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mygnolia · 2 months ago

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to weave my love ⭒ n. riki

⭒ SYNOPSIS -› Riki is good at many things- dancing, making fun of his friends, playing it cool (debatable.), Hell- he��s even good at saving people from falling buildings without getting whiplash. But the things he’s bad at? Well, it’s asking you out to prom, and trying to balance the shared assignment he has with you…while being Spider-man.

⭒ PAIR -› spiderman!nishimura riki x fem-pres!reader

⭒ GENRE -› fluff, banter, action ⭒ TROPES -› classmates to lovers, idiots to lovers ⭒ WC -› 17k (i’m sorry idk why either.)

⭒ INCLUDES -› SPOILERS FOR GREAT GATSBY, cursing, non-graphic injuries (reader discretion advised), yes i made the patching up with first aid kit trope SUE ME!! takes place in a busy city similar to new york never specified, reader is rich, jake and heeseung are seniors and riki’s a junior, is riki stupid? yes… jake reveals stuff because he is also a little silly, reader wears a red dress!

⭒ GREAT GATSBY -› basically jay gatsby has this weird amt of money but no one rlly knows how he got it (nefarious reasons) and hes been in love with this girl daisy for five years but then she got married to tom buchanan but he gets rich so he can get the house across from her and wistfully watch her and he pines after her like CRAZY but he dies at the end

⭒ REN SAYS...special huge fat kiss to thena @sensitively-taken you will be in the will when im a millionaire THANK YOU for helping me with so much of this I WUV U AND I WLL BE WAITING FOR UR HUENING FIC!!! | LIBRARY

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM PRE-ADULTHOOD STRESS, IF THAT’S EVEN A THING.

What exactly does Riki have to worry about as a seventeen-year-old junior in high school? Right now, his most daunting responsibility is catching up on the chapters of The Great Gatsby because the only thing Riki’s actually read from the novel is that the main character shares a name with his best friend and senior, Park Jay. His second most daunting responsibility is handling the fact that with the new seating chart in his Literature class, it means he’s sitting next to the object of his very subtle affections, you.

See, the problem with having a crush on you is that Nishimura Riki’s committed to thinking that you’re way out of his league, and unfortunately, the boy believes that almost too well. Not only are you minted beyond his wildest dreams (having seen your posts on social media), but you’re hardworking, helpful, and dedicated to your role as student body treasurer. He’s already understood that you’d never go for a guy like him. Maybe someone more like Park Sunghoon, whose parents’ salary matches yours. If Riki lived in a rural estate with generational wealth, handling the whole ‘Spider-Man’ thing might be a bit easier for him, considering he wouldn’t have to try so hard in school. It might even change the fact that Riki dealt with some alleyway criminals last night and is currently catching up on lost sleep, as your English Literature teacher goes on and on about a project on the book you’re reading.

In class, and even sometimes outside of the classroom, your small tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings has landed you in some awkward situations—like now.

“I don’t really tell anyone this, but I hate Daisy.” And instead of getting a response, you glance over to see Nishimura Riki slumped on the desk. Without trying to make preconceptions about what could land him in a situation like this, you poke his arm, stifling a smile at how his eyes widen when you’ve caught him rubbing the very obvious sleep from his eye.

“Sorry,” he whispers, still fighting the post-nap grogginess, “Did I miss anything?”

(Nope.)

Shaking your head, you return your attention to your teacher as he continues to answer questions. The second Mr. Yoo assigned a report, you wanted to die even more considering the work you had to do on top of the impending due dates. But for it to be partnered? And for you to get seated and paired with the one boy who's known for not caring about school? Maybe things are a little stacked against you, but there has to be a reason why Riki’s somehow still passing all his classes…right?

Considering it’s the last assignment about the book, you’re glad that you already read it so many times to know what you want to put into words. And in retrospect, answering a few open-ended questions about it can’t be that hard—the hardest part would be getting your partner to stay awake in class.

A small tap at your side makes you turn to face Riki, who you see has frantically written a page full of notes about the project in the past three minutes and how he can succeed. “Can you go over the first part? Sorry…I was…y’know.”

“It’s a partner project. And we’re partners.” You wince at the awkward wording.

Great! Riki was caught sleeping and that was your first impression of him for your paired assignment? Riki feels so stupid in front of you right now—in front of your meticulous notes with annotations and proper highlighting. He wants to curl up into a ball when he sees you glance over at his haphazard attempt to look like he was paying attention when, in truth, he was trying to remember the dream he had just ten minutes prior. When you offer him a small smile and nod, leaning over with your notebook in hand, he sighs in relief, thanking whoever it was that let him get away with his naps without the consequence of irritating you afterwards.

The bell rings when Mr. Yoo stops talking, and you pause, startled by the sound. Instead of leaving, however, you pack your bag and shuffle to his side of his desk, continuing to parrot details about your report in hopes that it all makes sense. You need to make sure he knows what he’s doing.

“I think one of the questions he mentioned was like ‘Is Gatsby a good person?’ and do you remember how in Chapter Eight…” The rest gets zoned out and forgotten in the boy’s head, because he in fact does not know what happened in Chapter Eight. He doesn’t know what happened…in any part of the book. But he agrees anyway, pretending like he understands what scene you’re trying to explain. What he notices is how thorough and dedicated you are towards ensuring he comprehends what you’re explaining, and although it could be because you don’t want him to fail you both, he chooses to believe you’re doing it because you tolerate him.

You’re so engrossed in covering all the little details and telling him random tidbits regarding the book that you don’t realize your feet have made it all the way to the cafeteria. “But here, let me get your number. I’ll totally explain more over text.”

Riki is definitely not freaking out when he silently grabs his phone and hands it to you with the contact page, staring a little longer than necessary at the cute smiley face you added to your name. “Thanks,” he mumbles, forcibly tearing his eyes away from the ten digits of your number, “For helping me with this, too.”

“Of course! The Great Gatsby is a fun read for me. A little hard to read sometimes because of some of the characters, but still easy to understand.” And Nishimura RIki realizes that he has to do well. He’ll read the book five times over if it means gaining your approval.

Jake notices something a little different about the tuft of black and blonde hair when his friend walks in. The first thing is that he’s actually here, and that you’re next to him, smiling. The boy rubs his eye to make sure he’s not dreaming somehow, but when he looks up again, you’re waving goodbye and joining your friends across the room.

“Did you get hit with something while fighting a villain that makes you more bold? I feel like I just saw you and ____ talking,” Jake starts when Riki finally joins him with his lunch.

Riki laughs, shoving Jake’s head out of embarrassment and opening his chips. “It’s just school. Got some project in English and she says we’re partnered.” He looks over at his friend chuckling, rolling his eyes at how Jake pokes at his side and wiggles his eyebrows.

“I better hear you two are dating by next week.”

“Who’s dating by next week?” Heeseung places his bag of food in front of them and takes a seat, opening the fast food he got last period and stuffing a fry in his mouth.

“Riki and ____. Let me have one,” Jake answers, reaching inside the bag.

Heeseung looks over at his junior curiously. “You asked her out?” And the two older students hear a groan from the boy in question.

“Me and ____ aren’t anything, for your information.” He prods at the vegetables on his tray and takes a bite before a look of displeasure washes over his face. “You’re both way too excited for two guys who do not have girlfriends.”

“Hey! You know the girl I’m always fighting with is the reason why I’m single. I have to focus on studying to do well in school to do better than her.” Heeseung’s whining falls on deaf ears as Riki smiles victoriously, seeing how defensive the former got.

Jake offers him a shrug of defeat. “I got nothing.”

The three of them fall into normal conversation and Riki finally explains everything that happened during English. “So you’re telling me your plan to ask ____ out went down from 18 months to 6?” And with a nod from the younger, they both groan once more. Heeseung exclaims, “We’re both going to graduate, dumbass. Make the plan go down to like…two months? Please?”

Jake cuts in before Riki has a chance to respond. “Make it one and a half, so we can see you with a prom date before leaving forever.”

“You act as if you’re going to die after graduation. It’s like you’re begging to be a super senior.”

And they’re silenced immediately.

“Do you think the guy I was with earlier hates me?” you ask on the other side of the room. Minjeong stares at you blankly, waiting for your explanation. “I don’t know if you saw when I walked in but I was talking to this really tall guy with blonde hair and black tips. He seemed really out of it, like he kept staring at me and nodding. I think I scared him off by talking about the book too much.”

Sunghoon, who is also listening in, opens his neatly packed lunchbox and begins mixing his noodles. “I think you did scare him off, ____.”

“Not helping,” Minjeong interjects, “Just talk to him more and maybe he’ll warm up to you. You two sit together in class anyways, so hopefully he’ll talk more?”

“I know him,” Sunghoon comments, “Well, sort of. I’m friends with Jake who’s friends with Riki, and it seems like all that boy does is sleep.”

“Maybe he’s really good at subconscious in-class comprehension?” you try, taking a bite of your sandwich. “I just hope it doesn’t interfere too much with treasurer stuff.”

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE IF HE SWINGS INTO ANOTHER WALL AT 100MPH LIKE HOW HE ALMOST DID TONIGHT.

All he’s had on his mind since school ended till now is how he should probably text you, if he really discarded the slimy acid monster from last week properly, and when the prom theme is going to be released, but there’s something amiss that confuses his spidey-senses and makes Riki much more alert.

He snaps out of whatever train of thought he had before, focusing on the situation at hand and looking around to follow his instinct. Riki cautiously plants himself on the side of a random apartment building to get a sense of what's going on. A tingle of some sort of in the air permeates the material of his suit and leaves him shivering from the cold.

He doesn't like it one bit.

Moving to the side of the building to the top, the boy finally catches a glimpse of something when he gets a decent view of the city and highway systems. Riki knows something’s wrong with the bridge the closer he gets. He zips from one side of the tall, metal tower to the other, crawling down on all fours making sure he isn’t caught. He feels the electric feeling once more, only amplified. It runs up his spine and he wants to slap it, almost like a frantic, summertime bug. The air around him is charged with something he has never recognized before. With a puzzled expression under his mask, Riki continues to investigate the surrounding area.

Riki finds a lone figure with some sort of attachment to his left arm, like a long glove made out of metal. The bulkiness of it seems to have no impact on his body as the man fiddles with the contraption, and the boy watches with bated breath as the machine fizzes and spurts with electricity. It begins to glow as power concentrates on his plated palm and the superhero sees it for the first time. It’s like a fizz, like a match striking at fire only to produce a quick burst of friction, but it almost feels liquid when he watches the person play with the flickering blue ball of electricity. It dances in the dark in a hauntingly beautiful way, with bolts jutting out from the metal as it spurts and buzzes with a life-like manner.

A spark.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The sound of Riki’s voice from the end of the bridge causes the stranger to look up with wide eyes. Although Riki fully expects it to simply enhance strength or block damage, the immediate strike of blue that flies straight towards him is anything but defensive. With a yelp, he jumps away, this time refusing to show himself.

What the hell was that?

He knows he should go back down there to change things and get the person and the metal pieces away before it escalates, but when he goes back down to watch, it's ten times worse. The bright blue illuminates the scarred face of the villain as he’s picked up the metal arm–but this time, it’s no longer clunky and sparking, but fused into his arm.

Riki’s face pales at the sudden change before his body acts on its own and he shoots out a web to stop the man.

The villain is shocked by the intrusion, but quickly yanks free from the webbing and flicks another bolt of electricity, one that flies much faster now that the metal flows into the arm instead of simply resting on the skin. It’s unlike something Riki has ever seen, something that is so controlled in motion and yet so erratic in nature, and it instills a deathly fear when it grazes his arm he hisses in pain. The sharp feeling springs Riki into action as he jumps away. He’s lucky another bolt isn’t sent his way, seeing how the villain’s too busy marveling at the power of his new gadget.

“You know that fucking hurts, right?” He yells out, cupping his wound. “Maybe leave the gadgets to the kids!”

The man scoffs. “It better have hurt. I sacrificed half my body for this to work.”

“But why?” All Riki wants is answers. Some sort of explanation.

The man charges up yet another bolt, almost like a laser gun is built into the machine. “Less talking, more running, Spiderman.”

That scared the shit out of him.

The boy doesn’t have time to think as he jumps out from the dark tunnel to the bridge and up the metal towers—he hates having to fight with people right below. The villain follows in pursuit, almost crumbling the metal with his engineered arm as he hoists himself quickly. Riki continues to jump between the structure to avoid the flashes, trying to get out and apprehend the man as quickly as possible. When he reaches the top, however, he feels death is near as he glances down at the villain below who’s quickly gaining on him. He shoots out webs to slow him temporarily, letting himself fall and swing from the side of the tower to escape.

What he doesn’t see on the way across the bridge is the flash that misses his cheek and hits his thigh instead. It burns, and mid-air, Riki gives the wound a quick assessment before he lands on the metal, immediately forcing his body to climb. While dealing with his wound, he fails to notice the villain swinging from the bridge support lines to meet him.

He needs to end this fast before he becomes burnt toast.

Riki doesn’t often rely on instinct to carry him, but he can tell that the villain he’s facing isn’t just a criminal.

“Land another hit, would you?” he tries to say, his voice strained from the pain in his arm and leg. It doesn’t do much to deter the man in front of him as the arm continues to destroy and bend the metal on the way up. “What are you going to do now, Sparky?”

The man says nothing, charging energy into his metal glove again before aiming and focusing on the target: him.

Riki jumps off, not able to properly land his web in the right spot as he goes from one section of the bridge to the other. The man behind him looks enraged at the boy’s attempt to escape—so much so that he reaches out with his normal hand to try to grasp the suit when Spider-Man swings past him. Instead of the feeling of fabric, the villain feels sticky spider fluid on his fingers. Riki shoots out a web, one that curls around the villain’s wrist and drags him off the tower. Instead of being able to launch him into the surrounding waters, the man slips from the poorly shot-out webs and falls from mid air into the sea of frantic cars, including one semi truck that collides directly with his arm. In the air, the boy winces when he hears honks and shouts from the impact, hoping it’s the last time he’ll have to witness it.

With his gaze trained on the falling figure, the weakly attached web breaks, and Riki all of a sudden starts falling down as well. He curls up defensively before bracing for impact, curling into himself when he feels the metal dent and the truck driver scream from outside of the parked vehicle, the body of the villain right in front of it.

Riki staggers, holding onto his arm and thigh the best he can before getting up. With wobbly steps and a small jump, he lands near the unconscious man, whose metal arm is cracked and fizzling—something that Riki knows is bound to leave more scars.

“Call the police. I’ll get rid of the pieces.” Although Riki wants to figure out who the criminal is and make sure he’s properly apprehended, the gashes in the boy's limbs leave him winded and exhausted. With hot metal scraps bound together by webbing in his hands, Riki swings out and dumps it somewhere rural, trying his best to cover the pieces with the pounding headache that

Riki revisits the secluded spot under the bridge, looking for clues to the man’s identity, and his expression falls when he notices a lanyard dangling near a trash can.

His name, his position, and the company. FLiGHT Corp. The company name caught the boy’s eye, and he pockets the item before leaving.

It seemed like he was a normal research scientist, but Riki’s recollection of the scars and tattered skin leaves him retracting his last thought. He heard something about the failure of a time travel machine at FLiGHT, and if the mass of the incident was anything to go by, he was in the center of it.

No matter how many times Riki tries to get it out of his head, on the way home, all he can think about is the inexperience he displayed and the lack of response he gave Riki during the whole time. But Riki can’t bring himself to really take away someone’s life—and maybe for that, he’s a horrible superhero.

He knows he should stop the man before it's too late, and especially with how many self-proclaimed villains there have been, it's not easy to see so many innocent people ruin their lives chasing a power that inevitably consumes them. He knows it’ll only get worse if he lets them run free.

And while the superhero has never been fully honest with himself, there are many times where Riki hates his role as Spider-Man, and wishes that he was just some teenage boy who didn't have the lives of others in his palm. He wishes he didn't have to sacrifice so much to stay behind a mask—and he wonders deep down if there’s anyone else who felt the same.

His swings lead him across the city above hundreds of lives he has to protect, and he tries to find some semblance of peace. He thinks about how he has his homework due despite having just risked his life, he thinks about how your project is going—and about you.

In the night under the stars, Nishimura Riki wishes for something just a bit normal. He wishes a good night for himself, but also for you, wherever you could be.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM TRYING TO READ THIS BOOK IN ONE NIGHT.

The Great Gatsby is exactly like how you described it; a little hard to get through but fun with the plot’s eccentric characters. He’s pretty sure he could’ve just used a detailed SparkNotes explanation for the book, but having a crush can make someone do weird things. And in Nishimura Riki’s case, his infatuation has got him reading a novel about morally-skewed characters and rich society to impress you.

When you come into class barely on time, Riki gives you a confused look when you sit down, but doesn’t comment on it any further. Instead, he takes out his book and tries to act like his eyes weren’t closing shut from exhaustion by the time Daisy was finally confessing how she loved Gatsby.

The moment Mr. Yoo stops talking, however, Riki isn’t asleep—much to your surprise. He has his book out, pages filled with sticky notes and a whole section of his notebook dedicated to characters (written in bright red to keep him awake) and their traits.

“I got it.” It’s the first thing he says when you two are left to do in-class work. It’s ominous, and maybe a little too enthusiastic in a high school literature class for a boy who doesn’t even care that much for school, but you’ll accept it with open arms if it means you get a helping hand on your project.

“Continue,” you tell him slowly, leaning back in your chair to listen to him. And you don’t know why, but a small part of you thinks that the boy who sleeps every period the book was discussed wouldn’t have much to say or contribute to such an open-ended prompt, but life is full of surprises.

What you fail to notice is how Riki is nervous and his stomach does at least twenty flips before he swallows dryly and starts rambling in hopes to impress you and redeem himself from his embarrassing slumber a few days ago.

“So you know how our prompt is based on one character and basically all their actions?” he asks, and you nod, absentmindedly thumbing a sheet in your journal. “I’m thinking we should talk about Jay Gatsby because so much is revealed to us about him that we might as well use it to our advantage. Y’know, talking about how the theme of exploitation and secrets is veiled under Gatsby’s desire for Daisy.”

“You don’t think Gatsby’s a good character?” Riki wants to tell you that Gatsby is more relatable than good or bad, but he shakes his head.

“I mean, not really.” He feels like with those four words, he’s completely changed the trajectory of his relationship with you from a positive slope to completely downhill—and a wave of panic washes over him. “Should I? I mean, I could see him as more redeemable if you gave me examp-“

You wave your hand to quell his worries. “To be honest, I don’t like him either. But he’s an interesting main character to write about, so I think we should go with your idea.”

To win your approval feels like he’s won at least three fights against a villain in a row without getting any bad injuries—it feels good. And for the rest of the period, you are able to finish a detailed outline of your work for the next few weeks, mapping out sections for each other, and he even gets to see a part of prom planning on a word document you had open. He considers your shared productivity a win when he packs up and bids you goodbye before leaving for lunch.

One wave doesn’t catch Riki’s attention from across the room. Not even two, or three calls of his name could get Nishimura Riki out of his thoughts, and Jake frowns before moving up in the lunch line.

“Something’s caught your eye again.” Jake feigns innocence and sighs dramatically as he places the food down next to Riki’s plate. “Could it possibly be our school treasurer?” Jake laughs, leaning over to catch a glimpse of what’s got his friend so entranced and non-responsive.

Riki scrunches his nose, annoyed, but never breaking his gaze from where you’re sitting. “We talked in class–like, a lot,” is all he says, paying his friend no mind. “She’s genuinely so understanding.”

“God, I don’t think you can be any more down bad for her than you are right now.” Jake picks at his food, and despite his concentration directed towards the olives on his pizza, he’s able to dodge the flying loaded nacho that goes his way, even if he wasn’t the one with superpowers.

“Can you shut up?” Riki grumbles, laying his head on his arms as he notices you smile and point to something. “I just got pummeled into a semi truck last week. Let me have this before I die tomorrow.”

“Very grim,” his friend notes, ruffling the younger’s hair, “I think this is exactly what all of those mental health assemblies that we get are for.” And Riki basically tunes him out, too tired to fight and too used to the teasing remarks to come up with anything useful in response.

Riki sits up a bit, letting his head rest on his propped elbow as he looks at the school food and touches another nacho gingerly. “Y’know, I read the book for English so she wouldn’t think I’m an idiot.”

His friend snickers, successfully pulling out yet another sliced olive from the cheese, much to the disgust of Riki. “She probably already thinks you’re an idiot.”

The superhero debates throwing another cheesy nacho in Jake's face, before deciding to eat it instead. “Don’t say that asshole! You make it seem like I have no chance with her.”

Jake shoots him an exasperated look that makes Riki break eye contact. “That’s because you don’t.”

“I’ll prove to her that I’m worth her time.” Riki says somewhat wistfully, still stealing glances from a few tables away. “Maybe I’ll ask her out to prom, show up in my suit. Do that cheesy upside down kiss shit people say Spiderman does.” When his friend raises an eyebrow at him, Riki shrugs. “I will! Well-maybe not the Spider-Man thing, but prom definitely.”

Jake continues to look at him unconvinced as he takes a bite out of a slice of pizza with mangled cheese. “You barely talk to her in class and you think you can ask her out to prom as Nishimura Riki?” And the younger grins, eyes still stuck on how your eyes crinkle and how your shoulders shake with laughter.

“Yup.” And his fate is sealed, just like that.

“What’s your project about, anyways? Didn’t you tell me last night that she gave you her number? Must be pretty serious if she wants to text you.” Riki furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head.

“It’s just tying the theme of the book to one character and writing about how they show it. So we did the theme of money and Gatsby, because it’s easy and mentioned so many times.”

Jake gawks. “You must really like her,”

“I was planning to read it regardless of who I was partnered with.”

“Okay- that’s debatable.” There goes another one of Riki’s nachos.

“Gross.”

He thinks things are going pretty well for you two. The report is being written and your quotes are basically finding themselves, so Riki should give himself a pat on the back for pitching the initial idea for how to go about your assignment. Maybe reading the whole book offered him a few useful pointers, and he goes to sleep that night satisfied with your progress. Maybe Heeseung and Jake were right—maybe he could finally ask you out by prom.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO SAVE THE CITY FROM YET ANOTHER MONSTER TERRORIZING THE STREETS.

He wakes up the next morning, not expecting his alarm to alert his senses to danger. It rings in his head and makes him feel delirious, trying to shake sleep off as he looks out the window for any visible sign of what's wrong. If he could hear the danger in his head then that meant someone could be hurt, and he could go to school without a few hours of sleep if he worked fast enough, right?

Riki slips into his suit without much thought and goes to crack his window open, only to look back at his clock and read the horrific time of 6:23AM.

Who the hell picks a fight with a teenager at this ungodly time?

Then, he shoots from his wrists, once, twice, and suddenly, he's off, covering more ground through the air in just three seconds than he ever could while walking or running for minutes on end.

The source of his tingling spidey-sense is some large metal centipede creature that was setting off car alarms in a neighborhood near the market. Thankfully, no one was really awake to be caught in the crossfire, but he has to figure out how the hell he's going to catch that thing in...he checks his watch…twenty minutes?

Hopefully, his instinct will help him win this time—again.

The web he shoots out does nothing to stop the monster, and considering how it connected them both, the threads only drag the superhero to the edge of the building he was initially watching from. With some yelling and pulling, he finally detaches, and realizes that the odd sizzling feeling in his bonds must be from the same source as a few days ago; Spark.

He had this gut feeling that a villain as strong as him wouldn’t have been destroyed so easily, but his wounds were so deep and the blood loss so bad from a few nights ago that he couldn’t have truly dumped him in the ocean without fainting or suffering something permanent, and although Riki hoped things in the universe would work itself out, the presence of the giant fifty foot insect alone is proof that things were not in his favor.

He jumps off the building onto another, working quickly as he strings up a few webs between the houses as a wall for the monster, watching it slide and knock over cars in its wild pursuit. The monster spends a few seconds breaking down the wall of webbing and climbing over it, the many legs easily breaking through. As the superhero jumps across buildings and keeps track of the centipede’s movement, he has no idea why it isn’t going for him, and that makes his job much harder without the attention of the monster. One glance at the direction the centipede is headed in sets off another ding in Riki’s head—but this time, it finally clicks why the centipede is headed away from the boy.

It’s attracted to the power plant.

Riki immediately jumps and swings off of a lamp post, using the momentum of gravity and the force of his swing to propel him faster than the slithering creature. Squinting, he holds out his fist and points his pointer and pinky out, following the movement of the centipede as he aims.

Bam.

He sends clusters of silky white threads down precisely at the first pair of legs to pin it down. The webs stop the creature momentarily, and Riki doesn’t have time to watch how the body shrinks up and fizzes out with blue shocks as it tries to wiggle loose and malfunctions. This fight would be over soon, and the boy smiles when he jumps down to shoot more webs to apprehend the centipede. It wiggles and sends electricity out through parts of its body, trying to pry itself out. He expects it to simply be a robot of sorts following a mission considering its avoidant behavior, but as he approaches the tail, the monster suddenly swings at Riki, and its mass and speed is incomparable to the boy’s reaction speed.

Riki lands into a tree and someone’s garage, feeling the crumbling wall falling all over him and the sudden pain blooming in his lower back.

This fight will, in fact, not be over soon.

With his superhuman abilities, Riki grabs onto the metal of the car beside him to hoist himself up, coughing from the dust, and jumping over the rubble to see how quickly the centipede creature can get out, without regard for his current state. The sound and rumble of the giant monster is all he needs to know that the traps are effective, but not at the previous capacity.

The plan is simple: apprehend the legs and crush the head, where Riki assumes the decision-making and programming is taking place. But the monster’s angry and erratic actions throw a wrench in his plan. Its legs move faster, digging into the cement and leaving ruin in its wake as it continues down the road. While both the villain and superhero are fast, the distance between the power plant is finite—and only grows smaller and smaller.

Although Riki can feel the bruises coming, he runs and swings, hearing the wind in his ears as he catches up to the centipede in no time. He tries the same tactics again–aim, shoot, stick, all the while keeping his distance. Although the monster’s body spans incredibly long, and should carry an immense amount of weight, the way it snaps at Riki’s flying body and sends shockwaves through his core leaves him shivering as his body slams into the ground, coughing. It hurts all over, and it feels like there’s weight on his eyes when he tries to open them and get up. His head is spinning as he staggers onto his knees, clutching his chest as he watches the centipede shrivel and crackle.

It seems like the voltage produced is a double-ended sword, one that burns up the centipede body as much as it deals damage, and with the way the mutant creeps towards the electricity of the plant, Riki gets the feeling there’s a magnetic pull that forces the mutant to continue to crawl even against its instinct to stop.

Despite his waning strength, however, Riki knows better than to half finish the job like last time. He creates a net from experience, weaving together the thickest and most durable threads to trap the entirety of the slowly approaching creature. It seems to crawl slowly up the makeshift barrier, knocking its head against the white and spreading the bright blue waves of its energy throughout. The boy watches as the thin white mass absorbs all of it and clings to the creature. It works, finally, after his attempts to nullify its movements, and he knows that despite the ache in his every step, the almost mummified centipede that hangs between several roofs for all the neighbors to gawk at is his sure sign of victory.

All he remembers is hearing a familiar call of his hero name before his legs give out and his head hits Jake’s chest.

Holy fucking shit is the first thing Riki thinks when he wakes up.

He’s not out of his tattered suit and he feels grimy all over, but his body has done wonders in reducing the otherwise fatal injuries he got. No human body should be able to withstand two energy-filled blasts, but his suit and superhuman healing are of greater help than ever in alleviating the damage from his wounds.

He knows why he’s in his bed with bandages thrown over his open wounds. He knows that every time something like this happens, it’s Jake who shoos away the concerned civilians, telling them he’s a medic. Jake is not a medic—rather, he’s a seventeen year-old boy who knows about his friend’s double life and with all the times he’s saved Riki, someone might as well dub him the greatest medic of all time.

The clock on his bedside table has only served as a bearer of bad news. He looks over to see how it’s practically midday, and he’s missed yet another day of school from fighting crime. He’s in no condition to get up or get his bag, seeing how his hair is frizzy and his cheek has a cut that would warrant questioning. It seems only fair that he stays absent, and before he falls back asleep, he only prays you aren’t too mad at him for leaving the seat next to you empty.

But you aren’t mad, just worried. The soreness in his muscles doesn’t go away though, and he groans when he sits up in his bed, with bandages around his arms and an ice pack discarded next to him.

He’s most definitely not coming to school like this.

While you bore holes into the clock hanging off the wall, that doesn’t speed up the time. Two minutes pass, then another minute. As your classmates find their partners and begin discussing, you notice how the room gets louder with the due date looming near. It’s the first time you’re alone without the familiar boy beside you, and something hangs low in your chest when you put in a pair of earphones and open your laptop.

Riki’s absence should have no effect on you. After all, you’re both just high school students who’ve talked once or twice, and yet you still look over at the empty chair. Staring doesn’t make Riki appear, though, and you return to your edits. It feels empty without his insight, or without him asking you to help him with a passage. Riki was your solution to all things boring. If he wasn’t doing his work, then you two were laughing at something on his phone. And if you agreed to both do something other than the report, then you could ask for an extra opinion when deciding prom details. There was something freeing about working with him that attracted you. Riki knew how to lighten the mood on days that weren’t so good for you, but he also worked hard and let loose at the same time. There was a perfect balance in Riki’s life that you aspired to have; it was a good mix of playful, dedicated, and fun all in the same vein.

The words blend together on your screen. Jay Gatsby this, Tom Buchanan that, it all looks monotonous the more you keep trying to read and comprehend what exactly you’re talking about.

Before class is dismissed, Mr. Yoo steps to the front of the classroom to gather everyone’s attention. He introduces your new novel for the next month, explaining yet another large assignment associated with the text.

Truth be told, you don’t pay attention to any of it.

The only thing you remember to do is to grab extra copies of the printed graphic organizers, as you get out of your seat and rush out when class ends in pursuit of one specific boy.

“Sim Jaeyun!” The call of his name diverts Jake’s attention from his phone to your waving arm as you weave through the students and finally reach him.

“You can just call me Jake,” he explains, “what’s up?”

You begin to reach into your backpack, trying to feel for your folder, and pull out a few sheets. “These are for Riki.”

Jake cheers internally for his friend who’s busy recovering at home. “What, you got a crush on him or something?”

He tries to play it cool by teasing you, but the smile you bite back leaves the boy questioning if there really is anything going on. Jake knows better than to tell you anything about Riki’s feelings, and opts to instead grab the papers and to thank you for looking out for his friend.

“Is Riki okay?” You have to know, just to make sure he’ll be here tomorrow to cure your boredom.

What Jake says is much different than the nonchalant wave and half grin he gives you. “He’s just bedridden.”

“That’s pretty serious! Did he come down with anything?” He seemed fine yesterday, so what’s the catch?

He blurts, “He just got badly hurt.”

Immediately, Jake knows he’s fucked up.

Your confusion and silence answers him far more than words ever could–he basically hears the gears turning slowly in your head.

Jake weakly defends, “His parents had a fight with him because he hit his head or something. He’ll be fine by tomorrow. Just bedridden from sadness, y’know?”

The look you give him is unconvinced, but when Heeseung pats him on the shoulder and waves to you, the boy realizes that maybe staying quiet would’ve been the better decision.

“I’ll see you later, ____.” And he’s off, waving half-heartedly and dragging a very confused Heeseung out of the cafeteria.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO WAKE YOU UP AS GENTLY AS HE CAN.

Ever since March started and flowers began to bloom, your energy seemed to do the opposite, dwindling until Riki catches you mirroring his frequent in-class action: sleeping. And it worries him beyond belief, because you’re not the type to fall asleep like… ever. However, Riki does not have the heart to wake you up, even if it’s with a little nudge that you probably barely feel with how light he taps. It breaks his heart to have to ask you to review what he has done, because the bell is about to ring and the teacher might just send you to detention if he catches you off-task.

The allergies always make Mr. Yoo irritable, and Riki knows not to get on his nerves.

Your eyes flutter open to the pokes and prodding from none other than Nishimura Riki, who gazes at you softly when you adjust to the bright classroom setting once more.

Panic settles in. “Wait- how long was I sleeping for?”

He shrugs and scrunches his nose, not giving you an answer as he finishes scribbling something in his notebook.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Your hand squeezes into a fist at the frustration that you’ve let your partner down.

And yet, Riki seems to be unfazed, frowning when he sees you stressing out. “Don’t ever sweat the little things, yeah? If there’s anything you ever need to talk about–trust me, I know what it’s like to have a lot of pressure on your shoulders.”

Smiling at him, you respond with, “Thank you, really.”

Being treasurer is daunting in the spring. It’s full of requests, forms, and small tasks that leave you spent by the end of the day. “But,” you glance at the clock to see just how much time is left, “how’d you know?”

He motions to your open computer with a now dark screen. “I saw your document pulled up. ____’s tasks or else she will be kicked out of student government,” he taunts, snickering when your eyes grow wide with embarrassment and you lightly nudge his shin with your foot in warning.

“It’s not polite to snoop,” and although you say that, you catch something in your peripheral vision. It’s a few drawings of a figure and gadget drawn, shaded from rigid shapes with small descriptions pointing to different places. You weren’t sure what was more surprising; how good the drawings were, or the subject of his imagination.

Weird. Inherently, there was nothing wrong with Riki drawing a villain, and you chalked it up to him being creative. Nothing more, nothing less.

He puts his hands up in surrender at your last comment, his grin showing anything but. Just one look at the boy makes you realize that everything you’ve just thought about is foolish.

There’s no way he’d have time to be a villain and a student. With one final thought, you let your raging thoughts rest and focus on the present; him. You’ve seen his hair messy, especially after his naps, but when Riki tries to style it like how he did today, you pay more attention to the streaks of blonde and how he often hides behind his bangs and scrunches his nose. It’s cute. He’s cute.

The truth is, you enjoy being around him like this, joking around and never worrying too much about your responsibilities and expectations. It’s refreshing. Being around Riki gives you the feeling that things will be okay in the end.

You snap out of your thoughts to see that his desk is empty, while your’s hasn’t changed one bit.

“You’re going to sell prom tickets now, right?” He makes small talk before leaving for lunch, closing the notebook you were suspiciously eying before slipping it into his bag.

“Yup,” you answer, popping the ‘p,’ “I’ll see you later,” and you two part ways.

All the long lines and constant distribution of change doesn’t allow much wiggle room for you to daydream. As time goes on, the ticket-selling line grows smaller and smaller, but the only thing you truly care about is eating the lunch your parents packed you. Your sandwich is probably sad and soggy now that there are only a few minutes of lunch left. When you finally sign off one last time after triple checking the forms are all correct, you let out a sigh, leaning back and finally getting a break.

Then, it hits you that you’re not even sure if the boy you’re fawning over is attending the biggest event of the year, and you feel stupid for forgetting to ask.

Yesterday was a rookie’s mistake–today, you’d make sure you get an answer from him.

“Are you going to prom, Riki?” is the first thing you ask when he sits down, grabbing his book and laptop with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I’m thinking about it.” Yeah, whatever confidence he had when convincing himself he’d ask you out isn’t serving him well at this moment. Quite frankly, Riki feels lame as ever trying to be nonchalant around you. “You?”

“I’d have to set up, so I would be there, yes. But whether or not I have a date is another story.” You smile to lighten the mood, but Riki watches you and nods, focusing back on signing into his laptop and getting his notes for the new book you’re reading.

“Well, you’re not the only single one here.” And he wants to reprimand himself for saying something without thinking. “If someone asked, would you say yes?”

You think about it carefully, really because you don’t have anyone in mind when it comes to prom if Riki’s not planning on going. “It’d have to be someone I know—someone I talk to somewhat regularly. I’d be nice to be with someone who doesn’t make it awkward.”

Nishimura Riki might die from over-thinking if he keeps on wondering whether or not he fits that description to a tee.

RIKI'S TO-DO LIST BEFORE PROM

☐ talk to ____ regularly

☐ don't make it awkward

☐ be..cute?

The boy decides that his superhuman responsibilities might be easier to complete than any of those three things.

He switches the subject to stop his head from hurting too much. “Did you finish the report?”

You still, and Riki’s question reminds you of the report looming over your head. In your defense, you two hadn’t brought it up much in the past week, and he didn’t seem to worry over how much of your time was spent emailing teachers or making spreadsheets. Although caught off guard, you’re quick to respond with, “What did we have to finish? I thought we were done since last week, but if there’s anything else-”

“Sorry,” he rushes out, biting his lip, “I meant, if you finished reading it.” And the answer is no, you haven’t read it since your last edit on it three days ago.

Within a few clicks, you find the document and scroll to the bottom, seeing the small note that Riki left that said ‘let me know how it looks.’ It’s sweet to know he thought about your input as much as you did his.

“While some can agree that Gatsby’s rise into high society was sketchy, Gatsby still retains the same reserved character from years ago, and doesn’t manipulate others into success or use his money for nefarious purposes. It’s not like he changed after his wealth, and it could be argued Gatsby loved Daisy until his last breath and was willing to die as long as she was happy, emphasizing the theme of sacrifice.

So, is Jay Gatsby a good person? The question targets the morality of a character who many can empathize with. Those who are charmed by his overwhelming love for Daisy would say that he’s committed textbook crimes, but focus more on the intent behind it. To pine after someone from a distance isn’t easy, but to pursue her after years of separation is even harder. It’s universally agreed, however, that love as a driving force doesn’t nullify what he’s done to others and the dirty schemes he’s enacted to gain the power he has. Therefore, Gatsby makes for an interesting main character, and highlights just how twisted a system around money can be.”

The last page is–for the most part–his writing, and your admiration for him grows when you finish reading and scroll to hit your Works Cited page.

“It’s good,” you tell him wholeheartedly, “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Riki cracks a smile at your light teasing, soaking up your praise.

“Now you know.” He shrugs. And he can only hope that you like him as much as you like his literary skills.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE COMES TO THE REALIZATION THAT HE IS EXACTLY LIKE JAY GATSBY,JUST WITHOUT THE MONEY—DESPERATE FOR THE GIRL OF HIS DREAMS, DYING YOUNG, AND A FRAUD HIDING BEHIND SECRETS.

Nevermind the last one, he has to hide when he has an identity to protect as the city’s only superhero, but Riki feels his heart sink to his heels when he read a few weeks ago how much Gatsby simply adores Daisy. When Gatsby died, he scoffed, closing the book with a sudden disinterest. If he were the male lead, he wouldn’t have been laying in a pool for target practice. Maybe being a superhero teaches you how to avoid being easy bait for all your enemies, or maybe Gatsby was too carried away with love to think straight.

Fighting crime gives you insurmountable experience with sneaking around, but it wasn’t something he could just teach to anyone. When he gets this horrible gut feeling that something’s happened to you, he just knew something was wrong. He might not be easy to catch, but for anyone else? Definitely.

For everyone else, prom was a month away, but for you, it was three weeks of talking to your advisor and president, arguing with your other board members, and sitting behind that damn money box for another five days to sell tickets. For you, it was realizing that you were supposed to buy streamers and balloons yesterday on your way home from school. It was the thinly veiled disappointment in your board member’s texts when they told you they were at a loss for words. ‘I’m sorry, and I know you’re busy, but how could you forget? Prom is so important for all of us. What if they don’t have what you need anymore?’ It all repeated in your head as you bit your lip in frustration and slipped on the first pair of shoes you could find. Although it was dark and dangerous, you could care less if it meant avoiding the passive aggressive comments you’d get tomorrow during your meeting.

There it is again: that little tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings.

You yelp when you feel someone grabbing your wrist and pulling you in, muffling your screams as he pulls you along. To see him on the news was worrying, but to see Spark in person with your life on the line is even worse.

Tears spring to your eyes as you struggle against the metal to no avail, and you curse every previous moment you spent worrying about balloons rather than your safety.

Spark suddenly stops, shoving you against the wall before his hand grabs a brick with his metal arm, beginning to climb. “Don’t let go.” And you don’t think twice before holding on.

The city view would be beautiful if you weren’t hearing your heartbeat in your ears or if you weren’t dangling from the railing of some company building, trying to wiggle yourself free of the rope around your wrists.

Spark speaks up, drumming his fingers on the railing next to you. “You wouldn’t happen to know where your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is, would you?” And you furrow your eyebrows, genuinely questioning for a moment if he really knew how the superhero operated.

A voice from across the street puts a temporary hold on your thoughts, and you glance up to see a flash of blue and red soaring through the air, followed by a groan and a beam of light next to you. Seeing Spark’s powers right in front of you spurs you into action, yanking at the rope and trying to take tiny steps away from where they were fighting.

“From what I’m seeing, you wanted to hold someone hostage because you’re not feeling too good, huh?” Spider-Man shouts as he shoots out webs and blocks hits. You shake your head in partial disbelief of how unserious he is, but also how unbelievable all of this seems. “You tried to take a potion or something? I’m going to tell you this now, but these usually don’t work.”

Riki’s assumption is right, and considering how Spark now has a leg and arm from metal instead of just the arm, the procedure for the additional limb couldn’t have been easy. The superhero still proceeds with caution, making sure to pay attention to anything new as he dodges and fights back.

The villain immediately gets back up, stumbling for a moment before he regains his stance and runs towards the boy. You hear the clanging of fist hitting metal from their fight, and considering the difference in height and build, you’d expect Spider-Man to be easily flung to the side, but he holds his weight in battle.

Riki aims for around the left shoulder, where an abundance of stitches cover the skin and fuse the metal into muscle. He lands a hit, and almost another one, before a punch to the side knocks him from his momentum. The boy wheezes when his back makes instant contact with the ground, rolling and getting up before Spark has time to shoot.

He notices how quickly the gadget generates electricity now. Before, the beams took longer, and were easily predictable, but now, it glows bright for a moment before it fires directly in Riki’s path. The boy dodges the first, but the second one almost hits the top of his head before he ducks and creates distance.

From the roof-top, Riki scans his surroundings before making the split-second decision to jump.

He swings to the other side of the building, keeping you in his peripheral vision as he works on apprehending the villain in front of him. They spring into yet another fist fight, with Riki’s agility easily letting him avoid punches and land precise hits to make the previous injuries even worse.

You think Spider-Man has the upper hand in this, seeing as how none of Spark’s punches seem to slow down the superhero, but you hear something loud before you can register it.

You figure out what happened after Riki stumbles and suffers a blow to the stomach, sending him tumbling to the edge of the building. Spark knew that Spider-Man was avoiding his left arm—he knew that one wrong move paired with the tungsten material would have a lasting effect on the superhero’s fist.

Riki coughs from the impact before his spidey-sense rings, pulling him back into battle as he runs as fast as his body can take him.

You. He still needs to save you.

With renewed vigor, he continues to avoid the flying sparks as he ducks between structures and uses the terrain to his advantage. He can tell, though, that the villain is slowing down. The shots are less accurate–a telltale sign that the enhancer Spark tried is working against him.

Between all of the chaos, Riki finally lands a proper web, yanking as hard as he can to pull Spark to the ground. He stumbles, grasping at thin silk before Riki lets go on his side. The villain’s balance is off, giving the boy an advantage as he closes the distance, hopping over a thrown slab of metal and landing a solid kick into Spark’s ribcage. As he stays down, Riki continues to aim for muscle and flesh, his head spinning as he packs punch after punch to keep the villain apprehended.

Spark’s body–curled into itself to absorb the hits the best that he can– hides the growing blue flash that he’s slowly charging up with his remaining power. The moment it escapes from under his abdomen, Riki directs his efforts towards avoiding the electric glimmer. The villain rolls over, his body tattered from the consistent injuries, and he fires what seems like an intense bullet of energy. It zips by the boy’s cheek, cutting the mask and leaving blood to run down in its wake. Time slows down as the superhero tries to process the unlocked speed of the burst, and Spark loses focus marveling at his new abilities. Never before had either of them seen power so concentrated, and it inflicts both fear and excitement.

He lifts his arm, the other holding it up for support, and Spider-Man notices the fizzle of bright blue. Riki’s about to jump out of the way, preparing for yet another high-speed bullet, but before Spark fires, something clicks. The arm doesn’t directly point to Riki–but it skews off to the right.

Except, he’s no longer aiming for Riki in the split second that the boy blinks. He’s suddenly aiming at you, where your hands are tied to the railing and your feet are dangling from the bent metal that holds you precariously over the edge, leaving a fifty foot drop in its wake. When you see the blue energy in the villain’s palm growing slowly bigger, you pull at the rope desperately with zero regard to the tender rawness of your wrists.

In your attempt to somehow break the rope, your cry of fear snaps Spider-Man into action.

Riki pushes his sore body to jump as quick as he can, leaping across the rooftop to the building over. He easily avoids the metal railing, grabbing onto your arm as he yanks hard on the rope, the force of it separating a piece of metal from the railing. He immediately jumps, sending out a web to swing him back up. It all happens in a flash–first, you were bound to the edge about to fall to your death, and all of a sudden, you’re tightly pressed against Spider-Man’s chest with your bound wrists still attached to the metal. Shutting your eyes, you trust Spider-Man entirely, closing your eyes to avoid seeing just how far up you were. Wind rushes in your ears and leaves your stomach fluttering with butterflies until the superhero sets you down on a secluded rooftop.

“Please,” he begs, “don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

You’d be a fool to do anything but wait.

Riki checks on you one last time before diving down, springing himself back up with another web. The damage from the blasts is recognizable even from far away, and yet, he notices the reflective shine of a metal arm on the edge of the building before Spark lets go.

To Riki, Spark is dead after dropping from a fall having taken that much damage, but he hears no impact. Making haste, the boy fails to find any figure no matter how hard he looks, but Spark’s laboratory has to be here somewhere. The badge from a week ago was stuck on Riki’s mind, and he could only imagine the reasons why he pursued this life. Was he recreating something? If he needs to power some sort of machine, then the heart of the city is a perfect place to harness the electricity for any large scale project. As much as he wants to dedicate the rest of the night to searching the city for some sort of clue, the fact that you’re still stranded on that rooftop after having just experienced a life-changing event blares like an alarm in his mind.

He quickly leaves, returning to where you’re seated.

Without the fear of falling to your death from earlier, you were able to focus on undoing the knots from the rope. Red scratch marks and irritation bloom on your wrist, and the reality of it all happening still hasn’t settled in. Despite not being harmed once, the fear and incessant pounding of your heart overwhelms your senses, and it leaves you heaving with confusion.

A pair of footsteps only become apparent as Riki walks closer, taking a seat beside you and letting out a large sigh. He stares at the stars silently as if he doesn’t have a cut on his cheek and bruises waiting to paint his skin purple–as if he isn’t hiding his true self under a facade.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” You shake your head, grateful that Spider-Man was the reason you got away without a real injury.

“Thank you, really, for saving me. I don’t know how you manage to do it.”

Riki chuckles under the mask. “Eh, you get used to it,” you hear Spider-Man say. “You fight a couple bad guys, get over a fear of heights and eventually you get the hang of things.”

Scoffing, you gently rub at your wrists to ease the redness. “Easy for you to say. I haven’t been taught a crash course on how to avoid being supervillain bait just yet.”

“Maybe you should learn it sometime,” Riki responds absentmindedly, “someone like you shouldn’t have been out so late doing whatever it could’ve been.”

Sighing, your mind drifts off to think about the balloons and streamers that are not in your hand. “I had stuff for my upcoming events.”

He knew about all of it when you’d explain your cryptic reminders and notes on your computer, but he still feigns curiosity. “What upcoming events?”

“Just prom,” and he hears just how strained it makes you.

Riki tilts his head in faux confusion. “What do you have to do for prom?”

He notices how you immediately slump, as if the mere mention of prom deflates your happiness. “It’s only a few weeks away, and I was supposed to get decorations for our venue yesterday. I just wanted to slip out before my parents noticed.”

Despite the fabric over his eyes, Riki’s expression shifts from surprise to pity when he understands your stakes. “You still need to be careful. Is your student council strict?”

“Not strict necessarily, but judgemental–I ran for the position because I thought I could help my school raise funds and find more opportunities, but it just feels like no one truly wants to try anything new.” You wave it off as if it’s not that important, as if it isn’t the reason why you find yourself stressed so often. “I just don’t want to disappoint or give people something to talk about.”

Despite not being involved with school the same way you are, the boy next to you resonates with the fear you currently face. The fear of letting people down was a large part of why Riki continued to put on that mask and step into the most dangerous situation of his life; he never wanted to sit down to hear the news that Spider-Man quit.

So he keeps doing his job, even if some days are harder and some fights aren’t worth winning–just like what you do.

“Yeah, I get that,” he tries to console, “You must be doing a lot for everyone around you, and I’m sure a lot of people appreciate what you’ve done. Don’t beat yourself up too much, yeah? You’ll always have me.” He smiles, but he knows you don’t see it. You’re looking at the stars, trying to calm your mind and return to your life before everything happened.

You glance over at Spider-Man, wondering if he’ll truly be around for you when you need it. “If I need to talk to you, should I step out of my house past 8PM again?”

Riki chuckles, watching clouds slowly dim the moon’s glow in their path. “If I’m not fighting crime, I’ll show up at a moment’s notice.”

There’s no way he means it, but you grin, feeling a lot of the pressure and stress of earlier slowly wash away. After all, nothing happened to you–Spider-Man made sure of it. Maybe things really were going to be okay.

“Let’s get you home, yeah? Don’t you have stuff to do anyways?”

You shrug, nothing really coming to mind. As you get up, you remember having to run a plagiarism check on your work, and how Riki told you to text him when you got home after your student government meeting.

Riki. Spark. Spider-Man.

“Wait,” you tell Spider-Man, sitting back down on the cement, “I need to talk to you about something else, too.”

“It’s not like my dinner’s getting cold,” the superhero mumbles quiet enough that you can’t hear.

“There’s this guy,” you start, paying no mind to how dirty your clothes are getting when you cross your legs.

Spider-Man scoffs, looking off into the distance, and it makes you believe he has to be your age or older. “You have a crush on him, or something?” And a whole tidal wave of deja vu hits you in the chest.

‘He must be badly hurt’ isn’t just something people say. People don’t just draw insanely detailed drawings of Spark’s arm and machines without notes to follow unless they knew. People wouldn't just randomly miss school without any impending signs. You’re sure of it–the tired naps in class, the random drawings of superheroes and superhumans alike, or how awkward he could act–it all makes sense.

Your classmate, aka Nishimura Riki, aka the guy who you’ve questioned if you had a crush on for the past few days, might be a villain.

The swirling feeling of trepidation in your stomach leaves three words running around your head.

What. The. Fuck.

Although you tried so hard to stop thinking about it, Jake’s comment from before rubbed you the wrong way. It was sometime last week where you couldn't get your mind off of the implications of his words, but that feeling was brushed underneath your responsibilities.

Until now.

“Yeah, there’s this guy,” you breathe, feeling your chest constrict, “Nishimura Riki. I think he’s Spark.”

His blood runs cold.

“You think this…why?”

You take a deep breath, trying to organize all your thoughts. “Well, first, it was his friend, Jake. He said that Riki was badly hurt, and I was really confused at first, but tried to let it go.”

Riki was going to strangle his best friend.

“And then, I was looking at him in class, right? And keep in mind, he’s pretty cute, and we sit next to each other, so I just noticed how good his hair looked that day, but his notebook was out, and I saw all these drawings of Spark. Like, the arms, the metal things, even the projectiles! Who would know the ins and outs of that thing if it wasn’t Spark himself?”

He didn’t know what to think about first; the fact that you gushed about him for the first time, or if he should even tell you that Spider-Man would know those things, too.

“And sometimes, I notice he’s a little awkward around me. I can’t explain it. It’s like he’s paying attention to me. That must’ve been why he captured me.” He wants to laugh at how damn close you are to figuring it out, but in reality, nothing is funny about the situation.

Nishimura Riki is actually listening to this, right now, as Spider-Man–not Spark. The awkwardness, though? It was his crush on you, and was not superhuman related in the slightest.

“I don’t know,” he attempts to divert, pretending to focus, “I saw a badge for FLiGHT. You know the company that’s been making time traveling machines? I saw a glimpse of his name and face. It’s not that guy you mentioned.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you haven’t gotten him caught?”

“Villains aren’t easy to find, y’know. It’s not like playground hide and seek,” Riki defends, crossing his arms.

You shrink in your spot, feeling sheepish for questioning a superhero so bluntly.

“Plus,” he continues, “Spark has never had a hostage. Wouldn’t it be pretty mean of that friend of yours to kidnap a girl from his class?”

“Yeah—that makes sense. Thank god,” you breathe, closing your eyes momentarily. “Then what do you suspect all that evidence leads to? Maybe he’s a secret agent?”

“I think,” Riki continues to keep up his clueless facade, “Your friend might just be clumsy. Or creative. I mean, maybe he went through a break-up?” Nice one, Riki.

You shake your head. “No, there’s no way he has a girlfriend. You’d think I like guys who are taken?” Scoffing lightly, you then remembered that Spider-Man really would have no idea who any of you are.

He shrugs and stands up stretching before motioning for you to follow him. “I have no idea what you high school kids do. Come on, let’s get you home.”

As you hug him tight, the cold air whips around your body and leaves goosebumps in their wake. You barely open your eyes from the fear of seeing yourself inches from hitting a building or up in the air. Spider-Man only yells his confirmation after asking how to get you home, finally placing you on the ground outside of your large gate.

“Thank you for saving me tonight.”

“Anytime. Figure things out with that friend of yours, and don’t go out late, okay?” You nod and take his words to heart.

“Goodnight, Spiderman.”

—-

Nishimura might die. One, because he has this horrible guilty feeling in his stomach, and two, because of a villain.

Yesterday, he ignored the salmon and rice bowl that waited for him back at home, choosing to follow the coordinates he saved on his phone after he took you home. It led him to a seemingly harmless auto-shop, with an arrow on his GPS pointing to a garage that was shut down completely with nails and blocked with boxes. The exterior pointed to it being abandoned, but Riki suddenly saw some light coming from a makeshift above.

The boy scaled the wall as quietly as possible, glancing into the source of the whirring. He caught small glimpses of something–metal, glowing, blue.

Or at least, for a few seconds it was on until the power went out.

The voice that complained from inside the room sounded identical to the man Riki fought. Spark grumbled, turning on a flashlight and quickly waving it around. Riki ducked from the window and held his breath, waiting for the man to suspect something.

Nothing.

One lightbulb slowly flickered back on, and then the other dingy light followed. The space was cramped with the metal equipment in the middle, resembling what Riki had seen in the news.

He was right–it was the same time travel portal that was ruined from a few months ago.

Spider-Man continued to observe the man as he worked and drilled, plugging certain wires or pausing momentarily to read from a journal. To anyone, it’d seem peaceful, like some sort of renovation project. But in reality, it was so much more than that.

Riki searched for any sort of information about the machine, trying to see what exactly was left to do until his gaze landed on something.

There was some sort of date on a bright pink sticky-note, and Riki’s eyes widened when he finally comprehends it.

The machine was scheduled to be completed tomorrow.

A street lamp next to Riki dies out—which was a clear sign that something was powering up. From the dark, he hears the metal from the same place as last night moving again, and he knows that Spark has left. His presence sends anyone down the street and immediately running, leaving the area for only them two.

Riki finally sees the completed metal build. Half of his body is wrapped in or replaced with metal parts as he sets down the metal portal, beginning to push it in the direction of the power plant.

A truck or car would make things much easier, but whatever.

Riki wants to cry from fear and run away. He wants to leave and pretend he never saw anything from last night.

He’s going to die fighting Spark and he will quite literally a) never finish highschool and get that stupid diploma, b) finish explaining how Gatsby is not a good person and is naturally selfish, and c) he’s never going to tell you how he’s had a small crush on you ever since he saw your cute campaign video as to why you should vote y/n l/n for student body treasurer last spring.

“You sure that thing works?” Riki asks, jumping into action as he sends webs to immobilize the machine.

“You’re annoying, you know that?” Spark sends a projectile in the superhero’s direction, hitting the wall behind him instead as Riki jumps out of the way.

With another duck mid-air and the roof of a flying car dangerously close to his nose, Riki thanks the dance practice he does for his flexibility as he shoots another web and swings away.

Spark is uncontrollable by now, sucking the light from street lamps and fizzing wires in his wake. He has no idea how he’s supposed to get in contact with the villain like before. The body of his suit fizzes with bright electricity that sizzles and pops. It illuminates Spark’s figure, making him easy to spot, but not so easy to defeat. It’s an overload of power, causing the voltage to escape between the joints and gaps of the metal pieces in his suit. And Riki can feel it; the air is heightened and so are the stakes of this fight—and with how the man that stands in front of him looks upgraded and menacing, he knows only one person can make it out of this fight alive.

“You injected the city’s ‘Gas and Electric’ into your system or what?” Riki calls out, making light of the situation. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s scared out of his wits seeing the six foot figure with blue and white shooting from every crack, looking like a nightmare to touch.

Riki avoids a few more angrily thrown objects, using the momentum of his jump from the side of the building to zip from the top of a yellow fire hydrant to go from one side of the street to the other. “You’re slow!” He taunts, tucking in his legs to avoid a shot of electricity directed at him.

The screech of metal from the nearby hydrant can be heard as the top flings off, making Riki lose his anchor/ Before he can process it, instead of smoothly landing on the building, he crashes into it faster than expected, groaning when his back makes contact with the glass and he tumbles into the living room of someone’s apartment.

“Fuck,” he curses, fighting his aching limbs to get up once more.

And the solution hits him. Literally.

When he steps out and quickly attaches a web to the top of the building, he’s met on the way up with a splash of water from the hydrant to his face, and Riki splutters as he wipes his mask, regaining focus as he lands on the concrete and hides behind the ledge.

Water. If he can get it in contact with Spark and pour enough water on the right spot, the excess of electricity blazing from his mechanical body should work against him.

“Too scared? You should know better than to run away.” The superhero rolls his eyes, crawling away silently to avoid being seen by Spark. Riki does his best to look around for something, and finds a black flower pot in the corner, using a web to grab it before he scales the side of the building and runs away while Spark is distracted as the villain also climbs the wall to face him there. But when Spark climbs the ledge and scans the premise, Riki is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Riki swings across the street and fills the pot with water, heaving the extra weight as he shouts out from the sudden pain in his side. He stumbles on the pavement, crying out from the injury as the pot falls with his whole plan.

Maybe this is where Spider-Man dies.

He sucks in a deep breath before rolling from his back onto his knees, ignoring the wound to pick up the flower pot. The hydrant still shoots out water, and the superhero rushes towards it, causing Spark to follow. He narrowly avoids another shot from behind him, reaching the yellow hydrant before dropping the pot on the ground. Spark is th

While Spark has always been intelligent, Riki could tell that the man didn’t fear the water, believing he’d be invincible to the elements now that his suit was perfected. There was something off, Riki could tell, and he would make sure to use it to his advantage. Spark was uncontrolled, and his powers drastically decreased the more he used them. There’s no way his body isn’t in overdrive with how recklessly he’s been letting himself get hurt.

Riki uses a web to get himself on higher ground instead of fighting, waiting for the supervillain to follow. If he could get Spark off the edge and fall into the growing puddle of water, it should slow him down.

Spark scoffs. “Run away, then. Like you always have.” Riki hears the wall crumbling under the villain as he climbs within seconds, immediately preparing to fight when he makes it onto the rooftop. But Spider-Man was also prepared, jumping from his crouched hiding position and attempting to catch Spark off guard.

All he can focus on now is pushing him off. There’s no way it’d be easy, considering he had to focus on his touching any of the electricity off of his suit. Riki delivers a kick to Spark in the ribcage near his heart, where he’s fused metal into flesh. The villain coughs before taking a step back, his metal arm reaching for Riki’s outstretched leg. He grabs it, twisting with anger before the boy meets the ground in a violent throw. Not only is the slam greater because of the enhanced strength, but the power seeps into Riki’s skin, leaving it hot from the energy radiating off of his palm.

The boy groans, flipping to his side to avoid a fatal hit to the chest. He reaches for Spark’s normal arm, swinging the villain’s body away with as force as he could to create distance between them.

Riki has been in enough fights to simply know when to run, even if he doesn’t know what’s coming. He could feel the tingle of the charge as it powered up, and with its energy so unrestrained and its user so unstable, the large attempt to hit Riki sends the villain stumbling back from the force. The more Spark uses his powers, the more likely he’s going to end up dead.

“Your skin can handle that anymore!” he shouts, getting ready to swing himself closer as a plan manifests itself in his head. “You’ll die like this!”

Spark seems to know that too as he wipes his mouth and recovers from Riki’s attacks.

“You think I care?” He shouts, desperately pressing his wounds to stop the bleeding. “You think I have anything else for myself?” The vulnerability of his character shines through as he clutches his bleeding wound without regenerative powers to help. “You think I didn’t know that when I did it to myself--what they did to me?”

Riki doesn’t respond, grimacing as he continues hand-to-hand combat. Although he takes a solid punch to his jaw that’s forming a deep purple bruise, he manages to trip Spark onto the ground.

The man stumbles back from the head injury, the pounding from earlier not letting him to think straight. Riki doesn’t try to injure him anymore, but he instead blocks an incoming punch and tries to force Spark towards the edge.

The villain barely notices how much space there is left, and the boy lunges with full force. They tackle each other into the ground, and Riki gets off after apprehending him once more.

The city's a mess, and Spider-Man’s eyes want to shut down so badly, but he takes a few steps in Spark’s direction, pushing him off the side of the building as quickly as he can. Riki hears the thud before he peeks over the edge, seeing the water erode all of the engineering from the machinery. He slowly descends from the rooftop.

“You were in the accident, huh?” Riki shouts on top of the plethora of sounds. Pain, buzzing electricity, splashes of water as he lands next to Spark; it all echoes in his ears as he pours the water from the pot on Spark’s body. “Why did you try it? Why did you want to go back so bad?”

“If I could go back,” Spark coughs, trying to get away from the large pool of water, “I could’ve prevented the accident from taking the lives of the people around me. I could’ve saved them.”

Spider-Man understands loss, and he understands the regret that comes with failure. He understands how the man in front of him feels after having everything taken away from him, but his emotions could never justify his actions.

“You know you can’t change things,” Riki responds, “You tried your best, Spark.” It’s the last thing Riki tells the villain before his body slumps and police sirens grow louder and louder. It’s the last thing that he continues to think about, even if the medic quickly assesses the severity of his wounds.

“I’m fine- really,” he pushes away the hands of a concerned woman as she holds a roll of bandages. “There’s something else I need to do.”

Riki knew he had to tell you about this–he couldn’t just let you confide in him about..well, him, without your knowledge. And Riki wasn’t morally perfect, but he knew an explanation would be the only way to fix things.

Your house looks different when jumping over the fence instead of standing in front of it. When he realizes he has no idea what room belongs to you, he racks his brain, suddenly remembering how yours was the only one with a gray balcony over the pool. And so he climbs, slipping from the exhaustion creeping into his body.

You’ll understand after he explains everything, right?

“____, a little help?” And what the fuck is Nishmura Riki doing outside of your door? You go to investigate the muffled sound, inching towards the curtains and pulling them back to expect him there. When you hear a half yelp and a hissing sound that follows right after, without a person anywhere in sight, your heart drops to its stomach.

Do not say it’s true.

“Riki, where the fuck are you?” you ask, traversing out when you don’t see him anywhere across the glass.

“Down here.” You run in the direction of the voice, and your eyes grow comically large and you gasp, staring down at the sight before you.

“Holy shit.”

There Nishimura Riki is, with his mask half burned off his face and his blonde and black hair messy and matted to his forehead with sweat. The suit is ripped in multiple locations with gashes and purple replacing the healthy skin underneath. His face is in more of a grimace, as he holds onto the web with both hands and one foot planted on the stone of your balcony—read; the bottom of your balcony.

“A little help?” And you see his sheepish emotion through the tattered fabric, embarrassed after you had to find him in such a compromising situation. “I’m a little worn out and I think my webs are getting weaker.”

You’re a little frustrated with him for being out so publicly, but more scared and worried for his condition. Your gaze narrows on the mask, tattered and covered with scratches, but clearly visible. It was Spider-Man’s mask. The material gives way to a familiar face, and your mind almost blocks you from putting the pieces together. It’s impossible, almost horrifying to think of the implications of what it means to wear the blue and red suit.

Instead of being the villain, Riki is, in fact, the savior.

The harsh truth is that your classmate, who you spent the last month working on a project with and suspected was a villain, is the same superhero that went out and risked his life every night fighting crime. It’s jarring to see him like this, breathing heavy and straining against the stone of the balcony, and his cough snaps you out of it. “What the fuck do I do?”

Riki tries to put his hand up in surrender and shuts his eyes at your harsh tone. “Okay, okay, I get-“ and he cuts himself off with a yelp as his footing slips.

He holds out his hand, and you immediately bend over the smooth railing to grab it, leaning back on the heels of your feet to help him up the most that you can. You’re filled with confusion when the boy hobbles over the cool surface of the balcony and lets his head rest on the stone, not saying much as he catches his breath. You watch the rise and fall of his chest and how his right arm goes to nurse the left side of his ribcage, wincing and sucking in a pained breath as he assesses the smear of red on his fingers.

Sitting there with your mouth agape, you’re not really sure what to think about first; to check if RIki’s alright, to think about how your city’s greatest superhero is your English project partner, to yell at him for going to your house instead of his house to fix himself up, or to think about how good his side profile looks in the moonlight. Maybe you should’ve just been relieved that the boy you started to like wasn’t a fear-inducing villain.

“Okay, first of all, we need to have a huge talk. But I’m not a medic Riki- I’m going into accounting for fuck’s sake.” He hears the amount of curses flying from your lips as you ramble, and sees how stressed you look watching him sit against your railing.

“I don’t know how to help you. And also,” you lower your voice and scoot closer, looking around at the large property to really make sure no one’s listening. “you’re Spider-Man?”

The information all hitting you at once is worse than when your history teacher told you your essay was horrible. At least then, in her office, you could process everything. But here? You’re about to faint.

“I’m pretty cool, huh?” And of course Nishimura Riki says such a thing, taking deep breaths as he shallowly presses on the blossoming bruises on his skin and wipes the sweat from his brow.

“Pretty fucking stupid is what it is, Riki.” You cross your arms and try to take a look at where he’s been hurt, hoping that at least he has some sort of regeneration ability that helps him heal much quicker—because there’s no way he could deal with all of this on top of school.

“I have my reasons,” he says, his voice quiet.

You pause. “For being Spider-Man?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “For coming here.”

“What could possibly make you want to come over to my house instead of the nearest hospital? What’s that important to you?”

“I really want to ask you to prom.”

You simply stare at him, surprised.

“You came to my house, even though you’re like, a punch away from passing out, to ask me out? And you couldn’t have, I don’t know, asked me anytime during the classes we have together?”

Riki somehow finds it in himself to frown and shrink from your angry piercing gaze. “I can’t because talking to you makes me nervous–so yeah, I’m sorry I’m half conscious on your balcony in my suit instead of at your door with a poster.”

You’re conflicted, your mind still reeling from the recent discovery and your flood of emotions. Ever since you questioned his identity on top of your feelings for him, you had a hard time really knowing if you could like Riki if he turned out to be a villain, so to know that he proved both of your theories wrong leaves you quiet as you think. If possible, the color in the boy’s face drains even more when you go back inside, but the door stays open, and he thinks he hasn’t ruined things after all. You emerge with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a bowl of warm water, and a pristine white towel.

“I’m not mad about that, you idiot,” you reprimand him, setting everything down as you examine the cuts on his face. You squeeze the towel and start to dab at his skin, avoiding the cuts as you clean it. “Who does this for you if not me?”

“Jake.”

“Seems like a pretty good friend.” Riki nods in response.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, sitting up to properly address you, even if you weren’t able to meet his gaze.

“For what?”

“For putting this on you–all of it. Not just the whole Spider-Man thing.” He knew he’d have to tell you at some point, or else it’d eat him up inside to know he kept all of it from you.

“Look at you, saving me mid-air and talking to me as if you didn’t know who I was.”

You notice a flash of regret through his wince as you clean up a cut with antiseptic. “I meant it when I told you I knew what it was like to have a lot of pressure.”

“Guess I wasn’t so far off, then. If we never talked, would you have told me?” Riki shakes his head, and the simple motion leaves you somehow disappointed.

“How do you ever tell anyone you’re…y’know, Spider-Man?” Even if it’s a hypothetical, you shrug, not being able to answer.

“How’d Jake find out?”

Riki chuckles and hisses at the same time before trying to remember. “I think I just kicked his window in after a nasty poison got hold of me. He was a little too excited to have Spider-Man on his bedroom floor, and less excited to know it was me. I’m not really supposed to tell anyone, though.”

“Then why’d you tell me? You could’ve just gone back to your friends.”

“I felt guilty–I know, I know, it sounds stupid. I’d definitely get my identity revealed at this rate.” You shake your head.

“Not stupid. Keep going.”

“I didn’t care that you suspected me, or if anyone else did, because I knew it was never true. But I felt so bad knowing you were sharing to me how you felt without even knowing it was me who was listening–like I was holding something from you.”

You admire his honesty, and when you look at his furrowed brows and his lip that he’s been gnawing from worry, you can’t even imagine what he’s had to hide and do for this. In a way, you look up to him more, for trying his best even if he’s gotten all odds stacked against him. Riki’s commendable in your eyes–he always had been, ever since you woke him up in class.

“I like those things about you, Riki. That you’re honest with yourself and the people around you as much as you can be, and you try to help others when you can. I’m glad we got to know each other more this past month.” Talking to him feels different than talking to Spider-Man from a few days ago; it feels raw, like you’re not just confessing something to a brick wall anymore. If none of this ever happened, you doubt you’d get the chance to tell Riki any of this properly.

The boy stays silent, taking deep breaths while processing what you’ve told him. “I’m glad I could help you out.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I hope you know I don’t like you because you help me out. I like you because you’re attractive, and because you’re genuine,” you blurt.

Riki laughs despite his ribcage hurting everytime he does so. Riki nods and mumbles a ‘thank you,’ also glad to truly get to know you. While his crush was more of an infatuation with your hard work and amiability, the past few weeks really opened his eyes to who you were. You never wanted to disappoint, and even if your recklessness left you in some dire situations, Riki could see how much effort you really put into things.

There wasn’t anything else he needed to tell you–you were smart enough to see how much he cared about you.

You’re so close, your lips glossy with lip balm as you watch him carefully. You hear and see it all; the heavy, labored breathing from his body healing itself rapidly, and the way his hand is full of rough cuts and calluses as his fingers intertwine with yours. But your eyes catch a glimpse of his mask tossed to the side, the blue shining in the corner of your eyes as you’re reminded of who he is right now, and what role you play. You are still ____ ____, but he’s a superhero.

It makes you momentarily forget whose suit you're peeling away, whose skin you're cleaning. It reminds you that he’s just the boy in your English class that you fell for. “What does that make us?”

“Prom-goers,” he answers with a slight nod.

You smile, wiping a cut before placing the towel back into the bowl for the last time and getting up. “We can be prom-goers, yeah.”

You’re not sure if you’re ready for anything, and you’re thankful that he understands that, too. As much as it warmed your heart to see him again and hear his confessions, the blaring truth still hangs over your head. You grab his mask, finally looking at him before handing it back and grabbing your things. His secret identity wasn’t something you could just ignore.

“Go home, Spider-Man,” you turn your back on him, and time slows when you falter before sparing him one more look. “I want you as Riki, not like this.”

MAYBE NISHIMURA RIKI DOESN'T NEED TO DIE–OR ALMOST DIE–ANYMORE.

He went home that night with his scars somewhat cleaned and his bruises miraculous healing on their own, and even if slipping through the window left him clutching his side in pain, Riki silently jumped up to celebrate his multiple victories before slipping out of his suit and finally getting some rest.

Riki’s scared of how he’s affected your relationship. He’s worried you’ll avoid him in the halls, and he’s worried you’d never want to see him again after putting you through all of it. As much as he'd understand how upset you'd be towards him, he hopes he did the right thing by telling you.

But you see him on your way to English, and you call his name. His eyes search for yours in the crowds, and you two see each other before you crush him in a hug.

Riki isn’t sure how to feel at first, but eventually wraps his arms around you as relief settles in his stomach.

“Thank you for saving me, Spider-Man,” you whisper, loud enough for only him to hear.

He smiles at you, ruffling your hair as you go to English together. “Anytime, ____.”

NEVERMIND, NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE SEES YOU IN YOUR RED PROM DRESS.

But first, he has to try something out.

He curses to himself when silently zipping from a tree outside your family property to the top of your house, staring past the ledge two and luxurious stories to your well decorated porch light and door. He just prays that Google Maps is right about how secluded the area is, so no one can see him pacing around your rooftop, with flowers elegantly wrapped in his hand (courtesy of your mother’s sleek envelope from a few days ago).

“Fuck it,” he says to himself, shooting a web and dangling himself down. Riki’s upside down figure watches swirled window frames and meticulously designed accents as he descends, and he wonders what kind of shady business your parents could’ve done to afford something so grand.

He faces your door—hanging down instead of rightside up, but he’s still here on time like he promised.

The door opens at 6:00PM like he instructed you to, but what he didn’t tell you what to do was shriek and slam the door. On his nose. With a loud yelp, Riki clutches his nose, rubbing the spot you hit and trying to apply pressure to alleviate the pain.

When the door slowly creaks open again, you face with the image of Nishimura Riki, aka your boyfriend, aka your English partner, aka Spider-Man, curled upside down in the fetal position as he cradles the sore spot on his face and swings slightly from the breeze.

“You scared me, dumbass! How was I supposed to know it was you? It was so hard to see!”

Although muffled, Riki’s able to mumble, “You have a porch light for this reason, _____,” and a jab at his stomach from you follows his sarcastic remark. Finally, his nose feels better, and he straightens out to finally look at you.

Pretty, pretty, pretty, and the boy wonders how you look even more stunning with a glittering red dress and perfectly done make-up. “I like the red,” he says, trying not to freak out over your beauty. “Reminds me of a certain neighborhood superhero.”

“I have some blue spider earrings to match.” With a beautiful smile, you turn to show him the little accent, and it melts his heart. “Are you okay, though?”

“I’m fine. I should’ve probably put more thought into that.”

You snicker, sliding into your heels and closing the door behind you.

“One of us is better at romantic gestures, it seems.” It warrants a scoff, and Riki brings a gloved hand to poke at your forehead teasingly.

“Let me have a do-over, then?” And the way your lips curl up into a bright smile leaves him quiet and in awe.

“What, were you going to kiss me? Very original, Spider-Man.” With the way the fabric shifts over his features, you can tell he’s pouting.

“I thought girls liked this.”

You shrug, pretending you aren’t swept off his feet by the effort he’s put in. Taking a step in his direction, your hands reach up to gently pull the mask over his chin, ears, and then his nose.

Whispering quietly, you ask, “You’ve kissed other girls upside down?”

Riki’s quick to shake his head. “You’re the only girl I’d withstand a head rush for.” And god, you just can’t stop yourself from grinning at his sweet, genuine words.

You lean in, placing a small kiss on his nose as a silent apology. Then, you close your eyes and lean into him once more, feeling his hands carefully holding the side of your head and his lips on yours. Your kiss with Riki is saccharine and slow, making you pull away when the urge to beam at him is too much. Your cheeks definitely hurt by how romantic he’s being, and you can’t resist kissing him once more.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he starts, finally letting himself down, “It feels weird.”

“You ruined the moment.” And he really didn’t, but you enjoy his subtle reactions to your light digs at him.

“Whatever.” Riki laughs. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

You nod, sitting down on the porch and dragging a manicured nail over your lips with the ghost of his affections, thinking about how you literally just kissed Spider-Man.

Riki comes back, dusting off his suit and smoothing out the wrinkles, with a large bouquet of red roses and one blue one snuck in there. Your lips stretch into a grin and you accept the bouquet, keeping a mental note to read the card in there.

“You never cease to amaze me, Riki.” It’s the last thing you mutter to the air before you loop your arms around his neck, urging him to lean down as you kiss him once more—this time rightside up, but still as sickly saccharine as the one before it. Your heart is fuzzy with fondness and your eyes glitter with adoration.

“So, which kiss was better?” he asks when you pull away, a little breathless and dizzy.

You swat his arm and walk past the gates, seeing the sleek limo waiting by the curb. “I don’t know, Spider-Man. Maybe show up in your suit and we’ll try it again.”

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED AND ALWAYS READ!

RIKI FIC DONE!!!! ngl y/n u were right there how did u not know riki was spiderman but whatever idc she's a hard worker not smart LMFOAOAO. my first ever action fic so i hope you enjoy! also i hate the ‘oh he pined after her for 4 years she liked him for 2 months’ bs because I WAS IN IT. and it sucks so i tried to deviate from it :)

꣑ৎ permanent fic taglist (TAGGED IN TEASERS, FICS, HEADCANNONS, DRABBLES, ETC.): @dimplewonie @minleeeknow @heeheesang @mintpjzroll @llvrhee @firstclassjaylee @in-somnias-world @rairaiblog @suneng @mavlogist @sensitively-taken @sumzysworld @simpjay @moons-v @riksaes @txtari @jungwonscatcus @tya0 @sasfransisco @woorcve @shypen @pinkriki @rikisluv @saranghaohoshi @lilifiedeans @wonmyheart @k1ttyluvr @nikisgfff @ramenoil @laurradoesloveu @lvcky-g1rl-syndr0me @ikeulims @missychiefs1404 @qwonyoung23 @yangjungwonnie @onementally-unstabel-kid @microwvdstrawb3rri3s @blooqz @anormieee hi permies hope u enjoy! kith

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ofspvrta · 1 year ago

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Kassandra and social cues

Kassandra wasn't always the most socially graceful even in her mortal years, but immortality had added an extra level of social awkwardness to the misthios. Having to navigate an ever-changing world while not fully being a part of it means she doesn't always grasp or understand what she should say or do in certain social situations. She can come off as awkward or rude without intending to be. Sometimes it's hard to fit in with humans when her entire being sometimes feels so utterly removed from it.

#Ψ:|| a tale for the ages | headcanon #new banner graphic who dis?

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candysunoo · 6 months ago

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ೋ◦ ❀❀ enhypen as a

bridgerton story ❀❀ ◦ೋ•

♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹

ೋ◦dearest gentle-reader ◦ೋ•

❀my name is lady whistledown. you do not know me, and rest assured, you never shall. but be forewarned dear reader, I certainly know you.❀

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❀ now, before we shall begin dear gentle-reader there is something you must know. this author has no rights to the Bridgerton stories/ series. thus all of the following are loosely based on them. this author also does not know any of the boys personally; and thus this is not an accurate portrayal or representation of them and their lively hood. thank you in advance dearest gentle-reader. please enjoy. sincerely, your lady whistledown (aka kei ;D) ❀

♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹

ೋ◦ ❀❀ Lee Heeseung - Queen Charlotte ❀❀◦ೋ• 18+ MDNI

❀❀❀ King Lee Heeseung, 3rd of his name, the ruler of Great Britain and Ireland, your new husband.

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❀❀❀ When your tiny island kingdom falls apart under the scrutiny of the large countries around it your brother has no choice but to marry you off. Marry you off to none other than the King of Great Britain and Ireland. Lee Heesesung ascended the throne young after his father tragically died. Years after finally coming of age, his mother decides it’s time for him to marry and produce the next heir, despite his covertly concealed mental illness. When you arrive it seems as nothing can go your way. From mistakingly talking down to the king after being caught trying to run away, to what was supposed to be your honeymoon night your ladies maid explained. But must you know dearest reader, that love does indeed conquer all and secrets don’t stay secrets for long.

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ೋ◦ ❀❀ expected release date: may 22nd, 2024❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ chapter content warning: strangers - to kinda friends- to lovers, traditional gender roles, 1700’s societal expectations, arranged/ forced marriage, bitchy mother-in-law, mentions of parental death, mentions of mental health and feeling like an outsider, medical malpractice, mention of feeling unloved and trapped in a marriage, SMUT, sex (lots of it), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, put that wiener in a blanket), breeding kink , praise, mention of pregnancy and birth, angst and fluff, idiots in love, MORE TO BE ADDED ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ word count: 11.8k ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ link to read here! ❀❀◦ೋ•

♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹

ೋ◦ ❀❀ Park Jongseong - The Duke & I ❀❀◦ೋ• 18+ MDNI

❀❀❀ Park Jongseong aka Jay, first of his name, The Duke of Hastings.

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Dearest gentle reader, haven’t you heard? The honorable l/n family is finally debuting the oldest daughter. A vision of beauty, just as her mother was, any young man would be happy to have her on his arm.

That being said being the eldest daughter of eight children can be tough. Especially as you are now of age to enter society. It was exhausting really, the trips to the modieste for the hours of standing for the dropping of hems and the countless arguments between your eldest brother, the head of the family, and your mother. After your father died your brother had become especially protective of you and your other siblings; much to the dismay of your mother. The protectiveness only gets worse when you catch the eye of not only the queen but also a certain Duke who is determined to stay out of the clawing hands of desperate mamas and their daughters.

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ೋ◦ ❀❀ expected release date: June 08th, 2024 ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ chapter content warning: fake dating- to true love, traditional gender roles, 1700’s/1800’s societal expectations, mention of childhood trauma, mention of parental death, small mention of attempted assault (nothing graphic y/n gets forcibly kissed, it does not go into detail), retired manwhore jay, anxiety, traditional courting, mention of fighting/ light violence, forced to married - destined to stay, mention of having children, lies of omission, SMUT, corruption kink, virgin y/n, jay talking you through it, wet dreams, MORE TO BE ADDED ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ word count: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ link to read here! ❀❀◦ೋ•

♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹

ೋ◦ ❀❀ Sim Jaeyun - Romancing Mr. Bridgerton ❀❀◦ೋ•

❀❀❀ Sim Jaeyun aka Jake, first of his name, 3rd eldest son of his family, and your longtime friend and crush.

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Dearest gentle-reader, ever since the successful seasons of not only his older brothers but sisters as well all eyes have fallen on the 3rd eldest son of the Sim family. Will this be the season he finds a presentable young lady to hold him down to the mainland; or will he end up on yet another voyage across the sea?

Ever since you can remember you have been friends Sim Hyunjin, the middle daughter of the Sim family. Also since you can remember you have had a massive crush on her younger brother Jaeyun, or as he liked to be called Jake. Everyone who knew you knew that you were nothing less than a soft, quiet, wallflower. Always sticking close to the edge of the room, alone and watching the courting couples dance the night away. Jake was always so kind in that regard; pulling you away from the wall and to the dance floor but never letting it get further. Never officially courting you or even giving you the curtesy of signing your dance card. However when you overhear a conversation not meant for you everything changes. Will Jake be too late to fix what he had broken?

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ೋ◦ ❀❀ expected release date: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ chapter content warning: ft. Loossemble/ Loona’s Kim Hyunjin as his sister (they share the same birthday lol), friends- to strangers/ acquaintances- to friends again- to lovers, traditional gender roles, 1700’s-1800’s societal expectations, mentions of hard family situations, mentions of feeling alone and like an outsider, reader gets called names (by Jake he doesn’t really mean it?), flirting, jealousy, heartbreak, fights between friends, POSSIBLE SMUT I HAVEN’T DECIDED YET, MORE TO BE ADDED ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ word count: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ link to read here! ❀❀◦ೋ•

♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹

ೋ◦ ❀❀ Park Sunghoon - The Viscount who Loved Me ❀❀◦ೋ• 18+ MDNI

❀❀❀ Park Sunghoon, first of his name, eldest child of his family, The Viscount. The bane of your existence.

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Dearest gentle-reader, after the ever successful season of his younger sister last year Park Sunghoon has declared himself available to be wed. Making him the most desirable young gentleman of this season. May we wish luck to the other young men, as the nagging mamas and their equally difficult daughters shall be all over the Viscount.

Being the eldest son of a prestigious family was no walk in the park. Especially for Park Sunghoon who had taken over as the head of his family after his father’s tragic death. After the past year his mama had been insistent on him marring. Especially after she found out about a certain opera singer and the way he funded her lifestyle. Entering the marriage market his wasn’t looking for love. He was looking for a woman with at least half a head on her shoulders and child- bearing hips. No need for anything else. He just needed a wife. You and your sister had just arrived in town, sponsored by an old family friend to join this marriage season. Staying with Lady Lee Chae-rin was nothing less than a dream. She was kind and understanding towards you, your sister and your mother. Strong willed and outspoken you were determined to find someone for your sister to wed, if not for her, for your entire family. However what happens when alls not fair in love and war?

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ೋ◦ ❀❀ expected release date: TBD❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ chapter content warning: enemies- to lovers, mention of parental death, traditional gender roles, 1700’s-1800’s societal expectations, arguments, extortion(not by Sunghoon or reader), mentions of family issues, shitty grandparents, rushed engagement, technical cheating (Sunghoon is with readers sister), angst to fluff, Sunghoon is a world class rake, breaking off an engagement SMUT, hate sex, light degradation, some praise, public sex (in a private garden no one else is there)❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ word count: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ link to read here! ❀❀◦ೋ•

♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹

ೋ◦ ❀❀ Kim Sunoo - An offer from a Gentleman ❀❀◦ೋ• 18+ MDNI

❀❀❀ Kim Sunoo, first of his name, the 2nd son of his prestigious family, an artist, and perhaps your Prince Charming?

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Dearest gentle-reader, love has a funny way of finding its way around the ‘ton. Of course, when there are so many eligible young men and women how could it not? This author happens to think that one of the eligible young men of the ‘ton may find love where he least expects it. Or rather with whom unexpected love comes with.

When your mother died it felt as if the warmth of the universe had gone with her. The flowers no longer grew and the wind no longer sang a tune as it blew. As you approached the age of your debute into society you had some hope. However it was all crushed into small bits when your father married Seo Minhae. The literal devil in disguise. After that her and her ill-mannered daughter moved into and made you a servant in your own home. Pushed out of your room and into the basement, forced to do housework and cook you were treated as nothing. Finally reaching your breaking point you snuck out of the house. Finding yourself at a masquerade ball and in the arms of a tall, slim, dark haired man. Feeling like royalty and like you were on top of the world you had the night of your life. That is until the clock struck midnight.

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ೋ◦ ❀❀ expected release date: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ chapter content warning: strangers- to lovers, Cinderella type content, traditional gender roles, 1700’s - 1800’s societal expectations, mention of parental death, awful evil stepmother and step sisters, running away, slight escapism, mention of depression and slight religious imagery, masquerade ball, reader is implied to be shorter than Sunoo, abrupt abandonment, angst and fluff, SMUT, soft sex, unprotected sex( wrap it before you tap it, put that wiener in a blanket), praise, dirty talk, overall sweet and fluffy, MORE TO BE ADDED ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ word count: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ link to read here! ❀❀◦ೋ•

♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹

ೋ◦ ❀❀ Yang Jungwon - It’s in His Kiss ❀❀◦ೋ•

❀❀❀ Yang Jungwon, first of his name, an entitled aristocrat just like the rest; but could there possibly be more lurking underneath his greed for inheritance?

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Dearest gentle-reader, the time has come for the youngest daughter of the l/n family to make her debut into society. Though between you and I founder has it that the youngest of the l/n family is too much to handle when it comes to romance. Loud and outspoken one can only hope the youngest will find someone suitable for her.

Yang Jungwon was the eldest child in his family. He was born for greatness. He planned his whole life as he seen fit on the promise of his inheritance. You however were the youngest daughter, loud, outspoken, intelligent and brash. Yang Jungwon could hardly stand you. That is until he needs your help of course. After his father has taken over the family’s business and title he didn’t seem to want to give it up. Yang Jungwon didn’t know what to do with himself. After all what grounds does his father have to deny him his birthright? Finding a journal from his long dead grandfather, Jungwon finds himself in a bind; the journal is written in an entirely different language and could possibly hold the solution for his predicament. However, the only person he knows who can remotely translate it, even if it’s not perfect, is you. The one person his calm and quiet self can not stand to be around for long periods of time.

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ೋ◦ ❀❀ expected release date: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ chapter content warning: acquaintances- to friends- to lovers, shitty parents, mention of parental death, Jungwon is technically an orphan, threats of disinheriting, mean comments (towards reader not by jungwon), reader is a bit much for Jungwon at times, overall fluffy, heavy petting, make out session, LIGHT SMUT( nothing too in depth just an after scene) MORE TO BE ADDED ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ word count: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ link to read here! ❀❀◦ೋ•

♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹

ೋ◦ ❀❀ Nishimura Riki - On the way to the Wedding ❀❀◦ೋ•

❀❀❀ Nishimura Riki aka Niki, first of his name, the youngest son in his family, trapped between the glamorous dream of love at first sight and the harshness of reality.

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Dearest gentle-reader, do you know that true love conquers all? Well this season we are in for a treat, the youngest of the Nishimura family finally has plans on marrying. This old author can’t help but wonder what shenanigans this season will hold.

Nishimura Riki was the youngest of eight children. He had grown up watching all of his sibling find true and meaningful relationships. That was all he wanted for himself. Riki believed in love at first sight. Especially when he saw her Danielle Marsh, your best friend. When his gaze first saw her it was as if he had been struck with Cupid’s arrow. It went so deep in his heart he couldn’t breathe, the entire world was stopped as he watched her from afar. However that didn’t last for long as he witnessed her approach another man, fluttering her eyelashes and giggling at him.

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ೋ◦ ❀❀ expected release date: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ chapter content warning: love triangle, love at first sight, unrequited love- to true love, idiots in love, “let me help you help her”, breaking up engagements, mentions of family issues, love confessions in a garden, heavy petting make out session, ‼️NO SMUT‼️, angst with happy ending, MORE TO BE ADDED ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ word count: TBD ❀❀◦ೋ•

ೋ◦ ❀❀ link to read here! ❀❀◦ೋ•

♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹ ♡ ₊˚⊹

❀ i hope you all look forward to reading the stories! i‘ll update the content warnings as i finish the stories! please ignore any mistakes i may have made as i will start to go through and correct them! also ignore the bad formatting i did it on mobile 😭 - kei ❀

❀ a taglist has been created you can find that post here! that is the current standing of who will be tagged in the first post. feel free to ask to be added by commenting or sending an ask/ message! ❀

‼️‼️ ©️ @candysunoo 2024 DO NOT copy, repost or translate without permission ‼️‼️

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macfrog · 10 months ago

Text

sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :) DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

December.

The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.

You hate every fucking minute of it.

“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”

You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”

He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –

Never mind.

“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Tommy.”

Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.

His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”

Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.

“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”

Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.

They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.

Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.

A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.

What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.

Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.

She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.

He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.

Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.

Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.

This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.

Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”

Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”

“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”

Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.

“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”

Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”

“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”

You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.

Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.

You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.

Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”

You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”

You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”

He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”

“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”

Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”

“How am I holding up?”

“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.

You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”

Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”

“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.

Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”

You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”

Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”

Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”

He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”

Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”

A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”

Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”

“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.

Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”

Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”

You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”

“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”

The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.

“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.

He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”

You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”

“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.

“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”

“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”

He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”

You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”

“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”

“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.

The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.

And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.

Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.

But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.

Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.

She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.

Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.

“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”

The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.

“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”

Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.

You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.

He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.

Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.

“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.

“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”

“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”

He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”

Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”

Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.

And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –

Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.

Walk me home.

You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.

“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”

Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.

You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.

You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.

A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.

And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.

It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)

No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.

You don’t?

No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?

Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.

But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.

Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.

He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.

And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.

Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”

“’n whose fault is that?”

You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”

He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”

A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”

“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”

Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”

Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.

You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.

“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”

And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”

“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.

“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.

“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”

Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.

You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”

Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.

The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”

Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.

The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”

And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”

“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.

The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.

None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.

It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.

But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.

Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.

“You know what I’m craving?”

Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”

“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.

He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”

A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”

The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”

You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”

And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.

So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.

It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.

He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.

Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”

“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”

“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”

She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”

You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”

But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”

Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”

“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.

“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”

Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.

“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”

Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”

He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.

He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”

Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”

“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”

“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”

You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”

“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”

Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”

The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.

So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”

Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”

You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”

Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.

And I mean anything. OK?

Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–

The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.

Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.

Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?

You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.

And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.

Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.

Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.

He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.

You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.

You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.

There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.

But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.

Mom.

It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.

Mom. Mom and Dad.

You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.

And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.

“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”

And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.

Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.

A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.

Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.

Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.

You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.

It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.

Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.

Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?

Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.

Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.

Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?

The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.

“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.

Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.

Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.

Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

She’s good but I do it so much better.

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.

Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.

“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”

Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.

Let go.

Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.

Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.

Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.

“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.

“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.

His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.

You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”

He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.

“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”

“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”

“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”

Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”

You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.

You’re trying not to think too much about it.

“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”

Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”

“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.

He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”

You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”

“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”

“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.

He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.

“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”

Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.

Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.

But right then –

There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.

Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.

“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.

Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”

“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”

“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”

Your head shakes.

When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.

But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”

“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”

You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.

And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.

Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.

“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”

Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”

You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.

It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.

At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.

“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”

“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”

“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”

You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”

“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”

“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”

Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”

Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.

“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”

He sighs.

The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.

“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”

The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.

“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.

“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”

He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.

You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”

Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”

You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”

He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”

“Joel.”

He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.

“You have to go.”

He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”

You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”

Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”

He leaves on Saturday morning.

You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.

“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.

And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”

“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”

“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”

“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“Hm. Now go.”

His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.

You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.

A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.

You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.

“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”

Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.

You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.

From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.

You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.

You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.

Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”

The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.

“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”

You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.

Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.

Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.

The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.

You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.

And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.

Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.

We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.

Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.

And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.

Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.

And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.

He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.

You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.

“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”

At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.

The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.

“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”

A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.

“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”

One twenty-three. You go into labor.

#i think duckie is my favorite character i've ever written. that fetus has more personality than vanessa icl #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel #neighbor!joel miller #babydaddy!joel #tw pregnancy

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 11 months ago

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Red Hot Chili Peppers - Otherside 1999

"Otherside" was released as the third single from Red Hot Chili Peppers' seventh studio album, Californication, and confronts the battles addicts have with their prior addictions. "Otherside" refers to former band member Hillel Slovak, who died of a heroin overdose in 1988. The track was released in Australia and New Zealand in 1999 and was given an international release in January of the following year.

It was highly successful, peaking at number 14 on the US Billboard Hot 100, and number one on the Billboard Alternative Songs chart, where it remained at number one for 13 consecutive weeks, one of the longest runs at the top of that chart. It was also a big success in Iceland, where it became the second single from the album to reach number one, and in New Zealand, where it charted at number five.

The gorgeous video was directed by Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris in a black-and-white/monochrome Gothic style similar to Robert Wiene's The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, all influenced by German Expressionist art. Elements of Cubism and work by the graphic artist M. C. Escher are also seen in the video.

"Otherside" received a total of 76,3% yes votes!

youtube

#finished #high votes #high yes #high reblog #red hot chili peppers #90s

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navybrat817 · 1 year ago

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Within You

Pairing: Soft!Dark Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky shows a different side of himself when you venture into a corn maze. Word Count: Over 3.2k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, DUBCON, unprotected vaginal sex, semi-public, breeding kink, spooky vibes, established relationship, possessive behavior, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: Welcome to Navy's Trick or Treat Nonsense! Special thanks to @ghotifishreads who suggested soft!dark Bucky with a breeding kink and @tumblin-theworldaway for listening to me (s)cream about this. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @vonalyn , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was your first Autumn with Bucky. The two of you had been dating for less than a year, but you were completely enamored with him. Not only was he doting and smart, but he was a man who made your heart flutter in your chest whenever he looked your way. Even thinking about him sets your heart ablaze. He was the one for you.

“Come on,” you smiled as you took his hand and pulled him toward the pumpkin patch entrance.

The two of you took turns regarding date nights and outings. Today, you chose a pumpkin patch. You told him it wouldn’t feel like Fall if you didn’t go and listed off the fun things to do. There was a hayride, pumpkins and apples to pick, a corn maze, and much more. He obliged since he knew it would make you happy. He even gave you a small smile when you told him the website claimed that the maze was tricky, but you knew he’d find his way out easily.

You stopped and inhaled the cool air, the scent of warm apple cider drifting your way from the stand nearby. The temperature dropped just enough that you were comfortable in a sweater and the sun peeked out through the clouds to greet you. It wasn't overly crowded and it was the perfect weather. Even better because you had the perfect man by your side.

It was going to be a good day.

“Where should we start?” You asked, smiling when a small group of kids headed toward one of the tractors. “Hayride? Pick a pumpkin to carve later?”

“Where do you want to start?” Bucky replied, a small breeze blowing some of his dark brown hair back.

Your answer died in your throat as you gazed at him. His hair was the third thing you noticed about him, long enough that it almost touched his shoulders and soft to the touch. You loved running your fingers through it, whether it was to soothe him and pull it when he was between your thighs. The second thing you took notice of was the massive size of your now boyfriend. Over 6’4” with broad shoulders, a puffed out chest, and thighs made for riding, he intimated most while he excited you.

His cool blue eyes, of course, were the first thing. Gazing into them was like swimming in a private sea, ready to ride a gentle wave or get swept away in a storm depending on his mood. You could handle the entire range of emotions because you were his girl. It was that simple.

“You’re staring, doll,” he smiled, your cheeks warm at being caught. If any other guy called you "doll", it would've sounded silly. It was endearing coming from him.

“Well, I can't help it. You’re gorgeous,” you said.

“You are gorgeous,” he argued, the compliment sending more heat to your cheeks.

“You said that this morning,” you teased. The two of you moved in together recently and you had a hard time getting out of bed some days. Waking up beside him was like a dream, but it was your reality.

“And I'll say it again,” he smiled before a girl stopped in front of the two of you with a tray.

“Hi,” she greeted with an ear-to-ear smile. “Would either of you care for a sample of cider? We have warm and chilled.”

“Ooh,” you smiled, glancing between the cups. You loved apple cider. “I'll take warm, please.”

“Same. Thanks,” Bucky said, selecting cups for each of you. He blew on his before he drank it, a weird look crossing his face as he swallowed. “Is something on the bottom of my cup?”

“Nothing on mine,” you said, glancing at his cup once you tried your cider. “I think it's a sticker. Is it a cauldron?”

“Oh! You got the lucky, special sample!” the girl grinned as you and Bucky shared a confused look. She balanced the tray in one hand as she handed your boyfriend an orange coupon and took the empty cups from you. “Free cider for two. Enjoy!”

“Thanks,” Bucky said before she went to give samples to others.

“Lucky guy,” you smiled, raising an eyebrow as he slowly licked his lips. “You okay?”

He blinked and nodded. “Yeah. Was just warmer than I expected.”

“You didn't burn your tongue, did you?”

“No, but you should massage your tongue with mine anyway,” he half joked.

You smiled and nodded toward the maze. “Why don’t we check that out first?”

“So, you’d rather check out a maze instead of soothing your boyfriend's tongue?”

You giggled as you made your way to the start, grabbing a small sheet of paper. There were different sets of “animal tracks” to find throughout the maze. Anyone who found them all got a prize. “Why check out a maze when I can check you out?” You asked, unable to keep a straight face. “That was cheesy.”

“It wasn’t cheesy,” he said before his smile widened. “It was corny.”

“Oh, my god,” you laughed more. One thing about your boyfriend, he could always bring a smile to your face. “You think you’re so…”

A little boy ran out of the maze with a smile before he lost his footing and pitched forward, his sheet of paper floating to the ground as it flew from his hand. You rushed over to help when he began to cry, carefully helping the poor child sit up. “Ouch,” he sniffled.

“Hey. You okay?” you gently asked, making sure to keep your demeanor calm as you brushed some of the dirt away. You also grabbed his sheet before it could blow away. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

He wiped his face and pointed to his knee once he rolled up his pant leg. “Right here.”

“Okay. Let’s take a look,” you nodded as Bucky joined you, crouching down on the other side of the boy. He looked worried, too. Minus the small scrape, he looked fine overall. “Poor little guy. Scrapes are no fun. But you know what? You’re a strong little boy.”

“I am?” he asked in a small voice.

“Yeah. Very strong,” Bucky agreed. "My girl wouldn't lie to you."

It was sweet how he spoke of you. “And you found all the animals, so you get a prize,” you smiled, showing him his paper where all of them were shaded. “You’re strong and smart,” you added, which brought a smile to his face, too.

“Timmy!” a woman shouted as she jogged out to the maze. “I told you not to run off. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” he replied, taking your hand so you could get him to his feet. “Hurts, but I’m strong and smart.”

Timmy’s mom bent down to inspect his knee herself before she gave you a relieved smile. “Thank you for helping him. How can I repay you?”

“That's not necessary. We're glad we could help,” you said, making sure he had his sheet. “You enjoy your prize and listen to your mom, okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded, waving as he went with his mom. “Thanks!”

“Cute little guy,” you smiled as Bucky slowly stood up. Your boyfriend had a few expressions that you were used to seeing, but you couldn’t read the current look he gave you. It was as if he was seeing you in a different light. “What?”

“Why haven't I knocked you up yet?"

You opened your mouth to say something, a feverish and unexpected heat moving through your body. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard what I said,” he said, his piercing gaze rooting you to the spot. “Just wondering why I haven't."

Though you knew Bucky was the man for you, the topic of kids hadn’t come up much. Partially because you hadn’t been together a year yet. Wouldn’t it be too soon to have a little one running around when you weren’t even engaged? Not that the two of you had to get married to have kids.

Maybe him seeing me comfort Timmy brought it to the front of his mind.

“I don’t know, Bucky. Why haven’t you knocked me up yet?” you teased. You almost shrank under his gaze a moment later when he didn’t laugh or crack a smile.

“Maybe I should. We can go home and get started right now,” he said. There was no hint of a joke in his tone. “This would be a fun place to bring our kids one day. Don't you think?"

“Why don’t we talk about it after the maze?”

He looked hurt for a split second and you almost assured you weren’t blowing him off. You wouldn't do that. It was merely a serious talk for another time. “Sure. After the maze,” he agreed, taking your hand as you made your way back over.

A chill ran down your spine when you walked through the entrance. It was strange. You weren’t afraid, especially since it wasn’t dark outside. So where did the unexpected chill come from?

“You okay?” Bucky asked, his voice a little rougher than usual as his grip tightened on your hand. Did he feel weird being in here, too? “I didn't freak you out, did I?”

“I'm fine and you didn't freak me out. You know you can tell me anything,” you replied, shaking it off the chill as the two of you began to walk through. The maze took up almost a third of the entire place, the stalks high enough that neither of you could see over them. “I think we should find the werewolf tracks first. Because they're one of your favorite animals.”

Before you could turn right down one of the paths, he brought his mouth close to your face. “That and I wouldn’t mind sinking my teeth in and leaving my mark on you.”

The breath rushed out of your lungs when you turned your head and caught the darkness in his eyes. His pupils were larger than normal as he stepped closer, almost backing you into the corn. “Is that right?”

“And you’ll let me,” he said, your heart racing as he leaned in. His kisses stole the breath from your lungs and your eyes slipped shut just before his lips touched yours. “Won’t you?”

“After we find the first set of tracks,” you whispered, pressing your hands to his chest so he’d back away.

He didn’t budge.

“Seriously, doll. Why haven’t I knocked you up yet?”

This again?

“I thought we were going to talk about that after we got out of here,” you reminded him, stepping to the side to go further down the path. “Where is this coming from anyway?”

“Been thinking about it for some time. I just haven’t said so,” he answered as he followed close behind. Was he afraid to say something before because it was too soon? That admitting it would scare you off? “Now that I'm talking about it, I can't stop.”

You were tempted to make a joke that there was something in his special cider sample making him talk. “You're serious about this?”

“You moved in with me. We love each other. I want a life with you. Of course, I'm serious.”

Glancing over your shoulder to find him watching you, you couldn’t help but smile. “I love you, too, Bucky,” you promised before you focused on the path again. You weren’t sure just how far the two of you had walked through. “But something like that is-”

You shrieked when Bucky spun you around by the shoulder, a wild look in his eyes before his mouth met yours in a persistent kiss. Compelling desire moved through you, but it didn’t matter how much you wanted him. The two of you were still in public. There were families around.

This wasn’t the time or place for this.

He broke the kiss before he shoved you almost painfully to your knees. He was never that forceful. “I’ll lose my mind if I’m not inside you.”

“Bucky, what the hell?!” you asked as he moved behind you and dropped to his knees, too. He yanked your pants and underwear down before you could stop him. Did you want to stop him? “We’re in a maze. What if someone catches us?”

He scoffed as he pushed you forward, forcing you to brace yourself with your hands. The cool breeze touched your exposed pussy, sending another chill down your spine. “You think I care if anyone catches us? I need you and they can’t stop me. They'll see that you're mine.”

The corn seemed to move in closer as you heard him unbuckle his belt, as if to give you some privacy. It had to be your mind playing tricks on you. “I'm already yours. Can you just slow down for a second?”

“I’m sorry, doll,” he swore, clamping a heavy hand over your mouth. “I’m tired of waiting.”

Bucky sheathed you in one hard thrust, your cry smothered by his hand. You admitted to him once that he was the largest you’d ever had, which he both loved and hated. While it made him feel good that your ex-boyfriends weren’t as big as him, could never stretch you the way he could, he hated thinking of anyone else being inside you. He liked to remind you that no one else ever would be. And because of his size, he usually took great care in prepping you.

His need must’ve clouded him, the burn from the stretch more intense than usual.

“I’m sorry, doll. I don't know what's come over me. I can’t help myself,” he apologized again as if he sensed your discomfort, your cunt gripping his cock like a vice as you breathed through your nose. “But it’s okay. I’ll make you feel good. Just take me.”

You whined as he nearly pulled out completely and shoved himself back in as deep as he could go. That was your only warning before he set a steady pace, your hands fisting the dirt and your ears ringing as blood surged through your veins. It wasn’t long before your wetness coated his cock, the burn fading to pleasure from the friction. He fucked you before, but it was nothing like this. Bucky was like a man possessed. No, not even a man. More like a wild animal rutting into you, claiming you.

Where anyone could stumble along and find you.

“So soft. So warm,” he groaned, leaving sloppy kisses along your neck. “So fucking good.”

You tried to push yourself higher on your hands and knees for better support, but the force of his thrusts surged you forward. Removing his hand from your mouth, he placed it on the back of your neck as your cheek hit the dirt. The hold gave him leverage to fuck you deeper with your ass in the air. The soil felt cool in contrast to the hot palm against your skin.

“Better keep quiet,” he warned you, even as the angle sparked ecstasy within you. All you could do was bite your lip to try and keep the sounds in as much as possible. “Or do you want someone to catch me breeding you?”

“What?” you gasped, unable to lift your head as a new sensation hit you.

“You heard me,” he growled, draping himself over your back and maintaining his harsh pace as he breathed against your ear. “Gonna breed you. Gonna fucking drown your womb with my seed. ‘Cause you’re mine. All. Fucking. Mine.”

The sweet doting boyfriend you were used to was nowhere to be found as his cock wrecked your cunt. Was there something unexplainable causing him to act this way or had he been holding back? You would question him later. For now, you could only go limp as he fucked you into the dirt with vigor. And it felt good. You couldn't deny it.

“Gonna be so full of me. Fuck, you’ll look so beautiful carrying my baby,” he grunted, barely able to make out his words his thrusts increased in speed and strength. The slap of skin on skin filled the air and you almost had to cover your mouth yourself to stop your mewls. “Your belly round. Your tits nice and full. Might keep you knocked up so you remember who you belong to.”

The image of Bucky with his hand on your belly filled your mind, sending jolts of unexpected pleasure down to your toes. “I can’t take it, Bucky,” you gasped, even as you felt the tug of your building climax ready to snap. “It’s too much.”

With a deceptively soft kiss to your neck, followed by a small nuzzle, Bucky let out a deep moan. “You can take it. You always do ‘cause you’re mine. My good girl,” he rambled on as you whined, the wet slide of your pussy squeezing him tighter as you got closer. “Need to pump you full. Need your cunt to milk every drop from me. You want it. I know it. Come.”

You couldn’t hold on any longer, your fingers curling in the dirt again as you came with a cry. You were overwhelmed by the pure bliss, shocked at just how powerful your orgasm was. He hadn’t teased your clit, yet you gushed around him like he had. The squelching sound blended in with your whimpers as he fucked you through it.

Maybe you liked the idea of him breeding you more than you realized.

“That’s it, doll,” he groaned as he chased his release. “Take it. Every. Fucking. Drop.”

Bucky's rhythm faltered as his cock pulsed, spilling inside you with a growl. He kept his hips flush against yours as he breathed raggedly against your neck, keeping your bodies joined together for as long as he could. He didn’t move until he began to soften, making a whimper spill from your lips when he pulled out of you. His fingers quickly replaced his cock to keep his spend from sliding out of you.

“You okay, doll?” he asked, his voice still a touch of gruff mixed with softness. “I didn’t mean to be so rough.”

“Mmm,” was the only response you could give him.

It was like a switch had gone off as he helped you up, keeping you from collapsing as he got your underwear and pants up. He wiped as much of the dirt away with his hands as he could, softness in his eyes once again. Minus his disheveled hair, he looked fine. Like he hadn't just fucked you in the corn maze.

You two were lucky you hadn't gotten caught.

He hugged you as close as he could while you tried to make sense of his behavior. Whatever raging beast was inside him was satisfied for the time being. But what came over him?

Large hands framed your face as you tried to get your shaking under control. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” you mumbled.

“I’ll draw us a bath when we get home, okay? Get you cleaned up and make sure you aren't too sore,” he offered with a tender kiss to your lips. “After I throw out your birth control pills. You won’t need those anymore.”

So, how are we feeling? What do we think? Love and thanks for reading! 🧡

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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sleepy-steve · 3 months ago

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@steddieangstyaugust 06/08 // “Who did this?”

wc: 2.5k // rating: T // cw: homophobic slur, hate crime, blood/wounds // tags: post-s4 but vecna dies, eddie lives, hate crime, satanic panic, wound care

divider credits @steddiecameraroll-graphics

When Eddie woke up in the hospital after days in a medically induced coma, Steve felt a relief so deep it caught him off guard.

He wasn’t sure why the feeling was so intense. Maybe because it was the closest they’d gotten to actually losing someone. Maybe it was because Steve was the one to bring him back from the edge of death. The speeding drive to the hospital spent in cold fear that Eddie might bleed out in the backseat after Steve had given CPR, pushing hard enough to hear Eddie’s ribs crack before he took in a faint wheeze of a breath and his pulse fluttered weakly beneath his skin.

Either way, when Eddie finally blinked awake—groggy and fearful—relief washed warm and heavy over Steve, eyes filling with tears as he gripped Eddie’s hand tightly and whispered to him quiet words of welcoming, soft praises of having done so well, gentle reassurances that he was safe now. The fear in Eddie’s eyes slowly faded. He gave a small nod—his movement limited—and with it, placed his trust in Steve.

The trust between them maintained, lingered, grew into something strong with each day spent recovering, each whispered fear and secret shared between them, each lingering hand hold. Whatever it was, it was growing, and alongside it, a fear that it was turning into something Steve wouldn’t be able to stop.

Weeks after his release from the hospital, Eddie greeted him with a story of being chased off by friends of Jason Carver—uninjured, thankfully, but still shaken—and Steve felt the rush of overprotection fill his veins like adrenaline, and realised it might be something a little more than that. But no, Steve felt protective over all of his friends. This was no different. He assured himself that the hot spike of fury and need to protect his friend was normal. His reaction was equal to the danger in which his friend was currently in. The perception of Eddie Munson in Hawkins was still… in poor favour. Despite him being cleared of all charges formally, the town had difficulty letting go of this idea that Eddie was a dangerous individual. These were people that tried to kill Eddie, it only made sense that Steve would feel this way. This was just a normal, close friendship. Until it wasn’t.

Steve’s driving toward the trailer park, warm afternoon air flowing through the open windows, a new mixtape from Eddie blasting from his speakers. Tapping the wheel along with the music, Steve takes the turn down towards the Munson trailer, slowing as he sees something that doesn’t quite fit with the landscape. Bright red. Steve’s heart drops. He turns down the music, slowing his car to a crawl. Once close enough, he parks and throws himself out of the beemer, taking in the awful sight before him.

FREAK. DEVIL WORSHIPPER. FAG. SATANIST. REPENT. All scrawled in blood red paint across the front of the trailer. Alongside the repeated words, symbols—upside down crucifixes, pentagrams, crudely drawn demon-like figures—filling up any available space. Steve feels his throat close up, immediately rushing to the door and trying not to knock too aggressively.

“Eddie? Are you in there?” He calls softly. “It’s Steve. C’mon, man, open up.”

Steve listens intently, until he hears shuffling behind the door, the sound of what could be something shifting across the carpet. Finally, the door cracks open.

“Eddie…” Steve says with relief, but the door doesn’t open further. “Are you okay? Jesus, what happened?”

Steve can only see a sliver of Eddie’s face, one eye wide and shining with fear. “Are—are you alone?” Eddie croaks. Hearing the way Eddie spoke makes his throat tighten.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just me, man.” Steve keeps his tone as gentle as possible. “Can I come in?”

Eddie only looks at him, seemingly thinking hard, before turning quickly but leaving the door open. Steve steps inside quickly, and the door snaps shut behind him, bolts locking and chain pulled across immediately. Eddie stays facing the door, and Steve sees that his hair is half tied up, and one hand is gripping tightly at his side, fingers digging into his ribs. Despite wanting to ask more questions, Steve keeps quiet, feeling like Eddie might freak out or bolt if he speaks.

After a minute that feels like an hour, Eddie finally turns.

Steve can’t help the sharp intake of breath, the way his blood turns to ice, the flare of his nostrils in fury at what he sees. Eddie’s left eye—the one hidden by the door before—is black and swollen almost shut. The purpling extends down his cheekbone. A gash at the top of his head is open, blood seemingly hastily wiped away, but still sticky at Eddie’s hairline and down the side of his face. His lower lip is busted near the corner, bright red and swollen, still dripping blood that Eddie unconsciously licks away. With his hair partially pulled back, Steve spots purple and red on Eddie’s throat. He looks to where Eddie still holds tight at his side, and sees how his knuckles too are red and bloodied.

When he finally looks back up to Eddie’s face, he sees a look of shame. Steve feels a storm brew in his chest. He reaches out, leaving distance just in case. Eddie flinches, instinctively, before stepping forward into Steve’s space. He lets Steve trail his fingers, softer than he would have expected, along his jaw, gently shifting his head around to look at his injuries. Allows Steve to move a lock of hair that didn’t make it into the hairband, carefully avoiding the open wounds. His warm palm settles on the side of Eddie’s face that was—for the most part—uninjured. The gesture so soft, so kind, a tear spills from Eddie’s good eye.

Steve holds steady, keeps his voice low. “Who did this?”

“Steve…” Eddie whispers. “I… I tried—tried to—” He can’t finish the sentence, words catching in his throat, breath speeding up as more tears run down his face, pooling against Steve’s hand.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, soft and reassuring. “I’m here, it’s okay. I got you.”

Eddie shuffles forward, close enough that Steve can feel his short panicked breaths. Steve slowly opens his arms, hesitating, before Eddie lets himself lean against his chest. Lowering his arms with care, Steve places his hands on Eddie’s back like he’s handling glass, feeling the sharp gasp and the tremble in the other man’s body. Eddie sags against him, curled so his face is against Steve’s shoulder. He feels his heart pound with rage at whoever did this. He feels something else as well, a shame in himself for not having been there, for not protecting Eddie. If he’d gotten there earlier, could this have been avoided?

Steve pulls away, despite wanting to do the opposite—wanting to hold Eddie so tight, envelop him in care, to let him know that he’s safe—and looks over him again, taking stock of the wounds. “Can I help?”

Eddie nods, breath still shaky but much calmer, and allows Steve to guide him back to his own kitchen. Steve grabs a chair, motioning for Eddie to sit, and turns to where a first-aid kit is already opened on the counter. Alongside it, a towel with blood on it and a bottle of saline.

“Did you try to clean yourself up?”

“Wouldn’t—” Eddie hisses as he sits. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Steve looks back at him with concern.

“C’mon, man,” Eddie says with a wince. “You know what it was like for me.”

Guilt sits in Steve’s gut. He did know. Watched, more than once, when Eddie would end up surrounded by jocks—outnumbered—and one would deliver resounding punches to his face and stomach. Eddie would only ever spur them on. “Come on! That all you got? Give me another. You know how much I like it.” Words wet with blood, teeth shining with it. Eyes lit up despite the bruises forming around them. He’d get under their skin, letting them leave with disgust.

Steve doesn’t respond, instead turns back to the counter, grabbing a roll of paper towels and the saline. Holding the damp square up, Steve waits, and Eddie gives him another nod. Steve gets to work, wiping away the sticky blood around the head wound. Eddie hisses between his teeth when Steve moves over it, trying his best to be gentle. “Sorry,” Steve whispers.

“S’okay,” Eddie rasps.

The silence settles between them for a while, Eddie’s breathing finally slows to a normal, if slightly shallow, rate. Steve wants to ask again, to know who did this, but waits. Focuses on the job at hand, cleaning the remaining blood away from Eddie’s lip.

With all the blood cleaned up, Steve turns to the freezer and pulls out a bag of peas, wrapping them in a kitchen towel. He hands it to Eddie, who gingerly holds it up to his black eye, sucking in a sharp breath at the contact. The bruising on Eddie’s hands looks bad too, but they’ll have to come back to that. Looking over the first-aid kit, Steve pulls out some antiseptic wipes and adhesive bandages.

“These are gonna sting a bit,” Steve says, ripping open the wipes.

Eddie huffs a laugh. “Least of my concerns.”

Steve gives him a half smile. At least he was joking around a bit. He starts to clean around the head wound, noticing how Eddie’s good eye squeezes shut when the alcohol makes contact, and tries to move quickly. “It’s not too deep, shouldn’t need stitches.”

“How d’you know?” Eddie mutters, still wincing at the sting.

“Had my fair share of head wounds,” Steve says, still focused on the wipe in his hand.

Eddie doesn’t respond, just looks up at him with his uncovered eye. Steve moves down to Eddie’s lower lip, softly swiping at the cut, noticing the blood still in his mouth, the purple bruising that extends down to his jaw.

“Are you gonna tell me?” Steve turns to the counter, grabbing the butterfly stitch bandages. “Who did this to you?”

“Does it matter?” Eddie asks. “What’re you gonna do? Go beat them up, defend my honour?” His voice is heavy with sarcasm.

Steve gives him a quick look, before peeling the bandages off the wrapping. “I might.”

Letting Steve turn his head slightly, careful not to touch any of the wounds, Eddie keeps his good eye locked on him. Seemingly assessing him. “Just the same bullshit…” His voice is thick, his eye glassy with fresh tears. “They still think I did it. That I killed Chrissy. Nothing is ever gonna change that for them.” Eddie inhales shakily. “If not that, they’ll find some other reason to hate me. Easy target.”

“We’ll find a way,” Steve says. “Even if it means. I dunno. Even if we have to leave.”

Steve holds the cut closed, and begins applying the strips, tongue between his teeth as he concentrates, ensuring they don’t get stuck in Eddie’s hair. Eddie is watching him carefully again. “You’d do that?” Eddie asks, voice soft. “Leave—with me?”

Lowering himself to Eddie’s eyeline, he places a hand on his shoulder. “Isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you, Eddie.”

It’s far more earnest, far more vulnerable, than either of them have been with each other before. Eddie doesn’t say anything, just frowns slightly, like he’s trying to figure something out. They sit in silence as Steve works, only the sounds of their breathing and the unpeeling of more bandages in the room. All of it feels so… intimate, Eddie allowing Steve to take care of him, to clean his wounds and patch him up. They’d been close since Eddie woke up in the hospital, but not like this.

“Alright, that should do it,” Steve says, scrunching the bandage wrapping. He then looks to Eddie’s hands. “Lemme see.”

Eddie holds out his free hand, and Steve takes it in his, turning it as he assesses the damage. He flattens Eddie’s fingers, then softly curls them, handling him like something precious and breakable. “Any pain?”

Eddie shakes his head in response. Reaching over for a new antiseptic wipe, Steve keeps Eddie’s hand in his, reluctant to let it go. He cleans the small cuts—splits from punching, if Steve’s own experience told him anything. He applies a small band-aid, before motioning for Eddie to swap, taking his other hand away from the bag of peas. Repeating the process, stretching and curling Eddie’s fingers and cleaning the wounds, Steve tries to ignore the intrusive thought that tells him they’re holding hands. Now wasn’t the time for that.

Feeling Eddie’s eyes on him, Steve finally releases his hand. Clears his throat. “Can’t do much about this.” Steve gestures to Eddie’s lip, wishing instead he could let his thumb trail along the side of it. “Any others? You were holding your side before.”

Setting the bag of peas aside, Eddie moves with effort to pull up his shirt. Steve kneels down immediately. Where Eddie’s barely healed scars are still red around his ribs, deep purple bruises paint his chest and waist. Extending a shaking hand, Steve stops himself from touching, instead hovering over the skin. His breath shakes as he tries to remain calm. Whatever was keeping his emotions held back is broken at the sight.

“Eddie…” Steve looks up at him, pain in his eyes.

Dropping his shirt back down, Eddie looks away. “It’s fine. Nothing’s broken.”

“Nothing about this is fine, Eddie,” Steve tries to catch his eye again. “We already almost lost you once. I don’t think I could handle it if…” Still kneeling, Steve cautiously takes both of Eddie’s hands in his. “I can’t lose you,” he says, voice breaking.

Eddie frowns again, this time with something like pain in his expression. “I’m here, Steve. I’m okay. Thanks to you.”

Steve nods, tears welling and ready to spill over. “I just… I wish I could protect you better.”

Eddie leans closer, pain momentarily forgotten. “You’ve done more than enough,” he breathes, and their faces are so close together.

Glancing down at Eddie’s lips, and back up to his eye, he feels himself leaning in. He stops, lips parted, waiting. Eddie closes the gap, pressing his lips tenderly to Steve’s. A shudder runs through his body, and Steve kisses back as gently as he possibly can, feeling heat where Eddie’s lip is split and bruised. One hand trails up to cup Eddie’s jaw, barely brushing against the stubble growing there. Eddie rests a hand on Steve’s chest, feeling the way his heart races.

They part, Steve still kneeling on the ground and looking up at Eddie. He leans in for another gentle kiss, twice more, hopefully conveying all he wishes he had the words for. As Eddie looks at him, smile pulling at the cut on his lip, Steve makes himself a promise.

For the rest of his life, he’ll do anything to keep Eddie safe.

#WOUND CARE MY BELOVED!!!!!!#i literally. do not know how to keep things short.#this was meant to be a short one lmfao #cira writes #cira writes steddieangstyaugust #steddieangstyaugust #teary tuesday #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fic

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asterdisaster06 · 1 year ago

Text

Rottweiler's Callsign Story

platonic 141 x reader

summary > The mission was supposed to be an easy in and out stealth operation; however, you getting cornered by enemy guards that weren't drawn out by the team's distraction left you to desperation. Such circumstances resulting in unsavory acts needed to get out alive and back to your team. Half the blood on you might not even be yours, but you're out alive and safe.

word count > 5.6k

warnings > graphic description of blood and violence, like i'm not kidding. medical terms used to describe some of the gore. reader is described like a feral dog.

ao3

You had always been quite animalistic in your ways, vocal on the battlefield with snarls and hisses escaping your lips through the sheer effort of your tyranny. Grunts and growls being a point made to enemies you faced before absolutely thrashing them to death. Your skills with a gun whether a handgun or an assault rifle were top tier, your training made sure of it, but your real talent laid in hand to hand combat. Specializing in utilizing your own body and surroundings to tear your enemy down. It was something that had confused and yet impressed your teammates on the taskforce. They stared at you with something akin to visceral horror and pure adoration when you save their asses more than they can count.

Whether that comes from tackling the one on top and pinning them by their throat or managing to spot an enemy that they had missed on their six. Either way, any way, they were significantly impressed by you and your prowess. Your expertise offered something new to the group. Your bones held your pride that was either to be completely snapped or remain unwounded. Your muscles flexed to show the pride that was your mortal self. Your teeth were bared to the world like a stray dog. And in a sense, that was what you were.

You were found by Laswell and Price with your fur matted and your teeth too sharp from eating trash-thrown bones. Metaphorically of course. Literally though, they were your saviors. She took you off the previous military base you would’ve died on and Price raised you like his own flesh and blood. He took the limping, ugly mutt and showed a kindness you had always heard directed at others but never you. You learned to not bite at the hand that feeds you.

The others came later once you were settled in - learning very little of your past; only knowing what you had seethed through tight lipped smiles. At that point you were known simply as ‘hound’ to them. You’re not entirely sure how or when it came about, but it seemed to fit you for the moment.

You weren’t exactly talkative, similar to Ghost in that aspect. That’s not to say that you didn’t learn to open up and trust, especially when you were on a mission that required trust and teamwork. Collaboration and communication were the foundation for the taskforce, and it wasn’t something you could opt out of. You mostly sat back and smiled at a few of the jokes shared, but the one time you spoke to add onto the dark humor from Simon scared the shit out of them. Even Simon was a little caught off guard despite his vehement denial. It was the start of the blossoming friendship between you and the team.

This particular mission was no different than the others. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been. Unfortunately, the world had different plans in mind for you and the boys.

Soap had been talking your ear off and you listened in with a small smile on your face at his antics. It was amusing to you that he wasn’t put off by your scars, both physical and mental. He looked past them, not quite ignoring them but not pushing for you to spill the story behind them all if you weren’t ready. You were forever grateful for that. Gaz was in a similar vein, learning to eventually see you for who you were. Sometimes he poked and prodded you, but only in the intentions of helping you. Especially when you refused to see a therapist. Not after the last incident.

Ghost respected you at face value. The mask was who you were to him, and it didn’t make a difference in the slightest for your identity. It was a refreshing contrast to the other two who were not exactly openly prying, but their curiosity emitted from them like radiation. And you didn’t need a geiger counter to see that being near them would eventually unravel your DNA containing your secrets. Ghost simply left your skeletons in the closet lie. A needed deviation in your life.

This mission required you to sneak into the compound in order to collect intel about nuclear weapons that a recent terrorist group had gotten their hands on. Obviously, that was a paramount issue that Shepherd had wanted the taskforce to take care of. Your boys would be creating a distraction away from your position, eventually creating a path to your location for a safe exfil after they had planted bombs around the compound. This establishment wasn’t going to be left standing after you guys were done with it if you could help it.

“Is everyone clear on their positions?” Price’s voice breaks through the disassociation your mind had thrust you into.

The ringing in your ears faded as the chatter began to quiet down and focus was injected into your veins. There was a small nagging feeling in the back of your mind, but you brushed it off as simple leftovers of anxiety growing mold in the fridge of your consciousness. You responded with a simple affirm alongside the rest of the team, eyes beginning to lose the dazed look within the cornea. You blink once and then twice as you take in your surroundings and run your tongue over your sharpened canines.

Your muscles tense with anticipation, letting your legs carry you out of the truck that was about one klick from the objective. You were to be going on foot from here to avoid raising suspicion. The treeline would offer some cover for the infiltration attempt, the leaves in full swing. Unfortunately that also meant so were the bugs and thorns. You would just have to deal with it, although Soap wasn’t so easily placated.

“Fucking hell,” Soap exclaims, swatting at a very vague buzz that was swarming him.

“Here,” Gaz says, throwing Soap a can of bug spray.

The droning and whirl of wings belonging to insects that lived long before humanity came about offers you a weird amount of comfort. It’s almost a commiseration of sorts between the creatures that nobody wanted around. You and the acarids. Nonetheless, you cover yourself in a self assumed shield of the spray that sticks to your skin in a way that makes you almost uncomfortable. The thorns and sticks pricking you through your tactical gear brings you relief. The opposite from what you presumed the others were experiencing.

It’s not like you were a masochist, peace and comfort have just never quite been something you’ve gotten used to. It’s what you’ve known most of your life and it’s what you’ll continuously go through. Much to the chagrin of your boys.

Speaking of, they appeared to be having varying levels of reaction to the harsh woodland environment. Soap has been openly complaining, although you knew it was mostly to break up the monotony of the trip alongside easing the anxiety of the others. He knew just how to utilize his personality like that and he wasn’t scared to come off as brash or even semi-annoying. You try to humor him enough to keep that spark going in his soul. That’s honestly a thought that keeps you up at night; Soap becoming like you or Ghost.

Gaz was experiencing his classic bad luck; truly trying to avoid any muddy spots or tripping on an exposed root, but it appears that it wasn’t working out for him. He had tripped over his own feet two times, an exposed root five, and almost twisted his ankle thrice. It was almost as if the woods had it out for him. You wince and make that last thing four times now as Gaz tripped over a small pebble and had to execute an almost ballerina-esque move to avoid falling face first into a puddle. It made you huff out a laugh, earning you a middle finger in your direction. Gaz truly does try his hardest in everything he does, placing expectations upon himself that nobody else even thinks of. Pressure mounting upon him that moves you to make sure he takes care of himself. You’ll be damned if you let him drown himself in the same way you do.

Ghost was similar to your apathy, although you could tell from his body language that he was in as much discomfort as Soap was expressing. He refused to let even a slip of a grunt or groan escape from his sealed lips. His combat boots were sinking into the mud as much as Gaz, but he had significantly more coordination and confidence in his steps than Kyle did. You observed him quietly, seeing thorns stick into his skin - likely releasing the red ichor of his mortal body. Nonetheless, he braved on with only a slight wince betraying his emotions. It reminded you of how he faces his own torment and demons with nothing showing to anyone around. Not unless they’re particularly attuned to him and his distinctive micro-expressions. You know this as well as anyone, so you make a conscious effort to try and get Simon to open up to you. Not a lot, and sometimes not at all, but enough to sand down the roughness around his edges. Enough to heal him one scar at a time.

Price was admonishing Soap for being so loud and semi-obnoxious. All in good fun, at least, at the distance you were away from the location. Given that Price was back at the car, you couldn’t exactly see what he was doing or his own personal quirks. However, you had known him long enough to know his personality and behavior. You had spent a good chunk of time analyzing the man that had offered you not only a position on this team, but a hand to help you up from your back-alley way of living. He was a tired man that needed some positive affirmation in his life if you were being honest. He had this entire team on his back alongside his position that designated him to a life chained to his work. His title delegated him to the duress that came with everyone expecting victory from you. It’s probability is down right improbable for him to always come out on top. Although, you doubt that he’s come to terms with that idea. You try your best to offer support in your own way, realizing that words alone aren’t going to cut it. You try to guide him to sleep if he’s too caught up in paperwork or offer him a cup of coffee just the way he likes it if an all-nighter is inevitable. You want to be there for him like he is for you.

Laswell’s voice cuts through the comms and snaps you from your stupor. Kate Laswell. She offered you kindness while others offered you chains. She let you into her life instead of caging you like a feral animal. She took the muzzle off of your maw and let you speak. She presented you with a purpose outside of being a killing machine for your previous team sent in with no regard for your health or happiness. She gave you a life. One of your own. A team that you could rely on with a street of protection that goes both ways. Possibilities were opened up that you had never dared to dream of beforehand. You owed her your life, and that’s what you fought with on every mission.

“You’re closing in on the base. Can we get a general overview of how it’s going?”

You smiled and shook your head before the Scot even opened his mouth.

“How’s it going? Oh wonderful, absolutely joyous,” Soap spoke with mock annoyance, good-natured humor shining through despite his tone.

“All is well, the intel we were given appears to be good. There should be no difficulties from our view over here,” Ghost answers, genuinely.

“Affirm, I’m all set and ready here, Kate,” Price speaks, his commanding timbre sending rumbles down your spine and through your nervous system.

“Remember, get in and get out, don’t get caught up in the blast,” Kate reminds you all, as if you could forget.

A chorus of proclaimed agreements echoes throughout the trees of the forest. The silence that falls over the group afterwards makes you tense up and get into the mindset of the feral mutt that has kept you alive for this long. Your breath ends up heavy, saliva coating the inside of your jaws as you harshly swallow it down - almost choking every time you do. Your shoulders rise and fall in time with your respiration. Ghost checks in with the group one last time before you’re sent off first into the craw of the compound. Being a sacrifice is nothing new to you, but it still causes you to shudder in anticipation. Goosebumps rise all across your skin despite the temperature dictating otherwise.

You wander forward, joints creaking in protest as you sneak around the side of the building. It’s inevitable that you have to utilize your knife, but you use it sparingly - not wanting the alarms to ring because some unfortunate soul stumbles upon the body of their fallen comrade. It’s almost second nature to you at this point and you would’ve zoned off if it wasn’t for the pure adrenaline rushing through your system. You finally reach point A in which you reaffirm with the rest of the boys that the plan is a go and no complications have arised.

You hear a plethora of acknowledgements before you begin to move forward with the permission of Ghost and Price. You snake cam the door before lock picking it after deeming it safe. There didn’t appear to be any enemies nearby much to your satisfaction. The less possibilities for this plan to go wrong, the better. It’s a waiting game as you come upon the stairwell door leading up to the room you were meant to infiltrate. The clock ticks down, the beats of your heart sounding out in your ears as a unit of measurement.

Boom.

It’s the signal for you to proceed as all of the cameras are abandoned with the clicking of the gun trigger replacing the clack of keys in the office. You were all set up and ready to acquire the real reason your mission was handed out. Pushing past into the stairwell, you’re met with the surprise of an elbow to the face, effectively causing a gush of blood to start trickling down your face. Despite the advantage the enemy had from his effort of concealment working to catch you off guard, you gained your balance back quickly, and the pounding of your head did nothing to quell the vexation that led you to putting a knife in the guy’s eye. You shoot a bullet straight into his cranium with a glare, just to cover your tracks.

You lick your chapped lips, tasting the metallic mouthful you had gotten from your little scuffle. You didn’t hear a crack, but it was definitely going to be a pain in the ass the next day. Nonetheless, you pushed on, aiming to be more aware of your surroundings. There was an odd lack of guards around the area for what seemed like the main structure. It set off warning bells in your head, but there was no turning back now. From the gunfire sounding out from below it seemed that the others would be too caught up to engage in a verbal conversation regarding your worries. Not like you weren’t confident in your own abilities, quite the opposite, but Price had managed to drill into your head that not everything had to be faced alone. Jokes on him, this situation had the appearance of it being a one man operation.

You and your blood soaked sleeves made your way to the computer where you gathered yourself into a semi-coherent being in order to upload data from their system. The hard part was already done for you; all you had to do was plug a hard drive into a computer and wait. And that you did. You almost felt sorry for getting their keyboard all slick with your carnage escaping from your sinuses. It also felt as if you had bitten your tongue during the altercation, your mouth being yet another outlet for the liquid escaping you. You spat on the floor, maroon saliva staining it.

Running down your neck, the blood seemed to stop at that point, trickling off into a simple seeping of gore. You consider yourself lucky, just in time for the information to be uploaded onto the hard drive you were given. You report over to Price and Laswell, a slight lisp imbued into your words due to the tip of your tongue suffering from puncture wounds your teeth had embedded into the soft muscle. They understood you perfectly fine however, and you were instructed to continue with the orders you were given. At that moment however, the lack of communication on your part about your suspicions of an ambush was coming back to bite you in the ass. Almost literally.

A gloved hand smothers your mouth, effectively suffocating you. If the arm around your throat and its connected hand stifling your ability to productively breath wasn’t enough, there was now a knife lodged in your side. Your attacker drove the knife you suspected he took from your gear even further into your abdomen, twisting it like he was wringing out the last of his laundry. Except you were the clothes and your blood was escaping you, much to your chagrin. Fortunately for you, this particular guard was practically brain dead when it came to medical knowledge, so you were pretty confident that you were going to live. That is, if you could escape without being asphyxiated to death.

You maneuver your maw into an opportune striking position, opening your jaws like a dog being thrown a bone. The coincidental nature of that thought would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t currently on the verge of being slaughtered and gutted like a pig. You chomp down and dig your teeth into the metacarpals of his skeleton, relishing in his grunt of pain and attempt to recoil. You were like a dog with a bone though, and you’d be damned if anyone tried to take it from you. His attempt to pry your jaws open with the hand that soon abandoned the knife in your side after the puncturing of his palm. You ground your teeth into the fat of his hand before realizing the glove was going to be an issue. You turn your teeths’ attention to his exposed wrist, aiming for his radial artery. Unfortunately for him, your fangs found their intended target and perforated his skin. You threw your head back, grasping his arm with your other hands - clawing at it like a feral beast.

You effectively were one, your mouth full of flesh and muscle that didn’t belong to you. Although, you suppose that one could argue it didn’t belong to him either. Not anymore. You spat out the pulp of tissue, realizing that he had let you go. You put a bullet right through his eyes, spraying blood and brain matter across the room. Well deserved for someone like him. You drive your boot into his lifeless corpse, really kicking the man while he was down. Your joke, although knowing nobody alive was around to hear it, made a hysterical laugh claw its way out of your throat. Your larynx had really betrayed your deranged and volatile behavior. Your manic nature had kept you alive so far, so you supposed you had only yourself to thank.

You shoved your bloodied tongue around your mouth, hoping to wash out the taste of human flesh. It wasn’t the worst thing you’ve tasted - that goes to Ghost’s attempts at cooking - but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. You wiped your mouth against the back of your hand, quickly realizing that it too was bloody. Red wasn’t really your color right now, otherwise you would have appreciated the look. You quickly checked over your supplies, knowing that you could make due with anything around the room or at the very least your hands, but feeling comfort in the weight of the metal contraption that delivered death at a much quicker rate. Hemorrhaging from either a knife or a gun was much more effective than your bare hands. Or teeth.

It appears that your enemies didn’t appreciate your sentiment though, ambushing you only to take away such things from your grasp. There were two this time. They almost reminded you of Soap and Ghost, if those two were actively trying to kill you. Your boys only sometimes did that, and most of the time it was pitiful attempts. You were actually the one that got quite a few new rules implemented during training - but seriously, who stops in the middle of a fight to ask if something is legal? No-one, which is exactly why you simply did what was necessary to survive, to quote verbatim what you had said to Price as your excuse when Soap had ended up in the med bay.

Be that as it may, these guards weren’t who you thought them akin to. Therefore, everything was on the table. Especially since they had made the grave error of giving your standard weapons a place on the backburner. Now, the only thought in your mind was kill. At all costs necessary. Your sharpened canines glinted in the dim lighting with a scarlet staining the pearly white as your mouth opened. It’s unfortunate for them that they didn’t have a muzzle on hand.

Before the one in front of you had an opportunity to shoot you through any vital organ, you used your body weight to shove the one holding you to the ground - the bullet whizzing above you. A guttural growl escaped your throat as you turned your attention to escaping the grasp of the poor soul restraining your body. You grasp his upper arm, twisting yourself to use his body as a human shield. It would’ve made you gag if this was the first time you’ve done this. Regrettably, you have quite a bit of experience in this particular experience.

The bullets pierced the soon to be corpse of his comrade, narrowly avoiding you except for one that grazed your side. You really were losing a lot of blood today. Making your way to safety was your biggest priority; however, that was proving difficult with leftover guards that were actually doing their job semi-well. You untucked yourself from under the weight of the stiff remains and threw yourself at the unlucky fellow who had just run out of ammo in his weapon. A simple click is all you heard as the gun escaped his grasp in favor of his bare hands. You were thrown into a chokehold yet again. These guys really did like their chokeholds. His hand gripped the knife slick with your own blood from your hands and ripped it out, leaving you to bleed to death. His mistake though was only using one hand to contain your rage filled body made of torn flesh and bones.

You tore yourself from his grasp, with the worst luck in all of history happening with the knife getting knocked down the stairwell - sounding like a fork being dropped in the sink on its way down. You were in no condition to run or even jump after it, and the only other weapon was out of ammo, so it seemed you were yet again stuck using your bare hands. They trembled as you gathered yourself, preparing yourself for what you were being forced to do in order to escape this ordeal alive. You settled your weight into your haunches and launched yourself at the enemy, vision bloodshot and tinted red. An animalistic growl escaped yourself, sounding almost like a hyena’s maniacal laugh. Your lunge proved fruitful as your claws came into contact with his facial features, digging into his eyes to blind him. The texture of the soft tissue under your sharpened nails flexed and then ruptured. The front layers of his cornea gave way to the gooey gel similar to egg whites that filled the orbs.

A visceral scream escaped the man below you, causing Price to finally check in over comms. At least, you think so, it was getting hard to hear with the ringing in your ears. You didn’t respond either way.

You knew that even blind, the man was still a liability. Or maybe he wasn’t, but to your addled brain firing neuron after neuron that drove you with the only thoughts occupying you being: survive and kill; well, the feral nature of yourself pushed you to make sure he was dead. You had your training to thank for that. You knew that the rest of his body was protected by the structure of his epidermis, much to your dissatisfaction. Your thoughts wandered back to the first enemy you encountered as you loomed over the blinded man. Your mind was made up.

In a split second decision, you descended your fangs into his throat, sinking your teeth into his trachea and hearing a sickening squelch of his bare flesh. The muscles gave way as you shook your head like a rabid dog, separating his tissue from their home within his body. You didn’t stop until you felt his carotid artery begin to hemorrhage. You shakily stand up, staring at the massacre you had left behind. Your jaw would definitely be sore the next day. There wasn’t a surface of you that wasn’t absolutely drenched in blood, and you couldn’t tell where yours began and theirs ended. The corpse beneath you had stopped screaming after the first puncture of your teeth - at least, you’re pretty sure. The haze surrounding your mind made thinking about it too hard. It almost fills you with a sense of regret at letting the monster you once were out of their muzzle yet again. The halfway decapitated body was left as you limped down the stairs and out a back door.

You shambled out into the woods, faltering only twice to prevent yourself from tripping since you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to get up again after that. The rush of blood in your head faded as the sounds around you finally cascaded back into reality. You swore you could feel the dripping of blood spurting out of all open wounds in time with your heart. The chaos finally sunk in, the screaming over comms for your response demanding your attention.

“I’m,” You break up your sentence with a cough. “I’m fine,” Your voice sounds crackly and hoarse. Not that you’re surprised.

“Where the fuck are you, you were supposed to be out of there five minutes ago,” Price yells out over the radio.

“I don’t exactly know. Somewhere out in the woods?” You respond, your head pounding.

“Ghost, find them!” Price had apparently discerned that you were in no condition to be taking in your surroundings accurately enough to ascertain an accurate location.

“Fuck, I think I see them. Hound!”

You think you hear a faint yelling of your name, although it doesn’t quite register to your unhinged and disoriented brain. All you could tell through the muddy fog of your mind was a person. Enemy. Kill. Survive. Escape. You felt their hands on you, your throat closing up in response as you preemptively expected to be strangled half to death. You let out a snarl, baring your teeth and coming into contact with what you think is a hand. Either way, it doesn’t matter to you and you bite down with the force of a wild animal. A yelp is heard, only cementing your actions in your mind.

“Calm the fuck down Sergeant.”

A voice cuts through the haze like a hot knife through butter. You fall limp in the grasp; whether it’s because you recognize the voice or you simply are accepting your fate is up in the air. Nonetheless, your surroundings begin to load in, your eyes stopping their constant darting around and focusing on a singular face. Or, faces. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz. They had found you. You were safe. You notice Soap has a bleeding hand - your own handiwork without a doubt. Guilt floods you, your behavior similar to a puppy hearing the words ‘bad dog’ for the first time in their life.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay. You did great, Hound,” Soap begins to say.

“Come back to us, Love,” Gaz whispers, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,” You cry out, finally feeling the effects of your pure exhaustion.

“I don’t blame you, Jesus, you’re gonna have a hell of a story to tell us when you get all patched up again, Hound,” Soap exclaims.

“How much of this blood is yours?” Ghost finally cuts in.

“Not a lot, just where the knife was and I might’ve gotten shot.”

“Might’ve?” Soap laughs.

“Mission, guys,” Price finally interrupts. “I’m glad you’re safe, Hound.”

The mission continues, you leaning on Soap since you’re pretty sure stumbling down the stairs strained one of your ankles. You spewed out numerous apologies for his hand, but he didn’t want to hear any of it. The go ahead for the air team with Laswell to level the building was given, and the exfil point was finally reached by your ground group. At that point, you were barely conscious, hearing echoes of pet names assuring you only a little longer and to stay with them. They plagued the darkness that overtook you and greeted you as you woke up to the blinding light of the medical room.

“Welcome back to the world of living,” Soap says. “The doctors hadn’t seen anything like you before,” He laughs.

“Do you want to explain why they found human tissue in your mouth?” Ghost asks, his tone inquisitive.

“Shit man, let them have a bit of a break before we interrogate them,” Gaz chuckles, offering you some water, much to your appreciation.

You gulp down the water like it was the last time you would ever get the precious liquid, your body thanking you. You sheepishly hand the empty cup back to an amused Gaz. You clear your throat, not quite ready to delve into the specifics of what you had to do to survive, but knowing you had to. Being open in communication was a non-arguable point to being a part of the taskforce.

“Most of the blood on me when you found me was probably belonging to the man I might’ve,” You pause, “ripped the throat out of?” You rush that last part out as quickly as you could, knowing that despite your efforts, they’re going to question you.

Both Soap and Gaz’s eyes widened almost comically, both quickly exclaiming different curse words. One being Scottish curses that you could barely make out from his accent. The other being aggressively British expletives spilling out of Gaz’s mouth. Ghost simply looked upon you with what seemed to be both admiration and affirmation. You had known he would be the most likely to not be surprised at your actions. He knew what it was like to have an untamed beast within you.

“What in the bloody hell did you say?” Price was apparently looming in the doorway, keeping himself hidden until this moment.

You cough, and ask “Is now a good time to mention I also might’ve done the same to a man’s hand?”

Soap had a horrified look upon his face. “You’re saying I could’ve lost my precious hand?”

You had almost forgotten about Soap’s injury, and stared at him with a semblance of guilt flashing across your face.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” You say quietly.

“What happened to the good ole knife or bullet?” Soap asked, offering you his bandaged hand to hold in an offer of forgiveness and trust.

“They stole my shit, and my knife ended up kicked down a staircase after it was ripped out of me,” You pouted, the drug concoction of morphine and other such things loosening you up to talk.

“You’re quite a rabid beast, ain’t you?” Price said, his tone betraying the fact that he was in fact quite proud of you. It wasn’t meant in a derogatory way and you knew that. You smiled in his direction, jokingly baring your teeth at your Captain.

“Aye, I think you’re more than a baying hound at this point. Maybe Rottweiler would serve you better. That mouthful of teeth sure does remind me of my childhood,” Soap says, shivering at the thought of being the victim of your maw.

“I hate to think of the final view those soldiers saw of you,” Gaz laughs.

“I think Rottweiler suits you,” Ghost says. “Fearless yet loyal.”

The rest of the team nods in agreement, surrounding you with support and love. Something that still unsettles you to this day, but not in the same way facing down the barrel of a gun would. It’s a warm embrace in front of a fireplace that sends a jolt of something new down your spine. A fondness spreading like wildfire, adoration deep seated in your bones to those around you. Just like a dog, you were a fierce protector of your family, but with them? You were a tender beast that rolled over at their feet.

You couldn’t think of anything better than that thought which warmed your heart.

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softspiderling · 9 months ago

Text

think you're a genius (you drive me up the wall) | r.c.

summary: it wouldn't be an outer banks party if there wasn't at least one fist fight. also, rafe is trying to turn over a new leaf.

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

word count: 3,8k

warning: mention of blood, violence (reader gets punched in the face, but there are no graphic details), shitty topper (sorry top)

author's note: long awaited (at least by me) rafe fic, whoop whoop!!! no usage of Y/N, happy reading, don't forget to reblog!!! also tagging @sunderlust bc i borrowed some of our conversation in this fic😘love you sol

☆⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄

“Since when do you drink beer?”

Barely pausing at the words, you continued to stack cold beer cans in your arms, the condensation dripping onto your skin. You didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to, having heard it so many times. And this was his house after all.

“Wasn’t aware you kept track of my drink of choice,” you retorted, turning around to face him, while simultaneously trying to balance the cans.

Rafe raised an eyebrow at you before his gaze lowered to the beer in your arms. “… You trying to tell me that all that beer’s for you?”

“You calling me a lightweight?”

The corner of Rafe’s mouth ticked up and he took a sip from his drink, the ice clinking in the glass.

“I think we both know I’m not.”

If someone had told you that one day you’d be standing in the parlor of Tannyhill, having a mostly civil conversation with Rafe you’d have them institutionalized. But things have changed. When Sarah returned with the news that Ward has died protecting Sarah, Rafe imploded at first. Blaming her for his death, the downfall of their family and generally being ungrateful for Ward’s love for her.

Everyone avoided the Cameron estate for a while, hearing stuff crash and yells from a mile away. No one dared to step close. A few days after, the disturbances stopped, being replaced with complete silence.

It was so silent, you actually grew concerned until Rafe turned up at Heyward’s setting up a weekly grocery delivery. Pope had dumped the stuff he was holding as soon as Rafe had stepped into the store, storming outside, with Cleo hot on his heels, leaving you to set up the standing order.

“Can you tell Sarah I’m sorry?”

“What?”

You looked up from the register and Rafe clenched his jaw, giving you a look.

“You really gon’ make me say it again?”

“How about you call her yourself instead of making me deliver your message like a post boy?”

Rafe exhaled deeply, knitting his eyebrows together like he was really trying not to explode and honestly, you had to respect him for that. You know how impatient he could be.

“I tried, okay? Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve tried to call her, she’s not picking up. Fuck, I don’t even know if she still has the same phone number,” he said, like the words physically pained him. “I don’t even know where she’s staying. Is it at John B’s new place?”

Somewhere between his words, Rafe had started pacing up and down the stairs, making you antsy.

“Hey,” you said, coming around to slowly, carefully - like you were trying to pet a stray cat - curl your hand around his wrist. Rafe immediately stopped, eyeing his wrist where you were touching him.

“Sorry, I’ll take my hand off,” you quickly said, but before you could, Rafe stopped you.

“’s fine,” he muttered, meeting your eyes for a second before looking away again. “Physical touch grounds me… Y’know… When my thoughts get too… Much.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding at him and staying in place, for god knew how long, until Rafe had seemed to calm down.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

You drew your hand back, crossing your arms over your chest and leaned against the counter to put some distance between you and him, wildly overwhelmed with this situation. Rafe didn’t seem like he knew what to do either, turning his ring on his finger, his eyes cast on the floor.

“If you really want to apologize to Sarah,” you started, making him look up. “Maybe I can talk to her. Ask her if she’s willing to meet up with you.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow at you, clearly surprised. “You’d do that for me?”

“Don’t let it get to your head. I’m mostly doing it for Sarah,” you scoffed and Rafe only smirked, shaking his head.

“Sure, tough girl. Gonna ring me up now or what?”

Rolling your eyes at him, you returned to the cash register, finishing up his order. You still felt his eyes on you as you worked away.

“Thanks,” he finally said, and you lifted your head, briefly meeting his eyes.

“Don’t mention it.”

And he never did.

Miraculously, you had managed to get Sarah to agree to talk to Rafe and while you had accompanied her to the beach, where she had met up with Rafe, you stayed behind to give them privacy. You weren’t sure what they had talked about, but you didn’t press her about it either when she came stomping back to you with tearstained cheeks. Whatever they have talked about must have helped though, because even though Sarah still stayed with John B of the the times, she went home every odd night, returning with sandwiches and drinks the next day like a soccer mom. It went unsaid that Rafe had provided her with everything and Sarah avoided talking about him, mostly because Pope still got that distant look in his eyes whenever she mentioned her brother. Which is why you were surprised that he was the first one to agree to go to a party Rafe had invited Sarah to, forwarding the invite to her friends.

“What?” Pope had said everyone gave him an odd look. “He stole a family heirloom of mine. The least he can do is invite us to a party of his.”

“Okay then,” JJ jeered, beating on Pope’s back with his opens palms. “Let’s go to a Kook party.”

You had to admit that it was nice to see that the two tribes of the island coming together. The fact that Pogues were invited to a party on Figure 8 was huge. Granted, it was just you and your friends, but still. It was a start.

Loud cheering from outside brought you out of your thoughts, you and Rafe both looking towards the dimly lit backyard, where the main attraction of the party took place.

“JJ and John B are destroying a group of Kooks at Rage Cage right now,” you then explained, lifting the beer in your arms. “Hence... You know.”

“Right right, I was starting the wonder what all that yelling was about,” Rafe mused.

“So how come you’re not out there?”

Rafe shrugged. “Needed some quiet.”

“What, you having your private party in here?” you teased and Rafe smirked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Why? You jealous?”

You rolled your eyes, shifting the beer cans in your arms, the weight slowly getting to you.

“In your dreams, Rafe,” you scoffed. “I got to go, get these beers to the boys before they’ll get warm. You should come down, when you’re done brooding and shit.”

Throwing your last words over your shoulder, you returned to your friends, being welcomed with loud cheers as the empty cups get filled rather quickly. You dropped down into your empty chair, taking your drink from Kiara who had been holding onto it during your absence.

“Pope was about to send a search party because you were taking so long,” she said and you gave Pope a look over the brim of your cup.

“You’re such a mother hen. I was talking to Rafe.”

“Why the hell were you talking to Rafe?”

“You talked to Rafe?”

“Jesus, guys relax,” you groaned, leaning your head back. “He’s fine. He didn’t even do anything. We just talked.”

“It’s never just anything with Rafe,” Pope muttered.

“I get that,” Sarah started, rolling her empty cup in her hand. “But he’s different.Like… He regrets a lot of the thing’s he’s done and trying really hard to make up for his mistakes,” she paused, pressing her lips together tightly. “I’d be the last person to defend him, but I feel like he’s trying to turn over a new leaf.”

Before Pope was able to list all of the bad things that Rafe has done in the past, your conversation was interrupted, angry yells ringing over the music.

“So now you’re just all buddy buddy hanging out here, huh?”

The new voice wasn’t really new and everyone looked at Sarah, who paled, slowly pushing herself up from her chair, looking towards the disturbance, the rest of the group following her.

“Shit. What the hell is Topper doing here?”

The sudden intrusion of a rather inebriated Topper had immediately tanked the relaxed and laid back atmosphere; suddenly, everyone was tense, not daring to make a move in fear of making the wrong one.

“What? Aren’t we here to party?” Topper cajoled, waving a half empty bottle of whiskey around. “Let’s get rid of these Pogues and party!”

The rest of the Kooks looked between themselves, not really wanting to follow Topper’s request but also not wanting to defend your friends. Even if they just had fun together, the Kooks wouldn't go as far as openly defend Pogues, you knew that.

“You should leave, Topper,” John B said, his hands curling at his sides, which was fair, honestly. Even though you had rebuilt the Chateau, bigger, better and most importantly more fire resistant, Topper burnt down John B’s home. His safe space. Topper only widened his eyes at John B comically, snorting.

“Who are you to tell me to leave?”

Sarah pushed herself to the front, pressing herself to John B’s side, which was probably not the smartest thing she could have done, as it only aggravated Topper even more to see her next to John B. You and the others stood right behind her, ready to step in as soon as it escalated.

“Leave, Topper,” Sarah snapped at him. “Nobody invited you.”

“Yeah, as far as I know, you don’t even live here anymore, Sarah,” Topper said, spitting out her name like it was venom in his mouth.

“I didn’t invite you.”

You hadn’t even noticed Rafe having joined you, not really standing on your side, but not on Topper's side either. Suddenly, the tension had grown even thicker and by now, you realized this could go wrong in about a 100 ways.

Topper stared at his friend, mouth agape, before he collected himself, pulling a face.

“Seriously, Rafe? Weren’t you the one who told me that I’m better off without your bitch of a sister and now you’re taking her side?”

“Watch it, Top,” Rafe only said, not even moving an inch.

Not that he had to. Everyone knew what Rafe was capable of, if he was angry enough. Topper only narrowed his eyes at his friend, weighing his options.

“Topper, just go,” Sarah yelled, walking towards him for good measure, trying to offer some sort of olive branch, but Topper only pushed Sarah roughly, causing her to stumble to the ground.

“Jesus, fuck, Topper,” you snapped, rushing to get Sarah back on her feet again, making the fatal mistake of getting between him and John B, as you received a sickening punch to the side of your face.

“Fuck!”

“Holy shit, Topper are you insane?”

You had toppled over your feet to the grass, not having expected the punch at all. Disoriented, you touched your throbbing cheek, your fingers stained red when you looked at them.

“Fuck,” you moaned, feeling like you were about to pass out. Your friends quickly crowded around you, helping you up.

“Shit, girl, you alright?” Cleo asked, carefully pushing your hair to the side to assess the damage.

“Is Sarah okay?” you only asked, pausing to spit out some blood, leaning on Cleo, your legs still shaking.

“Dude, I’m fine!” Sarah said, wrapping an arm around you, still shaking herself.

Your vision was still dizzy, and the voices were not helping, but it seemed like most of the party goers had dissipated as the argument had started. As your eyes adjusted, you could just see Rafe holding Topper by the collar of his shirt and saying something you couldn’t quite understand, before he tossed his friend on the ground. Topper didn’t take long to get back to his feet, fleeing from the scene.

Rafe turned around, his eyes scanning over you before turning to Sarah.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a bruise,” Sarah said, her eyes fixated on you. “But you should definitely get checked out. I can't believe Topper punched you."

“Come on, I got a first aid kit upstairs and some ice for the swelling.”

Rafe reached out to grab you under the arms, but Cleo was reluctant to let you go.

“Maybe I should help.”

“Seriously?” Rafe asked, incredulously and you only watched with narrowed eyes, your reaction time still limited.

“We should just take her home,” Pope chimed in, grabbing you by the shoulder gently, jostling you around.

“Guys, I’m gonna be sick if you keep handing me around like a joint,” you groaned, shutting your eyes, in the hopes of making the dizziness better.

“Pope, it’s fine. Rafe’s not going to hurt her. And he knows a thing or two about patching up wounds,” Sarah said, Pope’s grip on you loosening.

“Fine. But you even look at our girl funny, and you got another thing coming, you hear me, Rafe?”

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” Rafe grunted.

You peeked an eye open, when your friends let go of you, Rafe looping his arm around your shoulder, pausing to look at John B. “You got Sarah, right?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about her.”

Rafe nodded his head in thanks, before leading you towards the house.

"Hey, just call if you need anything!" Kiara called after you, which you only replied with a weak "Okay!", your focus on putting one foot after the other. Rafe had his arm around your waist, taking most of your weight.

“Can you walk alright or do you need me to carry you?”

“If you pick me up right now, I will vomit on you,” you moaned and Rafe snorted.

“Right, and neither of us want that.”

It took you guys an embarrassing amount of time until you reached the house, since you kept making Rafe stop because you thought you were going to throw up. When you finally walked inside, Rafe lead you upstairs, instead of steering you towards the living room.

“Where are you taking me?”

“First aid kit is in my bathroom,” Rafe replied, mostly supporting your weight as you climbed the stairs.

“Ugh, your bathroom? Am I gonna get infected with herpes or something?”

“Is it the smartest idea to insult me in your position right now?” he asked dryly, and you almost sighed in relief when you reached the second floor.

“Just take me to your bedroom Rafe.”

“Alright, Princess,” Rafe sighed, a hint of exasperation in his voice as he guided you to his bedroom, carefully depositing you on the bed. While he went to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit, you took a second to catch your breath, hoping the world would stop spinning.

Rafe returned with the first aid kit, moving slowly so as not to startle you. He set it down on the bed and then looked at you, concern flickering in his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you mumbled, pressing a hand to your throbbing cheek. "Just a little dizzy."

"Right." Rafe opened the kit and began to rifle through it, pulling out a bottle of disinfectant and some cotton pads. “This is probably gonna sting,” he warned you.

“Do your worst.”

You managed to flinch only slightly as the cool, yet burning liquid hit your skin, with Rafe’s surprising gentle touch as he cleaned your wound. He put a small bandage on the cut, before sitting back to inspect his handiwork.

“I’ll go grab you some ice for the swelling,” Rafe then said, standing up. “No dozing off, though, a’ight?”

Without waiting for an answer, Rafe left the room, leaving you by yourself yet again. Even though he explicitly told you not to doze off, you laid down on the bed, figuring that it might make the pain a little less bad. As soon as your head hit the pillow, Rafe’s scent engulfed you, and you weren’t sure if you lying down in his bed was too... Intimate? Then again, he was the one who had left you in his bedroom by himself. Before you could sit up again, Rafe reappeared in the room, holding a bag of in his hand, an unreadable expression on his face as he took you in on his bed.

“Sure, go ahead and make yourself at home,” he huffed, but you could see the frown on his face. Rafe sat down on the bed next to you, carefully wrapping the ice bag in a small towel and pressing it against your bruise, his other hand cradling your face. Despite the ice on your skin, you felt your cheeks heating up.

It was odd. You’d never have expected that Rafe could be able to be so gentle, so caring, and you suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

“What’d you say to Topper?” you blurted out instead, breaking the silence. You reached up to hold the ice bag, and Rafe pulled his hands back, raising an eyebrow at you.

“What?”

“After he hit me. What did you tell him to make you leave?”

Rafe sighed, leaning back a bit, staring at the wall as his eyes hardened. “I reminded him of what he did to me when I… Hurt Sarah. Asked him if he was willing to beat me to a pulp for my sister, what he thought I’d do to him for hurting her.”

His eyes flickered back to you.

And you.

You let out a breath at the pregnant pause, scared he’d say something he couldn’t take back. Something real. Maye you had been flirting with him, but so what? There was no harm, they were just words. Right? But admitting something real? That was a whole other story.

“Who would’ve thought Rafe Cameron could be so nice?” You said instead, a teasing lilt in your voice.

Rafe snorted, shaking his head with a laugh, the moment dissipating. “Yeah yeah, don’t get used to it. It was a one time thing.”

“Right, right, we wouldn’t want people to think that Rafe the Kook prince actually has a heart.”

“Does that make you the Pogue Princess then?”

“What?” you asked, flushing. “Where’d you get that idea? That’s obviously Kie.”

“Come on,” Rafe huffed, rolling his eyes. “Kie’s half Kook. And don't even start with my sister. Sarah’s… Half and half, at least.”

You eyed him in amusement. It was clear that he’d spent a good amount of time on that analogy.

“What about Cleo?” you asked, humoring him.

“Ehh. She would’ve made a good Pogue princess, too bad you’ve already taken the spot,” Rafe said with a shrug. “Pogue Princess. Flirts with everyone, heart of gold, never hesitates to get right between a brawl to help out a friend and to call people out on their bullshit…. Should I continue?”

“Please don’t,” you laughed, pressing the ice bag to your cheek. “You’re talking shit out of your ass right now.”

“I’m talking shit out of my ass? You’re the one saying everything that comes to your mind to stop yourself from kissing me right now.”

What?

“What?”

You never thought he’d actually say it out loud. Mention the elephant in the room. The tension you had been trying to ignore all this time. The silence that followed was deafening as you tried to find the right words, your heart beating in your chest.

“In your dreams,” you muttered hotly, repeating your words from earlier in the evening, looking everywhere but at him. It didn’t take long for Rafe to grab you by the chin gently, forcing you to look at him, his eyes piercing yours.

“In my dreams, yes,” he said quietly, inching so close that his warm breath was fanning across your face. “What about yours, princess?”

Gaping at him, speechless, you knew you didn’t have long until Rafe would take your silence as rejection. Your mind was racing, but ultimately, you leaned in, closing the gap and finally kissed him. Rafe let out a soft grunt, dropping his hand from your chin and cupping the back of your head instead to press even closer to you. The kiss deepened, becoming more passionate, as you finally admitted the attraction you felt to another, but you pulled away, when you felt a tad too dizzy.

“Right, shit,” Rafe cursed, knitting his brows together, examining your cheek. “Got too carried away.”

You flushed, handing him the small ice bag, that was more or less a bag of water now. Rafe dumped it in the trash next to the nightstand, before turning back to you with a smirk.

“Took you long enough.”

“Shut up,” you huffed and Rafe only grinned, pushing your hair out of your face, where it stuck to your wet cheek. You leaned in for another kiss, only for Rafe to stop you, holding you back.

“Nuh-uh. You get better first. Next time, I want you to get dizzy because of my mouth and not because you just got punched in the face.”

“You sound real confident there will be a next time,” you pointed out.

Rafe sighed, faux-exasperation. “Princess, don’t act dumb, it doesn’t suit you. You really think I’ll let you go after you’ve professed your love for me?”

“After I did what?” you shrieked in laughter, and Rafe only laughed. It was nice seeing him laugh for real for once, not the smarmy, smirk he used to do. After your laughter subsided, your pursed your lips, serious.

“You know my friends won’t take this well, right? Especially Pope.”

Rafe ran his hand over his buzzed hair, exhaling softly. “I know. But I won you over, didn’t I? Rest will be a piece of cake.”

“I’m serious, Rafe.”

You gave him a look and he leaned down, clasping his hands in his. “So am I. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have been trying to make things up to him, to Sarah. To everyone. It might take a while… And I don’t blame him.”

“As long as you’re aware…. Now, can we get back to kissing?”

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

Pushing your lower lip forward, you pouted at him. “One kiss.”

Rafe stared at you for a hot second, frowning. “Fine. One.”

But when he leaned down to give you a chaste kiss true to his words, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of you.

"Jesus, are you trying to kill yourself?" Rafe hissed, but you only cackled, almost taking your bandage off in the process.

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠂⠄☆

author's note: pls leave a comment/reblog/like if you liked it🥹

#rafe x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fanfiction #drew starkey #obx #outer banks

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alexa-fika · 4 months ago

Note

Hi, could I ask for whitebeard pirates with a female reader that’s kind of like Yor Forger from Spy x Family? Socially awkward and aloof, has poor cooking skills(Poor Thatch having to not throw up to hurt reader’s feelings) but is super strong and polite!!

Little Brothers Beware (Whitebeard pirates x sister! reader)

A/N It's been a but since I saw spy x family so l may be rusty, I know it's not exactly her characterization but similar and hopefully close enough for you!

Reader here is Replaced by Dokucha which stands for Reader in japanese

Dividers by @/drinkthesky and @/firefly-graphics

"I messed it up again, didn't I?" Dokucha sniffled, watching Thatch's face grow more more sickly as he try to down the food.

"Good Job, Thatch. You made our sister cry," Izou drawled, watching the scene before him leaning into the dining table and against his closed fist and a slight smile on his face as he watched the scene unfold.

"How despicable of you," Haruta snickered

"Quit with the yappin’, you idiots!" he sneered, glaring at his brothers.

"Ah, Dokucha, don't cry. It wasn’ that bad, it just had too much spieces," he fusses, turning to her

"It's okay. We both know I am no good in the kitchen," she sighed.

"Or the med bay," Marco called as he walked behind them.

"Or the med bay..." she mutters

"I'm sorry I have failed you as a sister!" she cried, hugging him.

"Look at you, Thatch, making a lady cry again," laughed Izou next to him with a similar mischievous grin.

"Hush ya gettin’ on my last nerve," he growls, snapping his head to them only to turn it right back at the sobs of his sister.

"You could never fail me, Dokucha; yer the best sister I could ever ask for!" He exclaims, rubbing her back in a reassuring manner

"You mean it?"

"He's a liar, Dokucha," Calls Izou

"You're lying to me?" Dokucha questioned, looking up at Thatch, a tremble on her lips

"N-No course not, they are just spouting nonsense."

"That's not what you said with her last dis-.

"Hey, Dokucha, did they ever tell you about the time Izou and Haruta went at it?" Thatch spoke promptly, cutting him off watching with a satisfied grin as her sobs stop at the news

"You were fighting?" she growled as she turned around slowly, glaring at the two commanders, who had wiped their smiles from their faces as they shook their heads

"Of Course not, Big sis; we were only training right Izou?" Haruta called nervously at the haunting glare the woman was sending the pair

"Yes, we were to be sent to an important mission, so we figured some training before leaving would do us good."

Thatch threw them a grin as he leaned over Dokucha's ear, whispering in her ear loud enough for the two to hear.

"Ahh heard they were callin’ each other quite colorful names, and that Marco had too patch up a couple injuries," he spoke with a smirk as he glanced at them.

"You know what? I believe that was Haruta; he was quite angry that morning," Izou commented.

"You traitor!" Haruta hissed

"Haruta..." Dokucha growled, glaring at the man

"Y-yes?"

"How many times have I told you not to fight with your brothers?" she snarled, slowly approaching the man who by now had shot out of the stool he sat on in favor of backing away from her.

"Come on, dokucha, it was just playful banter."

"Banter was it? I guess if you have enough energy to fight with your brothers, then you have energy for a training session with me."

"That's really not necessary."

"I insist, little brother," She chirps, throwing a dark grin his way as she drags Haruta off to the training ground.

"I'll get you assholes back for this!" He screamed back to the snickering men on the kitchen

"Oh-ho, you really do have energy. I'm sure you can do an extra long session then!"

"Wait, no, sis, I didn't mean that!" he wails.

Marco sighed, shaking his head as he drank his tea, looking at the other two disapprovingly.

"She is going to find out, you know; once she finds out you tricked her, she will be furious."

"Oh, come on, Marco, she won't know,I I won't say anything, will you, Izou?" Thatch spoke, glancing at the sniper

"If you remain quiet about me, I will remain quiet about you," he confirmed as they both turned to Marco.

"Leave me out of this," he grumbled, walking out.

"We got dirt on ya too, you know!" Thatch calls with a grin

"Oh? Do remind me, who does your checkups and heals you when you fight amongst each other behind her back or go into dangerous missions, and who keeps silent when you fall ill and don't tell her?" He drawled with a grin hidden behind his cup as he continued walking

"Maybe, let's include Marco in tha silent treaty," Thatch Mutters.

"Agreed"

I just realize it's been a week 🙊 oops? Im also surprised myself I din’t include ace, but ya know the other commanders need some loving too

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

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skzdarlings · 2 months ago

Text

bodyguard: the first guard | part six | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: the usual general content guide warnings for this stories including violence and abuse. explicit sexual content in this chapter: dom!chan, sub!reader, kinky play-fighting in a sexual scenario, hitting, smacking, chasing, pinned down, choking, taunting dirty talk, very rough play overall. content warnings: this chapter is very, very INTENSE on the violence front. graphic depictions of drowning, both voluntary and forced. explicit description of torture both physical and psychological, violence, fighting, drowning, choking, explosions.

chapter word count: 20,500 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Everything goes wrong.

Felix should have known better than to rely on the enemy. He is dependable in no regard except self preservation and even that only extends insofar as the most cowardly course of action.

It was supposed to be a fight. Felix did everything the way he was supposed to, everything according to plan, the way a proper soldier does. Felix always follows through. Felix always completes his mission.

He played both sides. He worked Miroh into a frenzy, suspicious of betrayals transpiring right under his nose in his own house. He made the enemy think he stood a chance attacking Miroh, that he could knock him right off the playing board and claim all his assets in one fell swoop.

Felix forgot the enemy was such a coward. He was supposed to storm in here with an army, the way that Miroh does. They were supposed to find Miroh’s regiment in chaos, everyone turned against each other thanks to his subterfuge and instigation.

Miroh and his daughter are at each other’s throats. The other soldiers take sides. What should be a unified front in a run-of-the-mill acquisition mission turns into a self-sabotage as Miroh’s own team starts fighting each other.

Miroh fights his daughter. Felix knows, despite everything, there is a part of her that still loves, fears, or respects her father. She doesn’t fight like she should.

Chris, however, does. When Miroh knocks his daughter down, Chris attacks him. Felix doesn’t worry because he knows Chris can win the fight and, besides, they are going to be rescued soon. At that moment, everything is going according to plan. Whether Miroh lives or dies is irrelevant. Whether Felix lives or dies is irrelevant. This is about Chris. And Miroh doesn’t stand a chance against Chris, not with the full force of his fury unleashed like this.

Miroh’s daughter just watches, stunned by how fast everything happened.

She looks around like she expects to find answers in this dilapidated warehouse. Her eyes land on Felix who has been standing to the side since the fight began. Her eyes narrow as she looks at him, really looks at him, seeing what no one else sees.

He swallows and braces his body for a fight. She is a mirror of him as she stands, taking the exact same fighting stance.

“You told him I botched the operation,” she says. “Why, Felix?”

“Because you did,” he answers simply.

“I thought you were friends with Chan,” she says. “Why would you compromise us like this?”

“Because I’m friends with Chan,” he answers with that same even steadiness, a calm that he absolutely does not feel inside. But he is good with faces, blinking with innocence. He tries to compel her to look away, to forget about him, that he is too young or too stupid or too innocent to really comprehend what’s happening.

She doesn’t fall for it. She sees right through the mask and glares at him.

He anticipates her swing, catching her punch when she hurls it at him. They scrape back and forth but they are perfectly, frustratingly, evenly matched.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “Felix, it didn’t have to be this way. I could’ve helped you. I’m on your side.”

“I can’t afford sides,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “I need to get out of here. Chris needs to get out of here. If you care about him—”

“You don’t know the first thing about that,” she snaps.

She comes at him with even more fury. Felix fights but his attention splits, glancing back at Miroh and Chris. Miroh is calling for back-up on one of his devices, but he never stops fighting. Miroh is a soldier, first and foremost. Whatever else Felix thinks of him, that much is true and always has been. Miroh is not scared of fight. Miroh will jump right into the fray. Miroh will get his hands dirty.

The enemy is not like that.

It was supposed to be a fight. He was supposed to storm in here with a contingency and fight the only broken house of Miroh. In the chaos of that confrontation, Felix was going to escape with Chris.

But the enemy never shows his face. He plants a bomb. He detonates it at a distance.

The warehouse is blown to pieces. Half those fighting soldiers die on the spot and Felix is blasted backwards. It renders him unconsciousness, though he doesn’t know how long he’s out. Not long, he thinks, when he wakes to sunlight pouring in through a gap, ripped in the warehouse wall. It was almost dawn when the fight began. A new day is starting.

He pushes himself upright. He is covered in dust and gravel. He coughs and sputters, getting on his hands and knees and crawling through debris and rubble. He moves towards the light. When he does, he sees Miroh’s daughter. She is not far away, but she is trapped underneath something. Pieces of the wall blew forward and there is a concrete block laying across her body. She is alive somehow, tucked into a divot in the floorboards, but she is trapped.

Felix, panicked, frantic, guilty, looks around for Chan as he stumbles towards her.

He never reaches her. Someone grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him backwards. He sprawls onto his back. A shadow blocks the sunlight. It’s one of the enemy’s bodyguards.

“The boss says you did a good job,” the man says. More of the enemy’s men are infiltrating the place. They don’t fight or pay any attention to the bodies. They go right for the promised merchandise.

Felix still can’t see Chris. Miroh’s daughter is still trapped. Everyone else is dead.

“I – I—” Felix starts, but dust is cloying in his throat and he just ends up coughing. He is dizzy, his ears ringing horribly. The world shifts in a kaleidoscope of vomit-inducing colours as someone drags him to his feet.

“Come on,” the man says. “The boss wants to see you. He says he has a job.”

It is the last thing Felix hears before the sunlight is on his face, overwhelming him, and he passes out in the heat.

P R E S E N T D A Y

“Don’t kill him.”

Those are your first words to Chan. You know him by the way his body braces itself after the shock has worn off. Chan may not be the inhuman soldier you mistakenly believed, but he might be something even more dangerous. Where his raw emotions meet his long-engrained instincts and deadly capabilities, fatality will ensue.

You cannot afford that reaction. You are here to save Changbin. Changbin was taken because he defected, because he moved against Miroh, because he decided that you were more important than maintaining structure and keeping orders. Changbin turning, you changing, Miroh falling: it all started the night the enemy died. It all started because of something that began even longer ago.

This all started with Felix.

“I thought he was already dead,” Chan says. His voice sounds steady but you see the tension in his form. He is wracked with adrenaline.

“Me too,” you say.

“Oh, you’re talking?” Felix says, looking at you.

You suppose he saw the reports of your death. He must have been just as surprised to see you behind the mask. Lack of expectation made him blind to recognition.

This is likely why he has not recognized Chan yet. The fact Chan is still wearing the mask does not help, his face mostly covered, disguise foolproof to an unsuspecting witness - even despite the heated slash of his unmistakable eyes boring into Felix.

But It has been many years. And Felix thinks Chan is dead.

With that thought, you say, “I guess we’re both ghosts.”

Felix looks at Chan only briefly, seeing nothing but a soldier in a familiar uniform. He gives your regulation combat gear a similar once-over. His brow furrows as he scrutinizes you.

You almost forgot this kid had such a sweet face. Freckled and wide-eyed, you can see why so many people underestimated him time and time again.

Lee Felix is everything Miroh wanted to achieve with his program. Maybe it is not surprising that the collapse of two major antagonists circle back to him.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

He meets your gaze.

“The same as you, I think.” He hesitates, then continues, “I’ve been following reports. When I saw what was happening, I looked for the closest base and just… I decided to help things along.”

Despite how innocently he explains himself, you do not question his capabilities. You will not make the same mistake as so many others and underestimate him. You know what Felix is capable of doing. His only flaw is too much time away from Miroh’s operation, thus a lack of understanding for its inner workings. He cannot do what you and Chan can do, but it is the closest anyone could come.

That is not your question.

“Why would you care?” you ask. Somehow, Felix escaped from everything. He might as well be a real ghost for all that his reappearance in this fight is incomprehensible.

“Because.” His defensiveness softens just a little as his mind goes somewhere else, far away from the violent chrome prison of Miroh. “Because,” he says, gentler, “I want to find a place to… to rest. To be home. And I can’t do that, knowing what’s still out there. I need to help fix it.” He looks you over again, but it is different than his earlier judgemental regard. Still scrutinizing, but thoughtful, as he tilts his head and really considers you. “What I helped make,” he says. “I don’t think I can go really home until I do something about it.”

In the space of a breath, Chan draws a handgun. He is so fast that you don’t even see where it was holstered.

“Why do you think you should have any of that?” Chan says, punctuating with a threatening downward push of the gun. “Give me one reason not to shoot you. Seriously. Just one.” By his venomous tone, it is obvious no reason will be good enough.

You put a hand on his shoulder. He tries to shrug it off but you hold firm.

“Hold your fire,” you say, maintaining your cool outwardly despite the panic inside.

During the exchange between you and Chan, Felix gets one hand free. He bites the tip of his glove and yanks it off with his teeth.

Chan is quick to react, seizing him by the wrist like he expects Felix to attack him with one hand. Chan is fixated with such a single-minded determination that he does not see what you see, what Felix was actually trying to show you.

A ring around his marriage finger, simple and unadorned.

After a suspended beat of silence, Chan looks down. He sees the ring too. Most of his face is covered but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes, something like a slash across his brow. He reels back as if a bomb detonated. Instinct puts the gun back into his palm, the barrel at his adversary, but it shakes just short of imperceptibly. You are not sure if the uncharacteristic tremor is inner conflict or pure rage.

“This is my one reason,” Felix says calmly. “This is my reason for everything.”

Even though you still don’t have all the answers, seeing that ring turns the world right-side up. Of course Felix turned on the enemy, not out of ambition or cruelty, but love. The thread of it runs through every action committed in the last few months, something you could not see despite its prevalence beneath the surface of your life. None of this is happening because of the rivalry of two greedy monsters and the chaos they sowed. It’s happening because of everything that somehow thrived in spite of it.

So much makes sense now, looking at him, at that ring. You think of the security footage being scrubbed after everyone died. Felix was always good with computers and he probably worked well with the enemy’s high tech systems – certainly well enough to wipe them entirely. It gave him time to run off with the other half of that wedding band. You suspect the enemy’s daughter wears the other ring.

Chan is staring at that ring like he wants to burn it, like he wants to cut the whole hand right off.

Tentative, testing, you ask, “Did you kill them?”

Felix ignores Chan. He looks at you, his brow furrowing with confusion.

“Who? Miroh’s agents?” he asks. “Most of them are already running off and—”

“Not them, not here, not tonight,” you say. “The enemy. His men. His daughter. Did you kill them to get away to do – whatever it is you’re doing?”

He swallows. Your suspicions are confirmed when you see the flicker of anxiety in his eyes. It is obvious to you that he is lying when he says, “Yes, I killed them. The enemy. His family. His men. They’re all dead.”

“Not all of them,” Chan says. His frustration returns and he digs the gun at Felix. “I’m looking at one.”

“Stop it,” you say sharply. “I need him to answer me.”

Felix is understandably stressed with an unknown hostile threatening him. He overlaps with you, snapping, “Seriously, mate, I’m co-operating, what more do you want?”

“I want to kill him,” Chan says with an exhale. Though he is looking at Felix, you feel like he is seeing so much more than the moment as it unfolds. The amount of emotion in his voice is uncharacteristic for him on a job. He is compromised by years of pent-up feelings, bursting inside him. “I want to blow his fucking brains across this warehouse,” Chan says, putting the barrel right in Felix’s face.

He is so fast and deliberate. You are worried he will act before you can even think to prevent it. Panicked instinct makes you blurt, “Chan! Stop it!”

At the same time, Felix grabs the gun and uses the element of surprise to overpower Chan, just enough to safely yank the gun to the side.

Either the shouting or the grabbing triggers Chan’s finger because the gun goes off. It fires directly at the ground and kicks back so violently that it skitters across the floor like an animal.

The piercing howl of the gun leaves a ringing silence in the aftermath.

The reverberation of Chan’s name seems deliver the fatal blow, landing with far more violence.

Felix is breathing hard, adrenaline coursing from the attempted shot. He stares at nothing particular, just catching his breath – chasing and catching, then stalling, stopping. He holds it.

He slowly turns his gaze onto Chan. He looks at him like he is seeing him for the first time, eyes meeting the dark line of anger that stare above the mask.

Felix’s entire face smooths out, softens, with recognition.

“Chris,” he says, not much louder than a breath, somehow as piercing as the gunshot.

Chan responds by choking him, a big gloved hand snapping out and seizing his neck, so fast and powerful it is a wonder he does not snap it on impact.

“Don’t say my name,” Chan says, “you backstabbing—”

You drop onto your knees, grabbing Chan by the arm. He doesn’t relent even a little. You know you can’t budge him with anything but words, so you say, “Chan. Stop. I’m serious. Please.”

With an exhale, Chan loosens his grip, just enough for Felix to cough.

Felix’s eyes are watery, his voice strained when he says, “Changbin told me you were dead. I thought the enemy—”

“The enemy?” Chan asks. “You mean your employer? Your ally? What enemy? Aren’t we your enemy, Felix?”

“No,” you answer firmly, interrupting a dazed Felix. “Miroh was his enemy,” you say. “Just like Miroh was our enemy. Now let him go.”

Chan clearly does not want to obey. Release comes in increments, just a slack of the hand before he finally huffs and withdraws. He swings back and stands. He does not look down again, staring forward like a soldier in formation.

Felix rolls onto his side in a wheezing fit. Chan must have hit him at a sensitive juncture – likely on purpose – because it takes him several gasping attempts to breathe again.

When his shoulders stop heaving, you grab him, not violently like Chan but nonetheless aggressive. It is enough to get his attention, his watery eyes turning up to you.

He looks so young. You and Chan are only a few years older. Do you look that young? You certainly don’t feel it, burdened with lifetimes, known and unknown.

Then again, his eyes seem to show a similar burden within. The band on his finger tells a story beyond what you know of the runaway soldier.

“You have questions,” you say. “So do I. Maybe together we can both finally get some answers.”

Felix looks over his shoulder. Chan does not look down to meet his eye. After a moment of staring without reciprocation, Felix nods curtly and looks at you.

Felix holds out his hand to shake. He winces in pain as he digs out his voice.

“Agreed.”

You need to get away from the facility. It has been undermined but not shutdown. You would not have targeted such a big base and you’re the true key to bringing down most of these operations. Your classification was high so you can navigate with ease despite the removal of your logins and security clearance. Chan’s classification was just as high if not higher, though very different. Together, there are results.

Your attacks are carefully and meticulously planned breakdowns, accounting for every bone in the finger of the hand throwing a punch. Felix’s attack was more like throwing an emotional swing at an adversary when their head is turned. It is something that seems like a good idea until the head swings back around.

You retreat.

The tension between Felix and Chan is palpable. You ran many jobs against the enemy and, even a distance, you knew Felix to retain a professional demeanour. Around Chan, he becomes a little kid again. You almost see your own reflection in Felix as you also become someone else around Chan.

That includes a streak of newfound empathy. You would usually disregard feelings, especially on a job, but that is not so easy anymore.

You stop Chan outside the car, gripping his bicep while Felix climbs in the backseat.

“You need to relax,” you say.

Chan has not removed the mask yet. You can only imagine the intensity of his expression without it. Even with half his face hidden, his expression is burning. That heat touches you, a twining flicker of a flame. It is brief but it scorches somewhere deep as he looks at you with all that fire.

The heat is doused with his ice cold voice. “Felix is the reason this happened,” he says.

You come back to yourself, blinking to clarity. You furrow your brow.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“This. All of this,” he hisses. You can hear his heavy breathing muffled in the mask. “He sold you out to Miroh. He’s the reason—”

His voice cracks. A memory of him flickers through your mind, cast over him like a projection, those desperate eyes and that muted cry. You glance back at Felix who is waiting patiently in the car. His face is downturned, dark hair falling over his eyes. He twists the ring around and around his finger. When he looks up, that projection flickers over him too, an image of him in his teenage years, with round cheeks and shaggy hair, staring with the intensity of someone who has already seen too much. He does not look apologetic and he does not look happy; he is just there.

You blink back to the present, looking down at the dirt beneath your feet, feeling the nighttime breeze on your face.

Truthfully, this revelation does not come as a shock. Your deduction was made in the rolling tension, looking between them, recalling the timeline of events. Even if Felix was not outright responsible, you suspected he was implicated on some level. It is the only way to explain Chan’s strong feelings for his betrayal.

Maybe it should fill you with a similarly righteous fury, but it does not. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what you lost. Maybe it’s because you can only picture an indifference in Felix. Maybe it’s because of that ring on his finger, of everything that has happened recently. You are not suffering the same visceral hatred as Chan, lost in his past.

Now, Felix is alive, having escaped the clutches of the enemy, a man like Miroh, doing it for someone he cares about. Now, he has willingly returned to right his wrongs, whatever he perceives them to be.

Now, you cannot find it in your heart to hate him. So much of that is because of the complicated man in front of you. Chan has worked his way past your barriers in a few short days that feel like lifetimes. It has given you a heart to follow.

You wish things were easier, but wishing will not manifest another reality. You can only touch him like a person, one to one, heart to heart, hold his angry gaze until it softens just a bit, and say, “I know.”

He exhales. A lot of that anger tangles up with his grief.

“We were kids,” you continue before he can interject. “We all made difficult decisions in impossible circumstances that not even a reasonable adult could navigate. He wouldn’t have traded one enemy for another if it was truly self-serving.”

This still does not register with any significance to Chan. His eyes are slitted and angry.

“I don’t blame him for what happened,” you say in a firmer voice. “And I don’t blame you.”

That hits him and it hits him hard. His body braces and his eyes widen, jolting like he was electrocuted.

“If you can’t trust him,” you say, tone gentler, “then trust me.”

Chan does not answer, only exhales again, dramatically with a droop of his shoulders. He opens the passenger door and gets in. Felix stares at him but Chan stares ahead. The mask stays on.

You take a breath to steady yourself then take the driver’s seat. You set your destination further out of town, tucked away in some farmland you passed on your travels.

When you leave the district, Felix gets alert. His eyes are big in your rearview mirror as the highway lights flash golden over him. You recall last seeing him at a distance, his hair a golden blonde, returned now to a natural darkness. You think about how much you have changed in days and wonder how much he changed in years. It makes you sympathetic to those wide eyes and the anxious twisting of his ring.

“I don’t want to leave too far from town,” he says, meeting your gaze in the rearview mirror.

“You’ll go wherever we take you,” Chan says.

“I have to get home,” Felix replies.

“It’s dangerous to be running missions on your own,” you say before a fight begins. “Don’t you think?”

“I knew I could handle myself,” Felix says. “And they were just… they were right there. I couldn’t do nothing. Not when—” He looks at Chan and his voice drops even lower, like it hurts to speak. “You blame me,” Felix says. He sounds resigned already, like he expected this all along, that even as a ghost Chan would despise him. “I’m the reason they captured you,” Felix says. “Because I failed. All these years, I tried – I waited – I –“

“Don’t talk to me,” Chan says. “If it was up to me, you’d be dead.”

Felix just nods.

“So you’ve gone civilian for real?” you ask, steering the conversation. “You think that’s where you belong?”

It’s not an empty question. You do not have time to consider what will happen after you rescue Changbin and take down the operation, but a civilian life has not crossed your mind. Fighting back-to-back with Chan makes you feel like your life’s purpose is realized, especially now that it is in the employ of your own heart and not Miroh’s greed. You cannot fathom the life course that Felix, of all people, has chosen.

“I know exactly where I belong,” he says. “I belong with her.”

Chan turns his head, just a bit, clearly listening. It makes Felix speak even more earnestly, incapable of lying under that attention.

“When I – when I was kid,” Felix says. “I – I guess I sorta idolized anyone I could. I was – broken. I needed something whole to hold.”

Chan turns away and Felix looks down, down at his ring like it is telling a story to him.

“It wasn’t like that with her,” Felix says. “She, uh, she actually hated me.” He laughs, the sound of genuine humour piercing through the tension in the car like a lightning bolt. “She was, uh, she was – she was broken too, I guess. We were different, but… we were the same. I never made her an idol like that. She was – she was just a girl.” He looks out the dark window. His voice is a little lower. “It became love anyway,” he says. “I – I never wanted that before.” He looks towards Chan again, a more frantic edge returned to his voice as he says, “If I knew then, what I know now, about everything, about – about how to be a person, I – I would have done things differently.”

There is a long moment of silence. The car hums and the highway lights roll over and over.

Chan finally says, “It’s too late for that now.”

It is undoubtedly not the reply that Felix wants to hear, but it is a reply, and that is enough to make Felix release a held breath.

When you reach your destination, tucked away from the chaotic world, Chan promptly leaves. Felix steps out of the car but doesn’t follow, taking the hint as Chan stalks towards a distant treeline and melts into the darkness with a practiced ease.

Felix turns as you approach.

“What happened after I left?” he asks. He looks over his shoulder but Chan is either gone or impossible to see. “From the outside I couldn’t – I didn’t know – all I could do was – wait and—”

You let him stutter for a minute, to see what words will he find. You are surprised when he looks between you and the trees and makes a gesture.

“Are you and him…?” he asks.

Internally, you are surprised and it makes your heart skip. Externally, you maintain a stoic demeanour.

Blinking, you ask, “Why?”

That seems to answer the question without answering. Felix nods, a repeated bobbing of the head. He swallows before speaking again.

“I – I want to know that he’s okay,” he says.

That might fracture your stoic regard.

“Was it for him?” you ask.

“I thought I could save him,” he says, and laughs without humour. “I was stupid about it.”

“It’s not stupid to want to save a friend,” you say, that stoicism undoubtedly splintered. You sigh. “You just have to understand that Chan has been through something that we can’t really understand. I know Changbin told you he was dead. That wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“It was that bad?” Felix asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer, shaking his head. He runs his fingers through his hair, movements jittery and anxious. “Of course it was.” He is then struck with a flicker of awareness. He looks at you very directly, tilts his head at a questioning, curious angle. “Where is Changbin?” he asks, looking upset in a different way, marked with anger.

You recall the mission with Changbin and the enemy’s daughter. At the time, everything was an attempt to draw the enemy away from a rare offensive strike as he tried to move in on Miroh’s territory. You were behind the scenes of it, sending Changbin after the daughter, luring away the enemy and also luring Felix back to Miroh. It might have worked if Felix was not determined to rescue the girl. He slipped through Miroh’s fingers a second time.

At the time, you were confused like everyone else. Felix’s motivations were befuddling at the very best. No one knew why he left. Now you know he left for Chan, no doubt striking a dangerous deal with the enemy to rescue him, a foolish bargain that would have seen like a life preserver to a drowning little boy. You are certain that after a time, Felix would have been smart enough to realize it. So the only thing more perplexing than why he left, is why he stayed.

The ring on his finger answers that question.

“Does she know you’re out here?” you ask.

The question captures his full attention, forgetting his previous query. He stares back at you. He looks like a predatory creature with his hackles raised, bristled and stiff and alert.

“Yes,” he finally says. “She didn’t like it. But yes.”

“Smart girl,” you say. “Makes sense… considering who her father was.”

As fast as Chan pulled that gun, Felix is in your space, every inch on guard.

“Leave her alone,” he says, all that boyishness gone in a flash. Though you do not doubt his honesty in some ways, you know Felix is good with faces. Under his mask is a soldier, bodyguard, and now it seems lover, and you are not which will be more dangerous.

You raise your hand in surrender.

“You want to know what happened to Chris,” you say, placating. “Miroh took him. That man—” You also look towards the treeline, seeing nothing in the pitch. “That man is someone different now.”

Felix looks there too. You think the sadness in his face is genuine.

“What happened to the enemy?” you ask. The events of that night have haunted you. It is the reason you are here today. “Did you take him out on your own?”

“No,” Felix says, slowly facing you again. “No. It was no one important to the enemy.”

You stare at him with obvious disapproval for such a vague answer.

“It wasn’t an enemy,” he clarifies. “It was a friend. Her friend. He came back for her as soon as he could and he helped us get away. He was just a civilian. Not a soldier, not an enemy. He just did it for a friend.”

You fall silent as you recall the dream where a weight is lifted off your chest, where you can breathe after so long caged, of Changbin peering down at you with all that concern.

“Why’d you turn against your father?” Felix asks.

Heart thumping, you say, “For a friend.”

Some of the tension leaves him, his stiff posture slackening. His face is flush with recognition.

“You don’t know where Changbin is, do you?” he asks. “That’s why you’re out here.”

The heaviness of his tone makes you pause. You let yourself linger in a momentary what-if, if you learned all this sooner and did something to help all of you, but that thought leads nowhere helpful. It has happened. Like Felix, you cannot change the choices you made when you did not know better, when you were surviving in impossible circumstances. You are doing something now.

You let your honest emotion show when you say, “I think he was waiting.”

“For what?”

For me, you think. “For things to change,” you say. “And now they have.”

“Now they have,” Felix echoes.

You think you understand him. Not like Chan, not like Changbin. You look at Felix and see someone still struggling with himself, lost and grappling for answers. He is quiet under the immensity of the night sky, the range of feelings inside him just as vast.

“I’m looking for him,” you say. “All this – it’s because of him. He gave himself up to save me. I’m going to get him back. I’m going to bring an end to all of this. It will never happen to anyone again.”

Felix straightens, once more on guard, but he is not antagonistic. He is on your side of the fight and you believe he finally sees that.

“Do you know anything about him? Anything at all?” you ask. Felix got a better look at the military base before it went to ground. Maybe his perspective will offer some insight beyond what you gleaned from the research facilities. “I don’t know where my father put him,” you say. “But I know he’s out there. I know he’s still in Miroh’s web.”

“What makes you think he’s still alive?” Felix asks, brow furrowed.

“What made you think Chan was alive?” you retort.

“Okay,” Felix says, chastened. “I did release some prisoners at the base, but Changbin wasn’t there. I would’ve recognized him this time.” His earlier anger towards Changbin seems to dissipate. He regards you with eyes that look more than a little guilty. “I thought he died with the others, you know,” Felix says. “I didn’t – I thought this whole time—”

“Trust me,” you say, with a humourless laugh. “You don’t need to tell me about the past confusing you.”

Felix takes the empathy at face value, nodding. He idly adjusts a hip holster while talking, gaze elsewhere, moving through his recollection.

“I only really talked to one of the prisoners, yeah,” Felix says. “They were all in bad shape but he wasn’t thinking clearly. When I got them out, he thought I was there for him. He thought he was being sent back somewhere ‘worse.’”

“Worse?” you say, with a drop in your gut. You have firsthand knowledge of the kind of torture that Miroh is willing to enact on its allies, never mind its enemies, so you can only begin to imagine. It may lead you to Changbin after all, now that he is classified as a turned asset and enemy to Miroh. “Worse how?”

“I don’t really know,” Felix says. “He just said he didn’t wanna go back to the white room. It didn’t mean anything to me. Does it to you?”

It shouldn’t mean anything. White room is a vague description that could describe any plain interior at any site. It sounds like the empty ramblings of a traumatized prisoner, disjointed thoughts that could describe any facility on any base.

And yet –

When Felix says those words, in that context, that way, with all that uncertainty and pain in his eyes – you see a flash in the back of your mind. You let yourself drift towards it. It is not screaming cold like other memories, memories that send you hurtling through the dark. It’s quiet. Empty. You see an impossibly bright white room. There are no windows or doors, at least none that you can perceive. It’s the opposite of the Cell, of those tunnels, of that well. It’s not endless black. It’s a shock of white.

It’s nothing. How can nothing feel like something?

“Do you know it?” Felix asks.

You shake your head, the brightness dimming as the real world and the dark night settle around you.

“No,” you say. The little twinge behind your eyes starts to pound. “Maybe.”

There is a beat of silence between you, enough confessions made to the dark to satisfy for now. It has been a long night.

Felix sighs, his long exhale feathering the hair over his forehead. He turns to the trees, looks across the farmland, then up at the too big sky.

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Felix says.

There is a bone deep sadness to Felix, all in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. And that is just what he is letting you see.

“It’s complicated,” you say in lieu of anything more comforting.

You understand that Chan blames Felix for what happened in the past. At the same time, you don’t think that is where Chan’s problem truly lies. You remember his words at the motel; not wishing you were someone else, but wishing he was. He can accept you have changed, but he cannot accept that he has too. Whether it was against his will, to survive, to keep you alive, he had to become someone else. It must make him as alien to himself as your elusive past is to you presently.

You have all made mistakes in desperation. And now Felix is here, the past gone, a ring on his finger and a future ahead. Chan does not have that. He wants to be the boy who did no wrong and protected everyone. But through his mistakes, your mistakes, Felix’s mistakes, he can’t be anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time.

Felix gets to go home because it’s ahead. Chan can’t do that because it’s behind him. Maybe he does hate Felix for the part he played, but you know he hates himself and his own circumstances more.

“Can you – can you –” Felix stammers. “Can you just – tell him please – that I’m sorry for how it went down.”

“He knows, Felix,” you say, believing it honestly. You have come to know Chan. You believe that beneath all the pain and resentment, he knows it all comes down to Miroh.

Felix nods. He lingers in that thought for a moment, casting his eyes towards the sky. His shoulders fall.

“This isn’t over yet, is it,” he says, more an observation than question.

“Not quite,” you say.

“If you—” Felix looks at you again, dark eyes earnest. “If you need help... Find me. Seriously. I want this to be over for good.”

You accept his proffered hand and shake. When you try to withdraw, he holds on.

“I’m sorry to you too,” he says. “I don’t know what happened after I left, but…”

You wish it was as easy as blaming Felix. If this was about one foolish boy and one childish mistake, then everything would be so easy to fix. But you know better. You squeeze his hand and nod, reflecting his emotions like a mirror.

“I know who my enemies are,” you say.

He nods and finally drops your hand. Another moment passes, the night breeze blowing between you, then Felix says it is time for him to go.

“I know where we are,” he says, looking across the deserted farmland. His eyes settle on some distant fields, sloping into a distant wood. He looks at you again and nods. “I think it’s for the best I get myself back. Good luck.”

He has only taken a few steps when you ask, “How will I find you again?”

He looks at you. For a second, there is a flicker of a friendly soul, life in his eyes as they crinkle with a smile.

“Hmm, if you are who I think you are,” he says, “you’ll figure it out.”

You take that as a confirmation of trust if nothing else, that he turns his back and walks away without fear you will pursue him with any reactive violence. When he has crossed over the border of the property, disappearing down a path, you turn the opposite way to where Chan vanished. With a sigh, you seek him out.

Of course the impossible man chose the absolute creepiest part of the property to sequester himself. It is difficult to see, even for you, as you pick up your feet to avoid tripping over spindly roots. You realize the overgrown trees are a former orchard, though the fruit is long since rotted, the thick branches bare.

“Chan,” you say, an edge to your voice. “Chan, he’s gone.”

Something cracks behind you. You turn, mouth open with a remark that flitters into breath because he isn’t there. Not even a moonlit silhouette interrupts the darkness.

You turn back around and almost jump right out of your skin. Chan is standing there, stanced like he has been waiting for hours. You thump him on the shoulder, cursing.

“Sorry,” he says, more automatic than sincere.

He is still wearing the mask, still braced with so much tension. You are standing close, close enough that if you were a target he would already have a hand around your neck. You think of the number of people over the years, subject to that exact moment; the number of times he would have stood there, just like this, appearing out of the shadows and striking.

You think of how he got there. You think of why he stayed.

“Are we going?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. That exact expression was the first one he really gave you, the first hint he was more than Miroh’s soldier.

Maybe you have a heart now, or something like it, but it is still woefully inadequate when it comes to function. You do not know how to express the mess of feelings inside you. There is no instant healing for the years suffered between you, but you wish you could make him understand that you are not afraid, that you mean it when you say you choose this Bang Chan, not in spite of everything but because of it.

“He wanted to save you,” you say. Before he can form a retort, you continue, “I know you didn’t ask him to save you. You didn’t ask him to make any bargains. But he wanted to do it, not unlike what you did for me.”

“That’s different,” he says quickly. It sounds almost like a huff, like a punch in the gut.

“I know how it feels, to be both you and Felix,” you say. “To not like or understand yourself. Do you think I don’t understand? Do you think I’m scared of you in the mask?”

His shoulders lower and he looks at you, lifetimes of emotion in his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re scared of anything,” he says. “You never have been. That’s what terrifies me.”

“Chan—”

“I can’t lose you again,” he says, walking right up to you, an inch from your face, yet so propelled by adrenaline that he seems unaware of his own proximity and desperation. “I can’t,” he says. “Seeing Felix, it – it freaked me out, okay? It put me back there again. For years, I – I felt like if I could – if I could get back at him – for betraying my friendship – it would somehow undo it – it would be like it didn’t happen – I don’t—”

He seems to remember his mask all at once, abruptly reaching up to rip it off. His arm swings down to his side, mask loose in his fingers. The sudden reveal of his whole face makes your breath catch, as if you haven’t been staring at him for days, as if he hasn’t engrained himself in your consciousness like he never left.

You stare at each other, hardly any space between you. His voice is heavy, his shoulders slumped, like gravity is pulling him straight down past the earth, like it’s a fight just to stand there.

“I don’t want those things to have happened to us,” he finally says.

“I know,” you whisper back.

“I’m so scared of fucking this up,” he says, with a hiccup of a laugh, arms hanging limp in a helpless slouch. “So fucking scared something is going to happen. If not Felix, then – then anything – then—”

You place a hand on his chest, palm above his racing heart. His breath catches, adrenaline still coursing.

“Well.” You smirk and it feels more natural than a smile. It helps you dig your honest feelings out of your chest, buried so deep, sifting through your fingers like sand until you seize your beating heart and feel it come to life. “We might be a couple of disasters,” you say, “but we’re here, together, in spite of it all. We’ll figure it out eventually.”

You trail your hand down his chest, past his side, fingers loosely tracing the top of the mask. You hold his gaze the entire time.

“You found me once, didn’t you?” you say. “I trust you to do it again.”

“I didn’t,” he says, laughter walking the edge of a cry. “I should have. But you were the one who spoke to me in that van. You were the one who asked for help. You were the one that found me. I didn’t do anything but follow.”

“Is it too much to ask you to continue to do that?” you ask. “At least a little longer?”

He leans towards you, almost like he is falling, that gravitational pull leading straight to you.

“Always,” he says. “I go wherever you go, remember?”

He said that before, that first night when he comforted you. He says it now with a laugh, though it comes up like it pains him, an ache in his chest.

You think he might have sworn that promise a long time ago.

“I want you,” you say firmly. “Not the little boy you were, not just Miroh’s creation, but all of this, all of you. I want your anger and I want your fear. I want the only guard who could fight me in that ring. I want the only agent who was able to chase me down.” You hold his gaze even when the intensity makes you sweat, uncharacteristically nervous with a twist in your gut that is so much more than lust or camaraderie. “I need the only person I could have ever asked for help.”

He exhales through his nose, then smiles a weak smile.

“Are you sure?” he asks, shakes his head, laughs dryly. His exhale is shaky. “Because… honestly, baby…” The pet name rolls thoughtlessly off his tongue, natural in his honesty. He looks at you without any masks, eyes soft where they meet yours, jaw clenched with some baser instinct. “Because I – I’m really fucking angry.”

“Good,” you say. “So am I.”

You don’t think anyone has ever looked at you the way Chan does. Your father saw a soldier, your subordinates saw a commander, Felix saw a complicated ally, and Changbin saw a lost friend. When Chan looks at you, it feels like he sees all of you at once, every layer down to the bone, and that should be terrifying. That much exposure should make a soldier run for cover, layer on every piece of armour you can get your shaking hands on.

For some reason, he looks at you, and you just want to strip that armour off, piece by careful piece, and see what you will find in the reflection of his gaze.

You think he feels the same. It’s all you want, and it’s all so much, and you let yourself feel every tingling reverberation of that passion before you step away.

“Come on,” you say. “This fight is far from over.”

You anticipate his next move but your breath catches anyway.

Chan pulls you back, straight into his arms. The mask hits the ground with a clatter as he grabs you by the neck, a gloved hand cupped carefully around your jaw. He drags you into him and kisses you even more deeply than that last teasing kiss. This kiss does not merely say, I don’t want to be your friend. It does not merely say, I want to be more.

It says, I want to be everything.

And he hands everything over, and you take it, and you give everything back with your hand buried in his hair and your mouth open against his.

With a thousand more questions to ask and a mission to complete, but with information and honesty and hope – the fight ahead does not seem so daunting.

You look at Chan in the passenger seat. He is sprawled out, stripped down to a compression shirt that is far less bulky than the protective combat layers. It should make him appear smaller, but his presence continues to fill every space he occupies. Even where he does not literally touch, you feel him.

He idly turns the mask over in his hands. His eyes are ahead, over the dashboard, focussed on some distant point. He has sweat through some of his hair product so his dark hair falls to frame his face a little more. He pushes some of it back and you have to remind yourself to look at the road and not his hands, the corded veins when he flexes and moves his fingers, or his lips when he takes in a breath, or his thighs when he slouches and lets his knee fall against the console.

Failing your mission because of a car accident would be a little preposterous, so you clear your throat and look ahead. You feel him glance at you, but you refrain from looking back.

“Can I ask you something?” you ask, using the excuse of concentration to avoid eye contact.

“Yeah?”

“Promise to tell the truth?”

“You know I will,” he replies.

He knows the question will not be too serious. You agreed to discuss the mission parameters when settled at the new hotel. You explained that Felix gave you information but it needs dissection.

So he must expect the halfway teasing lilt when you ask, “Is there a part of you – even a small part –that feels, hmm, a little shallow satisfaction that you wound up with Miroh’s daughter on your side despite everything he tried?”

Your phrasing is a little convoluted but he sees right through it, brow quirking up.

“Uh-huh… Is that what you’re really asking me?” He looks dramatically contemplative as he throws your teasing back at you. “Or did you mean – Do I feel like I got back at the bad guy by fucking his little girl?”

“I’m not little,” is your flustered retort.

His laugh is a breathy snort. You feel him look at you again. When he does not elaborate, you surrender to your desire and glance his way.

His tongue is poking into his cheek, his eyes narrowed but not with frustration, just a combination of scrutiny and amusement at whatever he finds.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He sits back again, leans his head on the headrest, smirking to himself. “It’s just… that’s not the first you’ve asked me that question. Why are you asking me now?”

“Why did I ask you then?” you blurt. You are asking him now because you are trying to goad him into opening up on some of those darker or angrier feelings. Was it for a similar reason you asked before? It gives you a sudden tether to that past version of you, still a stranger, but maybe not so different.

“Then,” he says. He loses some of that jovial edge, looking a little more serious as he falls into recollection. He rubs the back of his neck.

“You can tell me,” you say when he lingers on his thought, words so clearly perched on the tip of his tongue. “Really.”

You are expecting any number of dramatics. You are not expecting him to giggle.

“You fell for me first,” he says.

“No, I didn’t,” you reply automatically. You have no idea if it is true or not, but you instinctively balk at the suggestion. Even though your intimacy with Chan feels so unique, no doubt propelled by that complicated history, you still only know yourself as someone pragmatic and distant. You cannot picture yourself at any age stumbling head-over-heels for some boy, even one with dimples like that.

“Ohh no, you definitely did,” he says. “Sorry, but you were allll over me—”

You thump him on the chest. It’s a good solid thwack in the middle of his giggles.

“Hey, hey!” he says. “You asked.”

“You’re lying.”

“Now, now, come on. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I regret asking.”

“It can’t be that hard to believe,” he says, tapping his chin with exaggerated pensiveness. “I thiiiink… and correct me if I’m wrong… but I’m preeetty sure it was you who came onto me this time around too…”

“That – I –” You laugh at your own stammer, so startled that you can’t help but break.

He giggles some more, a tittering heeheehee that seems very incongruous in his black uniform with a combat mask on his knee.

When the laughter softens, he sighs a little. He looks at that mask, absently runs his thumb along the frame.

“It was a fair question, at the time,” he says. “I think you knew how I felt. How at first it wasn’t – it wasn’t really serious for me. Not like that. I was a bit distracted with, you know, life sucking.”

“Fair enough,” you say, snorting in amusement at describing the child soldiership special-ops program as simply life sucking. Diluting the power and dramatics is oddly cathartic, the laughter leaving a pleasant warmth in your chest. It makes you brave enough to ask, “What changed?”

He looks at you, maybe gauging your wellbeing. You both know the reconfiguration reports warn that too much sudden recollection can trigger a breakdown. But there is a separation here, the girl in your past just a story on his tongue, even if you do like the way he says her name.

“Uh, actually, it was seeing you with Changbin,” he finally says. His posture gets defensive with his vulnerability, an arm slung across his chest. He idly scratches his shoulder while he talks. “You were friends. Really friends. I didn’t – I didn’t really know how you managed to be friends, to be honest. I never – I mean.”

He huffs like he is frustrated with his own inarticulateness. You wait, eyes on the road, taking some of the pressure off. He eventually sighs.

“The first program,” he says. “All those kids – I only knew them for a bit, then they were all gone. It was just me. Then they brought in the next group. I think a part of me was always waiting for the day something would happen to them too. How can you really learn to care about people if you know everyone is just gonna be taken away from you?”

He picks up the mask again. He looks at it while speaking.

“The other part of me wanted to care,” he says. “Really fucking badly. I don’t know what it was, though. The trauma, my reputation, something about me, but I—” He puts the mask down, looks out over the dashboard. “Even before I put this on, before I made that deal with Miroh – I didn’t really belong. People respected me, kinda, I guess, or were scared of me. Yeah, lots of people have been scared of me. And maybe it was actually easy to become that guy, maybe it was in me all the time. Because even back then, it was like I always separate from everyone else. I still am. It’s like – it’s like there’s just this glass wall around me. Sometimes there’d be moments, people, like with Felix for a while, where they’d look at me and I’d look right through it and forget it was there. Then the light would hit the glass and I’d remember I was different. Separate. Alone.”

He pauses but it doesn’t feel like he is waiting for an interjection. Truthfully, you don’t know what to say.

“You and Changbin,” he says, punctuating by smacking the mask against his thigh. “You guys were different, yeah. Didn’t matter what they tried to do you. You stuck together. You – you had it just as bad as me because you were Miroh’s daughter but you never let it – never let him – never let any of them tell you who you are. And I just remember one day, I was looking at you. Really looking. You were with Changbin and you were patching him up after a fight. You were both beat to hell and back but you were laughing together and I – I just thought—”

His voice gets softer, like the words are too fragile to speak.

“I thought,” he says, “I would give anything to have you look at me like that too.”

His words leave a stunned silence in their wake. He eventually tries to deflect the tension with a laugh, smiling at you, but with a smile that does not reach his eyes.

After the words have washed over you and after the jumbled mess of confusion that is your consciousness sifting through it, you say, “Glass coffin.”

“Excuse me?” he asks.

“Sorry.” You shake your head. “Just – that’s how I’ve felt. Buried alive in a glass coffin. Not myself, not who I was a month ago, not the girl I can’t remember. What you said made me think of it. I – I understand you. I’ve been—” Your breath catches unexpectedly. “I’ve been very alone for a long time. I – I don’t think I noticed, somehow. Not until Changbin was gone. Not until you were here.”

The car gets a little darker as you leave the highway, streams of endless light replaced with the occasional streetlamp. The darkness makes the honesty flow a little easier.

“Is that weird?” you ask, your own voice soft and unfamiliar to your ears. “For it to hurt more after it already happened?”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he says. “Then again, I’m just as insane as you are.”

You almost choke on your laughter, so abrupt in the midst of seriousness. He laughs too.

“That’s true,” you tease. “Why the hell am I asking you?”

“Because you’re insane, remember?” He makes a tsk sound, shaking his head, all playful. “Wow, now she’s forgetting things that happened just a minute ago.”

“You’re awful,” you say, but laugh nonetheless.

“Seriously, though,” he says. “I get it. I get you.”

There is a beat of silence as the conversation settles around you. You breathe a little lighter.

Then Chan says, “Also, yeah, it is kinda hot to bang the boss’s daughter.”

“Bang Chan.” You smack his chest again, a little harder, but he just giggles like a naughty schoolboy and swats your hand away. “Seriously?” Your voice breaks as you try and fail to restrain laughter. “That comment? After all that?”

“Hey, don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, ya know?”

“Bang the boss’s daughter,” you grumble with faux-irritation. “You and Felix have that in common, you know.”

“Fucking you?! Jesus, what the hell did I miss when I walked away?” He looks at his bare wrist as if checking a watch. “You weren’t there long. He’s a bit quick off the mark, eh?”

You thump his stupid chest again while he chokes on his maniacal laughter.

“Going after the boss’s daughter,” you clarify.

That breaks some of his giggles, face twisting up with his surprise. His mouth opens and closes as he looks for words, mind going a mile a minute while he computes this revelation. He finally says, “Wait… what?”

“The ring on his finger?”

“Yeah but – the enemy’s daughter? Felix? And after giving me a hard time for going after you and oh my god, serves him fucking right, I really am going to kill that little—”

His threats sound a little more light-hearted, at least you think. It is tinged with some truthfulness, but at least it’s all out in the open this time.

“I’m trying to imagine that story,” you say, steering the conversation to the side. “I can’t imagine us in that scenario. I don’t think I would’ve been waltzing around with a mopey bodyguard in any world.”

“I wouldn’t be mopey.” He amends, “I wouldn’t be that mopey.” Then he thinks about it a moment longer, eyes on the road but mind farther away. “Yeah, you’re too much of a fighter,” he says. “I would’ve had my hands full trying to keep you on the sidelines.”

“You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

You are teasing him but he does not retaliate. He nods with utmost seriousness.

“You’re right,” he says. “I mean, look at everything they did to you, and you still chose to be you. I think no matter what world we were in, you would find your way back into the fight, and I would follow you.”

You know he fully believes every word or he would not say it. You can’t find a decent answer. You doubt there is one.

“It kinda freaks me out,” you say. You strum your fingers because your hands are getting clammy on the wheel.

“Freaks you out?” Chan asks, looking at your hands then your face.

“I’ve always been very… restrained. At least as far as I can remember. I don’t let people in. With you—” You look at each other across the car. “It’s like I don’t have to try to let you in. You’re already there.” You look back at the road, releasing a shuddering breath. “It makes it easy to feel things I usually wouldn’t, or to do things I usually wouldn’t do.”

You think about that first clumsy kiss, how badly the need consumed you when you never cared about kissing before. You think about everything you are feeling right now, looking at him, sprawled in the passenger seat.

“I’m not used to trusting people this way,” you say.

He puts a hand on your knee. It is a comforting touch.

“It’s not quite a joke that I’m a little insane,” you continue. “I’m in pieces up there. I know that. I also know that when we’re together, it feels—”

You cut yourself off. There is no word to describe it.

“Yeah,” he says anyway. “It does. I know.”

The conversation reaches its soft conclusion just in time. You have reached your destination.

This city is a veritable concrete jungle. You can only go so far off the beaten path, so this place is more of a hotel than a motel. The building is configured in a towering horseshoe, wrapping around the small parking lot where you and Chan sit in a quiet car. You stare up at the building, most windows dark with the late hour. You have some time before dawn.

“Are you tired?” you ask.

His hand is still on your leg. You sit very straight when it moves, gliding inward, curving around your inner thigh. His gaze rests there until you look at him, then his eyes flick up to yours. He holds the eye contact as his pinky brushes the fly of your uniform pants.

“No,” he says. “I’m not tired. The opposite, really.”

“Still feel like a fight?” you ask, voice a little breathier.

“Maybe,” he says, dimple appearing with his smile. “What did you have in mind?”

You slam Chan onto his back in the middle of the training mat.

The hotel has a small gym, though it is closed after hours. The building has minimal security and no one on patrol. It is easy enough to rework the security camera so it plays a loop of a previous ten-minute interval, making the room look empty to anyone who deigns to double-check. It is on the underground level, below all the rooms, so it won’t wake anyone up.

Daylight is hours away. You have plenty of time to tire out that relentless adrenaline.

“Not bad,” Chan says, letting his head drop back. He laughs which is not the usual response from an opponent on their back. Of course, he is not a usual opponent and he never has been.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, grinning at you with far too much cheek. Teasingly patronizing, he says, “Ya get in a little more practice, buddy, and you’ll almost be as good as me.”

You shove him down again. He goes without a fight, just a little oof, giggling as he lands on his back again. You move from straddling his legs to hovering above his abdomen, knees planted on either side of him.

“You’re holding back,” you say.

“Yeah, ‘course I am,” he answers simply.

There is a little tussle between your hands as he tries to grab your waist and you shoo at him. He gets past in the end, gripping your hips and moving you like you are weightless. Even your clenching muscles do little to stop him, a startled breath spilling out of your lips as he moves you a little lower. Now his hips are between your thighs and it is easy for him to bring your body down while he rolls up.

You are in your compression shirts and bulky combat pants. It means his hands feel hot on your waist, the touch immediate through the thin material, but there is a substantial layer between your lower halves.

You still feel him, half-hard since you dragged him out of the car with a sparkle in your eye. You both know where this is heading, speaking in that silent conversation you mastered in just a few short days. He just needs to smile a particular smile and something inside you sparks.

You lean forward, planting your palms on the floor. It puts a slope in your spine, his hands feeling the curve of your hips as his playful gaze darkens, shadowed in the concentration of his brow. You bring yourself down just enough to touch, the material of your pants crinkling where you press together, but nonetheless feeling him against you as you slowly drag your body along his.

“What if…” you say, your gazes locked, “I don’t hold back?”

His eyes roam your face. He puts his tongue in his cheek, looking thoughtful with the quirk of his eyebrow. After a thoroughly studious moment, he meets your gaze again.

“You’d be at a disadvantage,” he says. “I’ve seen you fight without holding back. I know all your tricks.”

“What? In the ring?” you ask. “I wasn’t at full strength then.”

“No,” he says, voice a little lower. “Before that. We’ve fought before. I promise, you came at me with everything.”

You can tell from his face that the memory is not so pleasant. No, not at all. Yet he is very preoccupied with the pleasure around him right now, the tantalizing taste of it, your body in his hands, your face so close to his. You keep looking at his mouth and he keeps looking at yours.

“Everything,” you say. “I see.” Your brush your nose against his and it is so sickeningly sweet that it shocks him more than a smack. His eyes get wide and you get the upper hand, grabbing his wrists and pinning them beside his head. “And did I win that fight?” you ask.

His hips rear up. With a sharp buck, he moves you, gets his hands free. In a spin too fast to compute, and a flail of muscles you can’t hope to overpower, you end up on your back.

Chan pins you down, hips still between your thighs, both your wrists clasped in one of his hands. He pushes them above your head and holds them there, then he swoops down so his mouth floats just above yours.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I think,” you say, remarkably coherent considering the proximity of his mouth, “that last time we truly fought, we probably didn’t have a choice.” You wrap your legs around his waist and he lets go of your wrists. You put your hands on his shoulders. “This time, we do. And this time—” You snap up, knocking heads, startling him. “I’m asking you not to hold back.”

In his surprised distraction, you roll out from under him then spring to your feet.

“This time, you have a choice,” you finish.

He turns onto his back, sitting with one knee curled up to his chest, the other leg stretched in front of him. It is a casual pose, looking to all the world like a normal young man for just a second as he sits and lounges and considers you.

Then he stands. He holds your gaze captive in his own, his eyes a slash of heated determination.

“You sure that’s what you want?” he asks.

“You know it is,” you say without hesitation. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“All right,” he says, lip quirking into a half-smirk before he wipes his face to a stern neutrality. “Let’s fight.”

You circle each other, measuring, walking the perimeter of the square mat.

“Don’t underestimate me,” you taunt. “Believe me, bigger men have tried.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, shrugging one shoulder in a casual stretch. “I watched you shoot your daddy off a roof. It would be stupid to think like him, no?”

You are not expecting him to take the bait so unflinchingly. It makes your heart skip beats, adrenaline already spiking before the fight has even begun.

Chan still looks nonchalant, like he is waiting for a conversation rather than an altercation.

He is like you. A part of him is always braced for a fight. It’s never really over. You can’t control it.

You can control this. You can hand yourself over, willingly, safely, and for the first time he can let this scene play out the way he wants.

He strikes first, anticipating you are too smart to make the first move. His primary feints are predictable, the initial throws little more than empty threats. He is not holding back on defense, effortlessly dodging your retaliation, but his offense is still restrained.

You get him behind the knee. Your arms lock and you swing around, footwork frantic in its quick shuffle across the mat. You manage to get your hands around his neck as you sweep a leg out from under him. He barely stops his descent, twisted at an awkward angle.

“I told you,” you say, panting, your breath fluttering through his hair. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be,” he says.

He pulls himself out of the vulnerable position with a degree of strength that only the First Guard could possess. He turns you with a single-handed yank, then his whole arm is around your neck and your back is trapped against his front. He drops onto his knees and takes you with him, letting you struggle to no avail in his one-armed hold. His other hand comes up to your face with an almost tenderness, fingers brushing your forehead, knuckles sweeping your cheek.

“But I know you’re not,” he says. “You’re as crazy as me, right?”

He pushes forward, lays down with you pinned under him. His arm is still around your neck, bicep at your throat, his hips rocking into yours with blatant suggestion.

His lips brush your ear. It makes every part of you get tight with anticipation, even your eyes squeezing closed, your throat cloying, breath catching.

“You’re not like most people anymore,” he asks. “Daddy’s girl prefers a monster, doesn’t she?”

His free hand works its way between your body and the mat, tugging at your pants with more dexterity than his brute strength would suggest. He gets the waistband low on your hips, gets the zipper all the way down, and fits his hand inside.

Your hips buck instinctively, at first away, then giving into his palm when he grinds it against you through your underthings.

“Hmmph,” he says, a bit of a laugh, finding you wet through the fabric. “That was easy, huh?”

You do have a strategy, despite what he thinks, hoping to lure him into letting his guard down when he shifts focus.

Unfortunately, that is easier said than done. You are used to disregarding your body’s cries, but that is when it screams in pain. As it turns out, pleasure is harder to ignore.

When he touches you, even with a barrier in the way, it is like something primal speaks to something raw and needy inside you. You see stars, either from his grip, the tightly pinned position, or the way it doesn’t even matter there is fabric between you and his fingers because it is so wet that it feels like he is touching you directly – and it feels so good that you want to bury your face in the mat and forget about everything else.

“You’re not seriously trying to make me come,” you say, voice rough if not still taunting. “How is that a plan?”

“That’s not the plan,” he says, but he doesn’t stop rubbing torturous circles, doesn’t do anything when you shudder under him. “The plan is to fuck you, right here, right now.” He presses his hips into yours, makes sure you can feel the weight of his promise. “And I’m not stopping until all these little noises turn into you finally begging for my mercy.”

“Oh,” you gasp, thoughtlessly, not thinking straight on the cusp of an orgasm. “Fuck.”

“Say that one more time?” he says. “What do you want me to do?”

He kisses the back of your neck. It’s worth a thousand words.

“Fuck,” you say, though it comes out like a squeak. All that pleasure crests with his kiss, chaste and short as it is. You throb against his fingers, that aching desire lingering even after he takes his hand back.

You just barely seize control of your faculties when he lets go, leaving you sprawled facedown so he can kneel behind you. He has your pants worked partway down your backside when you manage to throw an elbow back. True to your words, you don’t hold back, winding him long enough to work yourself free.

You don’t get far. You are back on your feet for only seconds before he is on you. He lets you get a few jabs in, then his hand is around your throat and he is walking you backwards into the wall.

Even so, he holds up a hand, cupping your head so it doesn’t hit the wall with any force.

“You wanted to fight,” he says, keeping that grip on your throat as he turns you around, your palms and cheeks to the wall. He drops his other hand, working your pants the rest of the way down your thighs. “You lost,” he says. “Now be a good girl, bend over and take it. I know you can.”

It is hard to think when he starts fucking you. Your mind often drifted during sex, even good sex, thinking about the next act or even what you would be doing later. Despite your life being even more complicated now, you can’t think about anything else when he is inside you.

You can’t do anything about your mind, but your body is a different story, as it seems to open for him in a way you did not know was possible. You don’t think anyone else ever held your throat so right, ever kept such a secure hold, ever felt so good draped over you while finding somewhere inside you that made your whole body sing.

“Chan,” you whisper, voice already shot.

“Mm,” is his grunt of a reply.

His pants are unzipped, slung slow, but not as low as yours so the material is rough against your bare skin. You feel hot. I is a relief when his hands start to gather your tight shirt and lift.

You let him, though it means he pulls out for a second, getting his balance as you adjust.

You take the opportunity and get away, even though you are more than half-naked with your upper layers removed and your pants partially down. You yank them back up, panting as you cross the room.

He laughs, tugging up his own pants again. His tongue is basically hanging out of his mouth, but he is not short of breath. He runs his hands through his hair as he crosses the mat, every inch of him confident and determined.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

His swings are taunting, you realize, faking when he is going to grab you, making it impossible to tell when he will.

“You think you can get away that easy?” he asks.

It breaks the scene a little, or maybe makes it better, but you smile just a bit. It is genuine, but it doesn’t distract him for long. You get one good punch before he is dragging you both to the ground again. He puts you on your back with a breathless shove, straddles your waist and grips both your hands in one of his.

“Ah-uh-uh,” he says, grabbing your jaw with the other hand. It stops your squirming, his thumb circling your lips. He taps your cheek with the suggestion of a slap, just enough your heart kicks faster even while everything else gets softer. “That’s better,” he says. “Very good. I got you. Who needs a daddy like that when you got me?”

“Jesus,” you say, with a small helpless laugh. “I don’t think we have time to unpack all that.”

He laughs too. He halts himself by jabbing his tongue into his cheek while he shakes his head at you.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” he says. It feels like his hands are everywhere, waking every nerve as he skims your waist and front. He cups the curve of your chest, tormenting you, far too swiftly pushing all your most sensitive buttons.

You are squirming again, bucking under him while he moves his mouth over you, lips and teeth and tongue, marking his path. He goes lower, then flips you in a quick manoeuvre, your clothes just as quickly lowered. His mouth is on you from behind, then his fingers, so much of his hand, up on knee behind you with his arm flexing in each downward thrust.

“You’re not even trying,” he says. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

You make a sound, halfway between a grunt and a moan. Resisting him is not easy but it has nothing to do with his strength and everything to do with your resolve. You want his hands and mouth and everything else, want to lay there like that while he takes you apart and puts you back together again. You want to remove all your armour.

He gets you off with his hand, works you open so thoroughly that when he lets go, you are left clenching and trembling with need for more. He gets the rest of your clothes off, takes a second to remove his shirt. In that second, you get on shaking legs.

You already know you won’t get far. Even when you throw your head back, knocking into his, you expect him to recalibrate faster. He is behind you, shirtless and hot and hungry, his pants low, every muscle throbbing and aching with the same exertion as yours.

“Not so fast,” he says.

He turns you to face him and picks you up like it’s nothing. He lines you up with the precision of an unfaltering marksman and gets back inside you by bringing your body down onto his cock. The swiftness and ungiving strength is a surprise in itself, a yelp squeaking its way past your lips as he fucks you in his arms, in the air, using nothing else for support.

With no other leverage, you can only cling to him, just him, filling the space of this room with everything he is, filling all those empty places inside you and making you feel fully satisfied for the first time that you can remember.

He gets on his knees after a bit, not so much from tired muscles as sheer desire, wanting you in a better position so he can really fuck you. On your back then side then front, his arm across your shoulder blades as he holds you down and drives into you with all those pent-up feelings.

His hand is on the nape of your neck when he comes, not pressing or squeezing, just holding you there. He doesn’t hold back in the pursuit of pleasure, lets himself feel it all, makes a sound you want to always remember as he drapes himself over your back.

The world is quiet in the comedown, just the sound of heavy breathing. A little laughter when he kisses your neck.

You are not sure if your aches and pains are from the earlier confrontation or from that exchange, and that makes everything hurt less, subsumed in the memory of something better, those bad feelings strangled by the good.

You get back to the room and shower. You keep your hands off each other long enough to get clean, but no longer than that. When you are back in the bed, supposedly to sleep, he is back on top of you and you are pulling him into you. It’s different than downstairs, but also the same, you and him, whatever that means or will mean. He says your name while he fucks you, slower and so deliberate with every breath and bite and kiss.

He lets you roll him over, put him on his back, lets you sit on top of him and take control for precious moments. He doesn’t last long like that, staring up at you, bare face screwed up with pleasure and desire. His lips form the shape of your name even when he can’t find his voice anymore.

“Please,” he finally speaks again. You’re not sure what he’s really begging for, but you give him what you have and it must be enough for now.

He sits upright before he comes, wraps his arms all the way around you and holds you tight while rocking up into you.

“Please,” he says again, eyes closed, leaning his face into your hands when you run your fingers through his hair. He is already sweating again, his face hot under your hands. You hold the back of his neck, keep him pressed against you, his face against your shoulder.

“It’s okay,” you say on an exhale. “I got you.”

A shiver moves down his spine. He rears up hard, digs his fingers into you with a possessive need, and comes with your name on his lips.

It is tempting to sleep through the day, but every second of every minute is imperative. As each day passes, there are less hours until Changbin is potentially relocated or put through experimental testing far more grueling than what has so far been described. An overslept morning could be the difference between finding your friend or not.

Despite a lingering soreness – not all of it strictly unpleasant – you climb out of bed to dress for the day. Chan stirs when you do, like always, though he allows himself a moment of uncharacteristic lethargy. He groans when you open the curtains and the sunlight slashes across his sleepy, squinting eyes.

“Rise and shine,” you say. “We have a lot of reading to do.”

The heavy research element of strategizing is hardly ever glamourized the way a good right cross can be. That is probably fair. It is far less exciting to sit around a table for hours, a pot of coffee between you, skimming line after line.

“I want to go back over everything from before,” you say, to a bleary-eyed Chan who has only had a few sips of coffee and still looks like he has one foot in slumber. He really looks so different when scrubbed clean, face so soft and open. His curly hair is a bit of a mop, a messy tendril falling over his forehead as he leans down to look at some text. His flannel is buttoned askew and you have to resist reaching out and fixing it.

“Are we looking for something in particular?” he asks. “You said Felix mentioned a prisoner.”

“Mm,” you say, already diving into research. Some of it is physical paperwork that you pilfered but most of it is stored on your stolen tablets. You rifle through papers and scroll at the same time.

“And what is that?” he prompts. He shoves a coffee cup at you for good measure.

You sit straighter to take a sip.

“Right,” you say. “I just have this feeling in my gut. I’ve had it since last night. Really unsettled and uneasy. It doesn’t feel like general anxiety or anticipation, not like bracing for a fight. It feels like – it feels like it does when I remember things, small things, in confusing fragments.”

He straightens at that. You have not told him much about the dreams. He knows that you have nightmares, obviously, as he is the one tending to you when you inevitably wake from them. You have not spoken the details aloud, though. Some of those images are horrendous. Speaking them makes it tangible in a whole new horrifying way. To compound it, articulating the jumbled fragments conjured by your subconscious is a trying endeavour, to say the very fucking least.

“Just…” You take a breath, shake your head. “Just look for any mentions of a white room.”

“A white room?” he repeats. “That might be a little vague, don’t you think? Lots of labs and rooms are white and kinda sterile?”

You are not entirely sure if the picture in your head is a true memory or a fabrication, perhaps one exacerbated by some similar but buried recollection. You just know that picture is vivid, terrifyingly evocative. You can see it so clearly. That room is beyond sterile; it is washed completely white. It is a bone scraped clean. Not a scrap of humanity clings to the surface.

Your perspective revolves around the room. You are in the middle of it. No windows, no visible doors. No way in or out. It feels like absolutely nothing came before it, and nothing more could come after it. It is the opposite the Cell which was a pitch black torture room. Confined, endless in its depth. This is huge and blinding white brightness. It makes the dark feel like a comfort.

You slip so far into that white expanse, you forget where you are. For a second, you are there, like you never left. It’s all you see.

“Whoa, whoa—” Chan’s voice yanks you firmly back to reality.

You realize only then that you are tearing up, one lone tear escaping down your cheek. You have no idea why you would be crying. The pain does not come from somewhere you can pinpoint. It’s a hollow ache, like an echo of someone else’s pain.

Chan is poised to stand, tense where he sits across the table. He looks at you with justified concern.

You wipe your tear quickly, shake your head and take command of your body again. You sit straighter, shuffle some papers and clear your throat.

“The white room,” you say. “Or any white room that stands out as peculiar. Felix said a prisoner was there, presumably semi-recently because he was still shaken from it. He described it as worse – worse than the holding cell at the military base. It makes me think it could be something worth looking into. If it’s worse than the usual holding cells, and if it required so much clearance that neither of us have heard of it, then it might be somewhere that Miroh held higher risk enemy prisoners. Changbin fits that description.”

Chan releases a breath of his own.

“It’s a good enough lead for me,” he says. “Better than the big fat nothing otherwise.”

Though his words are confident, he still looks at you warily. You don’t completely blame him. You would be equally startled if he began crying for no seeming reason.

“It’s fine,” you say, as reassuringly as possible.

“You were crying,” he says, tone a bit dry.

“I just…” You shake your head. “I just don’t want to make this about me right this second. This is about Changbin. It has to be about him.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “White room. Research. Changbin. Got it.”

You get to work with minimal interruption after that, stopping only to get some food then continue.

Before, you were looking for descriptions that fit Seo Changbin specifically. Prisoner transport, asset delivery, any movement between bases and facilities. Now you are just looking for a room, anything that matches the description. From there, you analyze its recent activity to see if it fits the timeline.

One mention seems to fit the bill. The description of the white room is vague but the closest match so far. The recent incident also matches the story that Felix gave you. It describes a prisoner who was recently held, some low level gangster who ran jobs for Miroh but tried to sell information to some competitors and was subsequently brought to heel. Records show he was recently relocated. He was removed from the white room because a higher priority asset needed storing.

The timeline works. Changbin would be a priority above anything or anyone else, a unique soldier and the biggest danger to the operation. It makes sense he would be a held in a bunker so secret that not even two top clearance agents like you and Chan would know about it.

This went all the way up to Miroh.

“Definitely the best lead we’ve had in a while,” Chan says, scanning the document in front of him. “Explains why there’s no trace of him at the places that would usually make sense.”

“Yeah,” you say, an edge of frustration to your tone. “The only problem is where the fuck is this place.”

You can picture it in your mind, but it is just a blank room. It could be in any building in any city.

Even though you have tracked and traced every mention of this elusive room, its precise location has not been disclosed or even hinted in any document. Its vague existence is referenced here and there, and even then only in the most classified briefings. Wherever the intel is hiding, it’s even higher classification. The kind of thing that Miroh would have overseen personally, like the First Guard’s operations.

“This secret could’ve died with my father,” you say. You picture his broken body in a heap at the base of a building with his name on it. You picture Changbin in a similar heap and it makes your stomach turn.

“There’s people keeping these logs,” Chan reasons. “They’re clearly still working. If we can figure out who they are, then maybe—”

“And how long is that gonna take without my father’s clearance?” you ask, letting that frustration burst out of you. It feels like he is back, like he never really left, your father lurking around every corner and putting obstacles in your path. Every step forward, he yanks you back.

You thought you ran off his map but maybe you have been confined in a single room this entire time.

“We’re back to square one,” you say. “He is the only one who had all the answers.”

“It’s still a good start,” Chan says, trying to sound more comforting than argumentative.

“What if we don’t get the information in time?” you ask. “Or spend all this time chasing it and it isn’t even the right place? Or it is the right place but he isn’t in it at all. And then he gets moved anyway and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Chan says for the second time today.

It has grown marginally easier to temper your most volatile emotions, corralling them like you would an animal. It is still uncomfortable, this out of control feeling, watching that animal ran rampant with no clue how to truly tame it for good. It is unpredictable at the best of times.

“All right,” Chan says.

He goes to the sink at the little kitchenette while you prop your aching head in your hand. He pours some water into a glass and brings it to you. He kneels down, pats your knee consolingly while handing you the water.

You take the glass, cool in your palm. Your waking thoughts and half-reminiscences float in a swirling vision in the blaring expanse of your mind.

You put the drink down.

You have been skirting the edges of one report. Since learning the reconfiguration was about you and not Chan, you have not really touched the files. In some ways, you hardly need to revise them, as the evocative images are still so clear. Some of that might be your own memories, peeling off the walls of your mind in broken scraps.

You have not returned to the file. Not until now.

You do what you should done when the instinct first struck. There is a connection between you and this room and there is no use denying it. Maybe you can use it for something good instead of just more hurt.

Chan looks at you with continued concern, still on one knee in front of you. You skim the reconfiguration report, looking for the description of a white room, ignoring everything else.

Unsurprisingly, you find it. It is such an innocuous description, noted in the footnotes. You would have skipped right past it when reading the first time. It is the kind of thing anyone would skip over if they were not looking for it.

It appears you were brought to the white room – which they call the downtime room – after the major reconfiguration tactics were administered. It was used as a resting place, or a holding cell, or something. Somewhere quiet and empty where you were left to rot, consciousness no doubt seeping out of your ears.

You would have already been out of your mind. The transport route would not have registered to you.

So you would be willing to bet they did not try to obfuscate or hide it from you. Not in that state.

“Maybe we do know someone,” you say, “who knows where the room is.”

You look down at Chan, his eyes still full of concern. It is shadowed with the crease of his brow, obvious confusion taking over his face.

“Who?” he asks.

Your heart is racing, and maybe breaking, because you don’t want to see that face filled with pain again.

“Me,” you say.

It takes a second to land. He blinks at you then shakes his head, smiles like he is laughing at himself for misunderstanding. He looks up at you, hopefully.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “You think you know where it is?”

“In a way,” you say. You glance at the text, finding it hard to hold his gaze. “They brought me there when it was over. According to the reconfiguration notes, I’ve been there a few times over the years, during the sessions where they, uh, fixed me again.”

You try to laugh but nothing is funny anymore. Chan slowly stands and your gaze lifts to him. He doesn’t look away from you for a second.

“I don’t really follow,” he says, but you think he does.

“I think it’s in my buried memories,” you clarify, once and for all. “If I can access them, maybe I can find out for sure. Maybe we can find the room. Maybe we can find Changbin.”

“Okaaay…” He finally turns away. He paces a little, crosses the kitchenette. He rakes his fingers through his messy hair. “Okay,” he says again, does a little jump and shakes out his limbs like he is warming himself up for something intense. He looks at you, finally. “Um, look, not that I don’t want you to get your memories back, I mean – sure. Great. You know? But, uh, how exactly do you intend to do that?”

That is the crux of it. That is why your stomach is turning over itself, your heart splitting. That is why Chan is looking at you like that, braced for the absolute worst even though you haven’t said any of it out loud.

“The report says that too much recollection at once can trigger a breakdown,” you start.

“Okay,” he interrupts. “Breakdowns are not good, though. You know that, right? Like, I don’t have to explain how you having a massive breakdown would be a very bad thing?”

“Maybe,” you say. “Maybe not.”

“M-maybe not?” he repeats, eyes wide. He comes back to the table and sits down. He grabs your hand that is loosely resting over the report. “Baby,” he says. “I told you before, hurting yourself won’t save him.”

“This is not the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. You let him squeeze your hand again, a silent pleading in that mute conversation you exchange with your eyes.

You try to smile. It still doesn’t come easily. You wonder if it ever really did.

“In my dreams, there’s a lot of cold water,” you say. “I feel like I’m lost in a current, getting thrown every which way. I see flashes of memories. They don’t feel like me anymore, but I’m in the middle of them, like if I just reach out my hand I can grab them and put them back inside me.”

You look at that cold glass of water. You extract your hand from Chan’s grip and gently wrap your fingers around the glass.

“I get them sometimes even when I’m not sleeping,” you continue. “I know it’s all in there. And I know it all started because of Changbin. He smashed through that glass, Chan, and now it’s all pouring out and taking me with it. I can’t just swim back and seal myself inside again. Maybe the way out is through.”

“What exactly do you want to do?” he asks.

“I want to put my mind back there,” you say. “I want to feel everything I have been running from. All the bad. All the anger. All the fear. I don’t know if it will work. Maybe nothing will happen and I won’t remember a thing. Maybe it will get worse and I’ll forget even more.” He winces at that, his shoulders dropping. You let go of the glass and touch him. “But there’s a difference this time,” you say. “I’m doing this by choice. I’m doing this with you. I trust you with everything that I am.”

“And what exactly,” he says even slower, “do you want me to do?”

“I can’t exactly drown myself,” you say.

He gets quickly to his feet and turns away, rubbing his face. You stand as well, your chair scraping across the hotel room floor.

“Drown,” Chan says, seemingly talking to the air because he doesn’t look at you. “Drown,” he repeats. “You want me to – you want me to drown you. Drown you?”

He spins around to face you, expression contorted with horror, hurt, and anger.

“How can you—” he says. “How can I—”

You step around the table and approach him slowly. He doesn’t balk or push you away, though he is breathing heavily. His skin is warm, even through his flannel when you lay a hand on his chest. You guide him a little closer.

“Like last night,” you say. “It’s different, Chan. It’s you. It’s me.”

“This is insane,” he says. “What if it doesn’t work, like you said? What if you get worse? What if—”

“I’m not leaving him behind,” you say. You picture Changbin on that roof, clasping your hand. That scarred palm is resting on Chan now. You turn it over and look at it, his eyes straying there too. “I don’t know what happened before,” you say. “I don’t know what will happen in the future. But right now, my friend is sitting somewhere and he thinks he’s alone. But he’s not. I’m not. You’re not.” Your voice gets shaky. Those tears come back, pouring from somewhere buried inside you, cold and rough as it comes out of you. “This is my choice,” you say. “I want to do this. I’m not scared.”

“I know,” he says. He releases a breath and drops forward. He wraps his arms around you and presses his forehead to yours. “That’s why you terrify me.”

You laugh through your tears, wrapping your arms around him too.

“I’m insane,” you say. “Might as well use it to our advantage.”

“You’re lucky I’m insane too,” he says.

He speaks with a lighter voice. When you withdraw, his face screws up with sadness and he pulls you back.

“Just – a little longer,” he says, cupping the back of your head and putting it on his shoulder. You can’t see his face like that and you think that’s the point, knowing he’s crying just by the way his chest rises and falls. “Just – just a second,” he says. “Please.”

Oh, maybe that was his pleading last night. Just a little longer.

“Okay,” you say. You hug him tightly. The back of his stolen shirt crinkles in your hands. You have nothing to your name, but you have each other, and you hold on tight for as long as you possibly can.

You get ice from the hotel machine, bucket after bucket dumped in the bathtub. Chan starts running cold water while you strip down to your underclothes and a t-shirt. You sit on the bed, listening to the water in the other room, closing your eyes and fighting to recall all those fragments. They are all sharp to the touch, jagged edges, truly like shattered glass. If you touch the memory at the wrong angle, it makes you bleed with an agonizing pain.

Your hands are already shaking. You put them between your knees, trying to steady to them. You look at the sunlight coming through the window. You remind yourself this is not like those dank, dark rooms. This is not Miroh. Everything has changed.

The water stops running. Chan appears in the main room again. He looks as wan and sick as you feel, but he nods resolutely, sharp as a salute.

“Ready when you are,” he says.

You stand and follow him into the bathroom. The tub is filled to the brim with ice cold water. It looks nothing like that dark and dirty well in the facility, but a chill moves down your spine nonetheless. You see that well, remember peering down in the darkness. It looked like it never ended. You can see the bottom of the tub through the ice.

Just like last night, you told Chan, reminding him of every chase and fight between you. You put yourself very literally in his hands, just like you are doing now. It was a recreation of real danger, just like now. But it was safe, and you were fine, just like now, just like you will be.

He drags the footstool from the chair in the main room, places it beside the tub. He sits there, one hand swirling around in the water to get used to it. You can see him shiver.

You stand over him, looking down at the water, at his hand moving around and around. He looks up at you.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

“I know,” you say. You reach down and touch the water too. It is so cold that it burns. You are built to withstand extremities, so this will not have the same lasting damage that it would on a regular person, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt the same way.

You straighten. Your fingers tingle, dripping cold.

“I’m going to try and fight you,” you remind him. “It’s just instinct. You have to keep me down there, take me right to the edge, as far as you possibly can, then bring me back up. You have the timer ready?”

He is going to push you to the limit, again and again, replicating the drowning torture in a hope it will tap into the part of your brain that correlates those memories with that feeling. He is to do it within a certain timeframe or until you pass out, whichever happens first. After that, you will take a few hours to recuperate. If it doesn’t work, you will try one more time later tonight. After that, you have to consider it a failure because he isn’t doing it a third time. You agreed.

He nods a bit too emphatically now, clearly wracked with nerves. He stripped down to a sleeveless shirt so you wouldn’t be grabbing the flannel sleeve when you inevitably start to fight back. It will be the body’s response to attempted drowning. It’s why you can’t do this to yourself. It’s why no one else could possibly do it to you, because you would overpower them.

Besides, there is no one you trust like Chan. You put a hand on his shoulder and remind him of that fact.

“I trust you,” you say. “Whatever happens—”

“Don’t say goodbye to me,” he says, his eyes lowered, gaze far away.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. You are utterly rapt, looking down at him, at where he wanders deep into his thoughts. He pulls himself out eventually and lifts his head, gazes up at you.

“You said goodbye once before,” he says. “You’re not doing it again. You’re going to come back to me, okay? In – in any condition.” He sucks in several jagged breaths as he visibly tears up, words escaping on a gasping stutter. “I – I – I don’t care if you never get better, yeah?” he says. “I don’t care if we’re messy and dealing with this for the rest of our lives. Just come back to me, okay? Just – just promise you’ll come back.”

You pull him against you, let him bury his face against your middle while he breathes hard. He holds you for another long moment then composes himself, surfacing with a deep, heaving breath. He shakes his head then nods towards the tub.

“All right,” he says. “I got you. Always.”

“I know,” you say. You touch his face, tilt it up to look at you. “Thank you, Chan. Chris. Everyone you are. For everything you’ve done.”

“You know, you’re actually the only one who refused to call me Chris,” he says, laughing through his tears. “I think you just did it to annoy me.”

“I am pretty annoying,” you say, gesturing the tub.

“Definitely not the time for jokes,” he says, but laughs a little anyway.

You pat his cheek, give him one last watery smile, then you step into the tub.

Even that first descent is a mind-numbing shock. Inch by inch you submerse yourself, feeling like you are sinking into a tub filled with all those sharp, jagged edges of glass. You look down, panicking for half a second because the water is swirling red and pink. It makes no sense but you must be literally bleeding.

Then the image splinters and you realize you are not bleeding, not now. You are remembering a different motel tub – your blood swirling in a pool at your feet moments before Chan walked in and scooped you up, carrying you to safety.

He is still here now. He says your name. He says, “Easy. You’re okay. You’re safe, all right?”

You nod, closing your eyes. You listen to his voice. Maybe it is the sound, or maybe the physical pain, but a rush of tears are already rising to your eyes. They stab as ferociously, pouring down your face. It feels so hot compared to the water of the tub, almost like a stream of blood.

“It’s okay,” Chan is saying. “I’m going to grab you now, okay?”

You nod, eyes still screwed shut. His hand comes around your neck, just a gentle grip at first, letting you get used to it. You have felt that touch a few times now. It sends a familiar spark of heat shooting through you. You remember your name on his gasping lips, remember his mouth open on yours. You remember that dream of a kiss, warmer, hotter, more loving than anything you had ever encountered before. Your first real kiss. You see it for a moment, see him, younger, looking at you with hopeful anticipation as your eyes flutter open.

“Chan,” you say.

“It’s me,” he says, tightening his grip on your neck. “I got you. I’m right here. I’ll count you in, then it’s up to you. But I have you, all right? You’re safe.”

Your eyes are closed, but you still see him, young and smiling softly. His hand is on your face, warm where your tears fall.

“Three,” he says. “Two. One.”

It crashes over your head, a torrent of freezing water. You scream in the darkness, flailing desperately, but the well is narrow and you only succeed in bruising yourself when you try to splay your limbs out.

The darkness is not a void, not pure pitch, but cast with a pearly, luminescent sheen. It starts to swirl into a dizzying mess the longer you are down there. Then it starts to fade, true darkness creeping in at the corners.

You are yanked out abruptly. There is light, hot and sickly yellow, burning on your ice cold skin.

“Stop,” Chan is saying, crying, a blubbering mess that makes him sounds ten years younger. He is already young. He’s barely past eighteen. “Please,” he says. “This is my fault, don’t—”

You open your eyes to look at him. It feels like peeling skin off iced metal, your eyelids fighting every inch of the way. But you manage, barely, looking at him through the water dripping off your forehead.

He is prostrate on the floor, completely horizontal, a short chain around his neck clipped to a hook on the ground. He can’t even turn his head. He can only stare ahead at you, staring back at him.

There is something around your neck too. It keeps you in a strangled state even though you are out of the water. The vice tightens when you aren’t floating, so you don’t really get a proper breath of air. In fact, you’re not sure if it’s worse in or out of the water.

You don’t have much time to think about it, because you are plunged back in, the sound of his shouting disappearing in the blurring whirl of bubbling water.

You are yanked back out, and you are grown, in a hotel bathtub, gasping and clawing at the feeling around your neck. You get a breath, only just, then you are back underwater.

You see Chan again, grown, in that hotel gym last night. You feel him, hot and heavy, holding you tight against his body. You roll out from under him, jump to your feet. He laughs and smiles, you smile back, and you run at each other. You raise your fist to throw a punch you know he can deflect—

Except he doesn’t. The punch lands and it lands hard. He falls onto his back and there is no training mat to soften the impact. He smashes down onto a concrete floor and you just watch. There is a sickening crack, and it objectively grosses you out, watching him cry out in pain. But you don’t feel anything, do you? No. You just know you have to fight him. You just know he is everything that is causing you pain. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. He’s the reason you’re here. He’s the reason everything feels like ice.

“Stop,” he says, pushing himself up despite the blood slipping down his face. It isn’t the first hit. You’ve already broken his nose. You’re not sure if his face is red because of you or because he won’t stop crying, as if this isn’t all his fault. “You don’t want to do this,” he says. “You don’t want to hurt me. You don’t, you can’t—”

You run at him again and he finally defends himself. He doesn’t attack, but he blocks shot after shot, letting you move around the fighting space. It looks like a cage, or a prison. Someone is watching on the other side.

“With a daddy like that—” Chan teases, and you laugh on the hotel mat.

You don’t land on a mat. You land on the floor when Chan sweeps too hard and knocks you down. He panics, immediately drops down beside you to check that you are all right. You slam your fist between his eyes.

“She’ll kill you if I ask,” your father says, circling the iron bars, watching Chan as he backs up like he is watching a wild animal. You might as well be, running on pure instinct, watching with predatory eyes as he backs right up to the bars.

Your father stands behind him.

“You will, won’t you?” Miroh asks you. “If I put you on a mission right now. You’d do exactly what I say. You’d even hurt him.”

“This isn’t you,” Chan says, ignoring him, looking at you, though nothing is gazing back. He says your name and it might as well be a made-up word for all that it is meaningless.

You’re Miroh’s daughter. Nothing else matters.

“I’d fight back if I were you,” Miroh says, patting Chan on the head before simply striding away. Over his shoulder, he says, “It’s you or her. The choice is yours.”

You run straight at Chan. His eyes get wide and he throws his hand out to stop you.

It catches you around the neck and you are drawn out of the water. Hot yellow lights, hotel gold, then back under again.

You are swinging back, throwing a punch, but you’re not fighting Chan. It’s someone in a mask, his face fully covered. You push and kick and punch, going around and around in circles, a perfect match like you were built exactly the same way by exactly the same person.

Felix takes off the mask and disappears over the balcony railing. You chase him and he swings back up, kicking off your mask. It clatters across the metal walkway. You tackle him and you both fall off the balcony edge.

You land on your back. Felix is on top of you, reeling back his arm. You dodge the punch, rolling out from under him. You are both younger, both in the black uniform of Miroh.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. “Felix, it didn’t have to be this way. I could’ve helped you. I’m on your side.”

“I can’t afford sides,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “I need to get out of here. Chris needs to get out of here. If you care about him—”

“You don’t know the first thing about that,” you snap.

Your emotions make you clumsy. Felix easily catches your flying fist and twists it around. Your whole body follows, then the ground is rushing up to meet you.

There is blackness all around you, whether your eyes are opened or closed. You jump when a hand reaches through the dark. You reach out too, trace your fingers over a familiar brow, down a cheek, his jaw, his neck.

“Chan?” you say.

“I’m here,” he says, wiping your tears, comforting you. “I’m always here. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Then his hand is gone. His face disappears. You swing your hand through the shadows and scream his name but he isn’t there anymore.

You’re completely alone in the darkness.

An earth-shattering eruption shudders all around you, blowing through the black with a burst of grey fog. When it settles, you are in a warehouse, the wooden ceiling partially obliterated from the explosion. You are trapped under rubble, only alive because you managed to fall in a slight dip so the concrete block across your body is not fully crushing you.

It will, though. You can’t breathe. Your chest is being compressed and you are dizzy, your ears ringing, and you can’t hope to budge the concrete block at this vantage. Even though you are stronger than other normal eighteen year olds, you are not fully superhuman. Maybe Chan could move it, but Chan is gone. Your father’s men grabbed him. That was the last thing you saw before the explosion.

Maybe he’s getting away, you think. Maybe they’re all getting away.

Even while dreaming it, you know it isn’t true. It was stupid to think you could take on your father. The inevitable reckoning found you. It’s all over. You didn’t save anyone. Not even yourself. You’re going to die like you lived, trapped under the rubble of your father’s fortune, all alone in quiet pain.

“Hey!”

You hear a voice at a distance. It only just barely pierces the ringing in your ears so you aren’t sure how close it really is.

“It’s me,” the voice says. “I’m coming!”

You can’t keep your eyes open. You can’t breathe like this and your body is getting colder and colder. You feel a presence even though you can’t see who it is, your eyes too heavy, the block on your chest heavier and heavier still.

“Wake up,” says the voice. “Hey, wake up. Please. Please wake up.”

It feels almost impossible, like pushing that weight off your chest, but you peel your eyes open slowly. There is dust in your eyes and in the air, the grey smoke of the explosion still puffing around you. Your eyes water to clear the worst of it.

Through the dust, smoke, and tears, you see Changbin, all his sharp, young features, swallowed up in his black uniform. The blast must have shot some debris his way because he’s bleeding, a thin streak of blood on his forehead, a line of red spilling down his cheek.

He ignores it completely, leaning down, tapping your cheek some more.

“It’s me,” he says. “Hold on. Keep your eyes open. Don’t go. I promise I’ll get you out.”

“Changbin,” you croak. You watch as he sits back, frantically measuring the concrete block with his darting eyes. When he grabs a corner, you rapidly shake your head. “Stop,” you say. “Stop, you can’t move it.”

“I can,” he says. He tries to laugh, somehow manages to joke at a time like this and says, “I’m the strongest and best looking one here, princess. Don’t insult me.”

“Changbin, it’s too heavy,” you say. The force of it is bearing down on you more and more, all your father’s greedy hopes shoving you further and further into the ground.

It’s going to kill you. It was always going to kill you.

But it doesn’t have to kill him.

“Changbin, go,” you say.

He is leaning against the block, lining up like he intends to shove the whole thing with his shoulder. His head whips down to look at you, his face twisted up with disgust.

“No,” he says firmly.

“Changbin,” you say just as firmly, because the block doesn’t budge. It was never going to budge. “Changbin, look.” You nod towards a light where the explosion ripped through the wall, where the enemy’s men came pouring in and ran right past you. “You can go,” you say. “For good. It’s a way out. They’ll just think you’re dead. They’ll leave you behind, that’s the rule, that’s what they do. You can get away. Just leave me. It’s fine. This is your only chance. Go. Go now.”

He pauses for a second. He looks over his shoulder at where Miroh’s men are still scrambling, then he looks towards that light. He knows you’re right. He knows that if he gets up now and runs, they won’t catch him. They’ll leave him for dead. He can get away once and for all.

He stares towards that light for a long moment. Then he looks down at you. He changes position, wraps an arm over the block and puts his weight against the side.

“No,” he says again. “I’m not leaving here without you.”

He pushes the block. It scrapes the ground, pushes you a little deeper. For a second, it hurts so much worse, then he gets his shoulder under it and takes the brunt of the weight. With another grunting heave, he straightens out and shoves it off you completely. It makes a horrible screeching sound as it moves across the floor, but you’re free.

You can breathe all at once, sucking in a huge lungful of air. Changbin leans over you, gathers you up into his arms and pulls you into a sitting position.

“You’re so stupid,” you say, choking on a sob. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he says, wiping the tears and dust off your face. “Love you too.”

“Stand back, soldier,” one of your father’s men appears, stepping out of the smoke like a monster. He multiplies, more of your father’s back-up arriving one by one. They circle you and Changbin.

You nod at your friend. There is no winning this fight. Not today. Not like this.

Relenting, Changbin steps back. One of the men grab him and push him to the side, redirecting him away. He is promptly forgotten in his supposed insignificance. The rest of them keep a circle around you.

Your father crosses through that circle. He looks down at you. You remember seeing emotion in his eyes, once, enough that he could be furious, enough that he could be hateful. Now there is nothing. He looks at you like he would look at a pebble in his shoe. Disappointing but mostly inconvenient.

“Take her,” he says.

Someone grabs you by the neck. You are pulled to your feet, faster, higher. You get a glimpse of Chan behind your father, face beaten bloody, limp body held up by another guard.

“Chan!” You try and move towards him but the grip on your neck tightens.

You can’t scream in the circle of that vice. Whatever sound you want to make disappears in the ice as you are plunged back under water. You open your eyes in the cold, look through the darkness until there is light, until everything is whiteness all around you. No windows, no doors. Beyond sterile. Cold. Empty. Nothing before or after.

Then you are pulled back up. You realize the white walls were the sides of the hotel bathtub. You suck in a desperate, shuddering gasp of a breath. It goes right down to the depth of your lungs, pulls you up from the inside out.

Chan says your name.

You open your eyes and see hotel bathtub faucet. Chan’s hands are on your arms rather than your neck as he hoists you out of the water. Like that first night, he bundles you in a towel. He says your name again, touches the side of your cold and clammy face.

It takes you a minute to find his face, his real face, living and warm and right now.

He stares down at you with his familiar dark eyes, breathing hard like he was the one exerting himself.

“You were right,” you say in a hoarse voice. Despite everything, a laugh bursts out of you. It hurts, it hurts like burning ice, but then it feels so much better.

“About what?” he asks.

“I did always call you Chan,” you say.

Then you collapse in his arms, your eyes closing. A torrent of memories come flooding back.

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