once Eddie is fully dressed, he leans over to Steve, placing another kiss into his hair.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says before climbing his way out of the window. Steve doesn’t respond, and Eddie smiles to himself as he softly closes it behind him.

---

● Part 1 ● Previous ● Next ● AO3 ●

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Come hell or high water.

18+, MDNI. Tags: Gore, severe injury, trauma, amputation

(Had this song stuck in my head prompting me a little)

Price.

It shouldn't have ended this way. Not today, not on a fucking flyby of an operation. All it was was get in, neutralise the targets, get out. Except as they made their way through the copse of trees and onto the road for extraction, tragedy struck.

There had been no need not to retrace their steps back onto the barely used road which was the pre arranged extraction point. But you never did, you were maybe a few metres out off of the original path you, Gaz and Price all crept along earlier. But a few metres meant nothing in instances such as this. Price watched as the air in front of him becomes tangible, no longer transparent but now opaque with what was once the solid ground they had been walking upon.

There you were walking ahead, the joke being you'd take point instead of Gaz and Price could stare at your ass for a change, light hearted banter despite the atrocities just commited all due to a few lines drawn in the earth and men behind desks having a disagreement. Price saw the ground rise up beneath you, it was like you'd been plucked by some invisible force and were suspended midair as he's blown backwards, Gaz although further back is also brought down by the shockwave. Price comes to, ears ringing, like static being played on a loop inside his head. His chest feeling heavy with the kinetic energy that passed through him, fuck knows what it's done to you. Blinking hard he sits up, you're laid on your front, prone to the floor unmoving, your body looks different, a leg shorter, the other mangled almost beyond recognition. Red blooming around you, top and bottom, greedily being sucked in by the recently disrupted soil.

"Fuck, don't... Don't move Gaz, don't you move." He barks as he pulls himself up and kneels forward looking at you, what is left of you. They weren't expecting the IED strike. Shite you're as good as dead...

Crack and the earth moves again, "Fuck!" he flinches, but this time there's a clear distance between this explosion and the one prior, then recalling he'd just given the go ahead for Soap to use the det cord to bring down a few telephone poles, allowing for a clear path for the aircraft to land. He flicks the switch for his radio and calls in the situation.

Pt.2

[oneshotnewbie]

Could you write a one shot where there is a really bad storm hitting Seattle. Maya and Carina are stuck at the hospital and the fire station, and are trying but unsuccessful at reaching Reader. So they are both worried out of their minds. Then Maya has to go out on a call and find it was R who wrecked their car trying to get home before the storm hit. (Could be severe or non-severe injuries) R goes to the hospital with Maya in the aid car and Carina joins them in the ER.

Authors note: I heard the song "What the water gave me - Florence + The Machine" while writing this story. I would advise you to listen to the song as well while reading through this story to get the feel of a real Station 19 rescue mission like in the series. Of course it's not a must! ♥

ᕚ---ᕘ

The sky over Seattle steadily darkened as pitch-black thunderclouds rolled in like a tidal wave. The wind began to howl as if playing its own somber tune, rushing restlessly through the skyscrapers of the city. Streets were quickly emptied as people rushed home for shelter. The trees bent under the force of the storm as if begging for mercy, but the storm was relentless. It thundered as if Zeus himself wanted to keep the crowds in their place while the rain fell in thick, large drops and threatened to drown Seattle. The sound of the wind, the falling of the rain and the thunder symphoned in a unique melody and conveyed a frightening atmosphere.

The telephones of the active fire brigade beeped in unison, a warning of the approaching storm that came in way too late. The tough captain of the fire department swallowed hard as she could not reach you, who worked just a few minutes away from her. But you did not answer, the connection was already disrupted, appearing to be off. "She wanted to be here fifteen minutes ago, Carina," both her and the brunette's worries grew with every minute through the phone as they imagined the worst possible scenarios without having any sign of life from you.

"Calm down, Bambina. There is probably total chaos on the streets. Fallen trees, flooding. Maybe she is just stuck in a traffic jam or an emergency came in."

The fire station was flooded with red alarm lights, while the walls shook from violent gusts of wind, preventing the young blonde from speaking further. Raindrops pelted against the roller shutter door, which opened more with every second, allowing the lightning strikes to break through their vision. -Fire engines 19 and 23. Ambulance 19 to Cedar Road Lane 6. Car struck by tree, person seriously injured and trapped.-

The firefighters rushed around, donning their suits and gear before grabbing their helmets. Like-minded, they rushed to the waiting vehicles, only Maya stopped briefly. „Please let me know if you hear anything from her. Stai attenta, bambina!" (Be careful, bambina!). She nodded, knowing that Carina could not see the gesture and hung up before hopping into the squad cars and starting the sirens. Pressing the accelerator, they raced through the whirlwind around them, trying to avoid the tree branches as much as possible.

Lightning flashed across the dangerous-looking sky, and thunder rolled at the same time like an angry demon. Maya clung to the steering wheel as she tried to keep her eyes on the wet, blurry road. They made their way through the flooded streets, branches flying through the air and trash cans tipping over and spilling across the sidewalk.

It was as if the world around her was collapsing in a chaotic dance of wind and water. "Listen guys, I know you want to help the person in the car, but first and foremost, think about your health and your life," the storm roared so loudly that it seemed like it wanted to tear the entire city apart and hardly anyone understood what the captain was saying over the radio. "This is one of the worst storms in years, a state of emergency has been declared and normally no one should be on the roads, so it is a mystery to me why anyone would be so dumb to be driving,"

Her team was clearly tense, the radios crackling in their ears, but they nodded to the captain as confirmation that they had understood the message. Maya did not want to lose any man or woman in her group to the storm. "We are approaching the scene of the accident. Be ready for anything, people. We can do this!" she said calmly and encouragingly while the fire engine´s sirens blared through the dark night.

When the team from Station 19 arrived at the scene of the accident, they were confronted with a dark and serious scene. The car is crammed in by a huge tree and is badly deformed, the hood of which is completely smashed and dented while some branches have pierced through the windshield and turned the interior of the vehicle into a field of rubble.

The fire team jumped out of the emergency vehicles and fought through the wind and rain to reach the car. But the captain remains rooted to the spot in front of the stern of the wreck, looking absentmindedly at the license plate, which was hanging askew. "Y/n.. IT IS Y/N!" she shouted unhindered amid the raging and deafening thunder and her team stopped their tasks in shock, Andy and Gibson focusing their gaze from the thick tree over to the woman in the driver's seat, who Warren was already trying to find vital signs on.

Maya lunged forward, her heart pounding with worry. Her helmet was almost blown away by the wind as she stepped closer, the flashlight shaking in her hand as she shone the light through the shattered window. Her heart seemed to skip a beat as she recognized the familiar features amid the devastation. She was confirmed that she did not have a number twist on the license plate, but that it really was you. Seriously injured and trapped in the car. “Y/n!” she cried, her voice filled with a terror she had never known before. Maya knew she had to stay calm now, that she had to be the professional captain, but her heart was screaming with fear and worry.

The other members of the fire department worked quickly and precisely. "Dean, Montgomery. Grab the hydraulic cutters! We need to get her out of here as quickly as possible. Her vital signs are at risk of plummeting!" shouted Warren. They used cutting tools to fight against the metal of the car on the passenger side and the resistance of the tree while Maya knelt next to the wreckage and held your hand, which was probably thrown out of the broken window after the impact and was now lying on the scratched paint of the outer door. "It looks bad in there! Be careful not to hurt her any further, approach carefully!"

Your eyes were dazed with pain and fear, but you were breathing, albeit weakly. Hearing her voice, you seemed to find some peace for a moment, your dull eyes glued to hers. Desperately wanting to say something, you opened your mouth from which blood began to ooze, but your crushed and injured lungs did not even let in air.

"Hold on, darling. Do not say anything, I am here. We will get you out of there, I promise." The blonde whispered, her voice firm to reassure you even as her own thoughts were caught in a chaos of worry and despair. The minutes stretched endlessly as her team struggled to bend the metal and free their captain's fiancée. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the metal gave way. Using their combined strength, Vic and Warren pulled you from the wreckage, carefully, yet as quickly as possible. As soon as they freed you, they carried you to the ambulance. Maya followed them, never taking her eyes off you. Your condition was serious, but you were still clinging to life. "Carina is coming. She is going to be at the hospital, she will be by your side the second you get there. But you have to fight now, okay? Fight for us."

The rain continued to beat down on you, the storm was still raging, but in the midst of this darkness and chaos there was a glimmer of hope- you were saved, and she would do anything now to help you fight through this storm. But it was hard to keep positive thoughts as the storm continued to sing its destructive song. She closed her eyes tightly as she rode in the ambulance and prayed, with your bloodstained hand in hers, that the next morning would bring a certain light to your health.