weep

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Call me Wasabi

20 | Any pronouns | Demonolatry & Child of Dantalion | Multifandom | Yumeshipper | English & Vietnamese (Fluent)

(I'm absolutely horrible with texting or any forms of social interactions in general lol)

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CONTENT GUIDELINES

This blog features Dead Dove: Do Not Eat content. Though, I personally don't mind some hate, as I'm a masochist and y'all are doing it for free lol (But please don't go around harassing other dark content creators).

I do: Yandere contents, GN & AFAB reader, non-con, almost any form of violence and disgusting things that you can think of.

I DON'T do: Male reader (sry), AUs, scat, zoophilia, canon underage characters.

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RULES:

Tr*mpie, homophobia, and Zionism are NOT tolerated here.

DNI if you make jokes about Diddy and the Epstein Files, you are disgusting and I don't want to be anywhere near you.

I do not post, allow, or tolerate the glorification of real-world violence, and mass tragedies.

While I don't police my followers' ages, I will only engage in mature-themed discussions with accounts that clearly state they are 18+ in their bio.

Any targeted abuse will result in an immediate block and report.

Do not repost my original work or inject unrelated links to my posts to gain traffic.

If you have a genuine concern, please reach out so we can discuss it properly.

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AO3 (Crosspost + Non-reader fics): Wasabi_luv_u

Facebook (Yumeshipping account): Wasabi Biết Bay

Wattpad (Entirely Vietnamese & is tailored to a different target audience): Wasabi_luv_u

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If you're interested in my yumeships:

He beamed at your response, clearly pleased. It's a 50/50 gamble every time you open your mouth, but today, you've hit the mark.

He led you over to the small stall, smiling warmly at the shopkeeper. He bought two, handing you the larger one with a crinkle of his long eyelashes.

"Go on, try it," he urged.

You held the fruit, your fingers sinking into the soft skin. Sure, you were being a bit dramatic. You were outside, surrounded by normal people, and it was just a piece of fruit. A sweet, juicy plum. But how could you view something so simple as anything other than a ticking clock when your eyes instinctively scanned the distance to the main road? Just a few meters away. If you screamed—

A feather-light touch brushed against your cheek, and the daydream was snuffed out.

Tamsy's fingers slid to your ear, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind it. He leaned in, "Don't ruin today, okay? We've been looking forward to this."

Right.

It'd be such a shame if you forgot this view tomorrow because you made a scene. He always made it clear, after all. If he wanted to, he could always use the Watchman Book to turn you into some mindless doll that moves and breathes and obeys without the pesky trouble of your free will.

​But... he won't do that. Not if you're good.

"I'm sorry," you said, your voice small and genuinely apologetic as you leaned slightly into his hand. "I was just... looking at the view. It's just beautiful out here."

To prove it, you quickly took a bite of the plum. It tasted like ash in your mouth, but you forced an appreciative nod, chewing quickly.

Tamsy watched you swallow, scanning your expression for any rebellion. Finding none, the tension in his shoulders melted instantly, and he smiled.

"Good. Because I have a surprise for you," he said, his tone turning bubbly again as he pulled you along by your wrist.

On the way, he laughed loudly at the street performers, tossing a few coins their way, and kept an arm slung securely around your shoulders. He brought you to a scenic overlook at the edge of the town, a crumbling stone terrace that gave way to a breathtaking view of the valley below. Set up on the grass was a small canvas and a wooden box of paints.

"You can sit here," he invited, pulling you down onto the grass beside him. He opened the paints, selecting a brush and pressing it into your hand. Then, he moved in close. His chest pressed against your back, his thighs framing yours as he wrapped his hand tightly over your own, guiding the brush across the canvas. It's a positioning meant to look intimate—like a couple in a tacky romance movie.

"Let's start with the base. You have to mix the white into the blue first, or it just looks too stark."

Okay, okay. Mixing paint colors. Blessed be paint colors. That was a normal thing for a person to talk about.

​"Right," you replied. "The white first."

​"Exactly. Did you see the market vendor on the corner by the way? The one with the blankets?" he asked, his hand moving yours in a sweeping motion to coat the top of the canvas. "He actually tried to look me in the eye and claim it was genuine indigo. Can you believe the nerve? It was cheap wood-stain, obviously."

​You forced a soft chuckle, moving your arm in sync with his grip. "You always notice the details."

​"Well, someone has to," he said, conversationally. "Oh, tilt the brush a bit more to the left. See how the texture changes when you catch the edge of the canvas?"

​"Like this?"

​"Perfect. Just like that." He rested his chin on your shoulder, it was terrifying how thoroughly pleasant his voice was as he guided the brush down toward the middle of the sky. "Anyway, the baker told me they're getting a shipment of those little cinnamon biscuits on Thursday. The ones with the hard sugar on top. I know you like those with tea in the afternoon."

​"I do," you said. Your fingers were starting to ache from the tightness of his grip, but you kept your wrist fluid. "Thursday is a good day for them."

​"We'll get a whole box," he decided. "And maybe some of that roasted chicory if the trader actually shows up this week. He's been unreliable lately. Last week he didn't even bother to set up his stall because of the rain."

​You nodded, keeping your eyes fixed on the canvas, watching the blue blend into a softer, lighter hue. It's just a normal conversation. A normal discussion about market days, biscuits, and lazy traders. You try to focus entirely on the mundane rhythm. Smile and nod, or get a reminder of why you're here. You choose to smile.

​"Let's add a bit of the gray now," Tamsy said, his fingers shifting slightly over yours to guide the brush toward a different well in the paint box. "Just a tiny dab. The clouds over the valley always have that little bit of shadow underneath them around noon. Look right out there, see how it sits just above the treeline?"

​You look out at the valley, your focus shifting from the canvas to the massive, open expanse of green and gray below. The wind catches the trees, making them roll like waves. It's so big. The horizon goes on for miles, completely indifferent to the walls of the cell, completely indifferent to the Tokushin thread spun around your wrists.

​For a stupid second, you get lost in the sheer vastness of it.

​"Pay attention, dear," Tamsy reminded you, his hand suddenly tightened over yours to correct your posture.

​The abrupt pressure jolts you out of the daydream. Your reflex acted before your brain could stop it—your hand twitched, jerking the brush upward against his grip.

It left an ugly streak of dark gray right across the carefully blended blue sky.

Your eyes went wide, and your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the ruined canvas. Oh god, you'd messed up. You'd ruined this perfect day.

It took you a moment to find your voice. No, two moments. No, three.

"I-I'm so sorry," you gasped out, trembling like a leaf. You turned your head, leaning back against his chest to look up at him, your hands reaching up to clutch desperately at the fabric of his coat. "I didn't mean to. I ruined it. Please don't be mad at me, I can fix it, I promise—"

Thanks god, Tamsy didn't get angry. He didn't even frown. He just chuckled, a low, melodic sound that rumbled soothingly against your back. Reaching out, he trailed a finger down the side of your neck.

"No, no, it's just paint," he said. "That's one enthusiastic cloud, don't you think?"

Pure relief flooded through you, until you felt nothing but a pathetic, dirty kind of gratitude. Because it was okay. It was okay that your hands were shaking; it was okay that you ruined the sky; it was okay that you were a terrified, broken thing, because he was being good to you today. He was being so patient. He really did love you, didn't he?

"Really?" you asked, leaning your head back against his shoulder. "You're not upset?"

"Never with you," he smiled.

You looked back down at the box of supplies, spotting a specific shade of soft gold paint that you knew would blend beautifully into the mistake.

"Can we use the yellow to fix it?" you asked, turning your face toward his. You tilted your chin up and pressed a sweet kiss right against his lips—a little bribe for every small favor every now and then. "Please? I think it would make the sky look like a sunset."

Tamsy's eyes brightened, a touched expression softening his features as he kissed you back, cupping your jaw to press his lips deeper.

"Anything you want," he whispered against your lips. "Let's make it a sunset."

When he finally pulled back, he blinked, his brow furrowing slightly as the choker around his neck crackled to life. A muffled voice from the Cleaners bled through the speaker.

Tamsy sighed, looking thoroughly annoyed by the interruption.

"Hold that thought," he said, kissing the top of your head as he stood up. "I need to take this. Stay right here."

He stepped away, walking about twenty paces over to the edge of the stone wall, his back turning to you as he tapped his choker to answer. But he never risked anything. Before you even stepped past the threshold of the cell this morning, the illusion of freedom was clipped. He already spun a strand of Tokushin thread around your wrists, anchoring you to the wooden paint box. One wrong move, and the threads would slice straight into your flesh.

But as Tamsy argued with the voice on the comms, your hand brushed against something sharp in the grass.

A shard of jagged metal from a broken fence.

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. It's now or never.

With shaking hands, you grabbed the metal shard and sawed it violently against the invisible taut string pulling at your wrist. The thread resisted, biting sharply into your skin, drawing a bead of bright red blood—and then, with a snap, it gave way.

You didn't look back. You didn't look at Tamsy to see if he heard.

Scrambling to your feet, you took a blind, panicked sprint in the opposite direction, pushing through the thick brush and tearing down the dirt path into the unknown. The wind roared in your ears, your vision tunneling into a blur of green and grey. Every snap of a twig behind you sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline straight to your heart. You didn't know where you were going—only that you had to find a crowd, where at least a kind stranger would take your hand.

For a few beautiful minutes, the expanse of the valley had felt like freedom.

Just as the dirt path gave way to a populated thoroughfare. A sudden jerk at your ankles brought you crashing hard against the cobblestones. You skidded, skinning your palms and knees raw. When you looked back, the thin, shimmering lines of Tokushin were already winding tight around your calves.

You froze, locking your jaw so tight your teeth literally clicked together.

"You know," Tamsy's voice drifted through the space; he didn't sound angry. His dual-toned hair had fallen loose around his face, framing an entirely blank expression. "They are always talking about how unpredictable the Ground is. But honestly, people are just so incredibly predictable. The second you get scared, you do the exact same thing everyone else does. You run for a crowd."

The sound of his footsteps was agonizingly slow. Tap. Tap. Tap.

​"...And you're messy about it, too. Look at that. You're leaving a trail."

He stopped right in front of you, pointing a neat finger toward the ground.

You followed his gaze down to your wrist. Dark drop of blood had just fallen onto the dusty concrete ground. A few inches away, another droplet sat, glistening in the sunlight.

Your heart felt like it plummeted straight through your stomach, choking out all your courage.

The threads snapped loose as he stepped over you. You fell to your knees, your fingers clawing into the fabric of his pants, burying your face against his knee.

"I love you," you gasped out. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing closer, praying to a god you didn't believe in that he would buy it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I ran—I don't know why I did it, I swear. I love you—"

You waited for the tightening of his arms, for the soft, indulgent chuckle you had learned to weaponize.

But.

But... it doesn't come.

He just stands there, perfectly still, letting you weep against his leg as if you are nothing more than a stray dog that tripped him on the sidewalk. When the silence was unbearable for you, he simply reached down, his hand wrapping around your throat, forcing your head back.

"Oh, dear," he murmured. "Do you really take me for an idiot?"

Before you could even sob out a retraction, his grip shifted from your throat to your wrists.

You heard the sickening pop of your shoulder straining as he stood up, effortlessly hoisting you off the floor by your arms. A white-hot flash of pure agony shot down your spine. You screamed, your legs giving out, but he didn't let go. He just hummed that same cheerful little tune from this morning under his breath while dragging you back, didn't care that your knees were scraping against the ground the entire time, or that the pain in your joints was so intense you thought your arms would tear from their sockets.

You begged. You wept until you choked on your own spit, completely blinded by the physical torment. He didn't slow his pace. He opened the door to the cell and tossed you onto the floor. You collapsed into a fetal position, clutching your ruined arms to your chest, gasping for air through a flood of vomit and tears.

For a long time, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing.

Then, his fingers gently slid under your chin, lifting your face. You flinched so violently that your neck popped, but he held you firm. Through your blurred vision, his unique eyes were wide, clear, and entirely empty.

It was like looking into the eyes of a shark.

"There, now." He leaned down, pressing his lips to your tear-soaked temple. "You won't lie to me again, will you?"

You nodded frantically, your chin jerking against his hand as a fresh sob hitched in your throat. "N-no," you rasped out. Fuck dignity, you don't give a damn anymore. "Never again."

Tamsy's thumb paused on your jawline, his dual-toned eyes narrowing as he weighed the pathetic, trembling sincerity in your voice. He stayed quiet for a while, just watching your chest heave.

"Do you promise me?" he asked. "Because it hurts me when you're dishonest. It really does. It ruins all the nice things I try to do for you."

"I promise," you choked out, a fresh wave of tears hot against your cheeks.

"Say it like you mean it." 

"I won't run," you sobbed. "I won't run, I won't lie. I'll stay. I swear I'll stay."

At that, the cold tightness around his mouth completely dissolved.

"Good," he said, pulling you firmly against his chest. "I forgive you, [Name]. I always will."

At the sudden movement, your injured shoulder flared with a white-hot heat, but you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, forcing yourself to lean into his chest anyway.

Tamsy didn't pull away. Instead, his grip only tightened further, while his chin resting on top of your head as he slowly stroked your hair, deliberately ignoring your physical agony. He liked you like this—malleable, broken, and entirely dependent on his comfort to soothe the pain he caused.

"Tomorrow, I'll bring the canvas down here. We can finish painting our sunset together."

He added, then. His hand sneaking a slow slide down your hair, while the other grabbed your thighs. Fingers danced around the edge of your clothes, grazing at the skin just underneath as you writhed in his hold.

You whimpered weakly, pressing your face deeper into his shoulder despite the screaming protest of your muscles, everything from your chest to your cheeks hot and swollen. You hated the smell of his jacket, hated his fingers prying your legs apart, tugging your waistband down. ​Outside, the valley is still there. The sun is still setting over a horizon that you will never see.

​But that's okay.

You lived alone—or, well, you used to, before Follo basically moved himself in. Your boyfriend always managed to find himself at your door. Morning. Afternoon. Evening.

He'd recently taken on work as a Giver, and you knew how relentless his hours were. Whenever you manage to raspy-voice a protest, insisting that he had better things to do, he only smiles. It's that soft, incredibly patient smile of his, reassuring you that he doesn't mind. He even chuckles a little, rolling his eyes as he jokes how this is the only way he can hang with you, with your different work schedules recently.

So, you let him stay. You let him press the heavy ceramic mug to your lips, whispering for you to drink every last drop.

Yesterday was one of those long stretches where his job kept him away until past midnight, again. And when you woke up this morning, the heavy weight in your chest felt just lighter, your head didn't throb when you blinked. For a fleeting second, you actually felt a spark of genuine hunger—not the nausea that usually accompanied the thought of food.

Then, Follo returned. He immediately set to work, bringing you your morning tea. But just as he set the steaming mug on your nightstand, a sharp crash echoed from the kitchen had him rushing out of the room in haste.

​There, resting on the white porcelain edge of the washbasin, was his keyring.

You hadn't even been thinking about the keys at first. You had only dragged yourself up because, suddenly, a wave of heat crashed over you. Panicked by the spike in your symptoms, you had tried to call out his name, but from the kitchen, the noise of him cleaning the spill drowned you out completely. He couldn't hear you.

A wave of guilt had washed over you then. He was already so busy, already doing so much as a Giver, and you hated the thought of burdening him further just because you need a few fever reducers. So, on second thought: you'll just do it yourself. It takes a ridiculous, almost laughable amount of minutes just to swing your dead-weight legs over the edge of the bed.

Your feet hit the cold floorboards and you instantly sway—gripping the washbasin for dear life while the room spins violently. You remembered laughing once, mostly at yourself of how ridiculous you'd become. You gripped the edge of the washbasin, your fingers freezing over the cold metal of the keys.

You know there's a wooden box in the bottom nightstand drawer. Follo always claimed it held rare herbs he'd gone out of his way to buy for you. A private little part of you feels terrible for snooping, but desperate times, right?

​It took every ounce of your remaining strength to sink to the floor, sliding the key into the brass lock of the wooden box.

You expect to find the usual suspects, maybe some over-the-counter fever reducers. But no. Instead, your fingers wrap around a sleek little amber glass dropper bottle. ​The labels are handwritten, which would be charming if the words belladonna and digitalis weren't staring right back at you. Concentrated sedatives. Muscle paralytics. You bring the glass dropper to your nose, taking a tentative sniff, and underneath the harsh bitterness of the chemicals is a faint, sweet scent.

​The exact same flavor that's been in your tea, your broths, your water. Every single day. For weeks.

​Oh.

You tried to move. Your mind screamed at you to run, to hide the bottle, to drag yourself to the front door. You remembered trying to think, too. Not panicking—not yet. Panic felt too expensive somehow, there had to be another explanation.

Herbal extracts could be poisonous in the wrong quantities. Apothecaries stocked strange ingredients all the time. Follo had always been meticulous; perhaps he'd purchased them for something else. Perhaps the dropper had been used for tinctures. Perhaps—

You collapsed against the base of the nightstand, then, clutching the small amber vial to your chest.

Sweat prickled along the back of your neck. Your thoughts, so wonderfully clear only minutes before, began bending ever so slightly like reflections in disturbed water.

Only then did your gaze drift toward the untouched teacup, steam no longer curling from its surface. You couldn't remember how long it had been sitting there. You couldn't remember whether you'd taken a sip. You couldn't remember a frightening number of things.

With trembling hands, you tried reaching for your phone instead. It wasn't far—just across the bedside table—but the distance felt laughable now, your arm refusing to obey like it had only moments ago.

You managed half a step, then another. You sank to the floor before gravity could decide to throw you there instead, your shoulder knocking painfully against the side of the bed, the locked box remained open beside you.

You hated how familiar the feeling was.

How many mornings had started exactly like this? How many times had you accepted it as another cruel turn in whatever mysterious illness had taken hold of you?

You had no idea how long you lay there, paralyzed in your own skin, listening to the agonizingly slow tick of the clock.

When the door finally clicked open, his soft footsteps padded back into the room, a fresh cloth in his hand, his expression open and bright. His eyes found you first, curled awkwardly against the bedside.

Concern immediately softened his features.

"...What happened?"

The words were almost painfully gentle.

He crossed the room at once and knelt beside you as if you had simply tripped, one hand already brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead. "Look at you, you shouldn't have gotten out of bed."

His gaze scanned the space, instantly landing on the open drawer, the keys, and the bottle clenched in your trembling fist. If surprise touched him, it vanished so quickly you wondered later whether you'd imagined it.

"Oh," an awkward laugh escaped him, a soft, breathy sound, "so that's what this is."

You jerked weakly away from the hand against your face.

The bottle you'd managed to keep hold of scraped clumsily against the floor as you lifted it between you, your grip so unsteady it threatened to fall a second time. The accusation never emerged as clearly as you'd intended, your thoughts refused to line themselves into neat sentences.

"What..." you rasped, even your own voice sounded weak. "What is this?"

For a heartbeat, he only looked at you.

Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed. A small, affectionate sound, almost under his breath.

​"Come on," he said, reaching toward your hand as though you were a frightened child clutching something dangerous. His fingertips brushed yours, patient rather than forceful. "You really are still so sick. You're just seeing things, alright? Let's get you back to bed before you hurt yourself."

The bottle slipped another inch through your weakening grasp.

"No..."

The protest came out rough, barely louder than a whisper.

"You put this in my food."

His smile faltered only slightly.

You tried again. The words tangled together, but the meaning remained unmistakable. You knew the truth now, and no matter whatever haze clouded your mind, that fact wasn't moving.

"[You]." Another patient sigh from him, he spoke your name with heartbreaking tenderness. "You've had a fever, and you've barely slept a full night. They can cause confusion."

His hand found your forehead, checking your temperature. The same gesture he'd performed dozens of times before.

​"...You don't even know what you're talking about right now."

"I do, you've been poisoning me," you snapped. The sentence emerged stronger than you expected.

"As if I'd ever do such a thing."

"Stop lying!" You're practically screaming now, though it feels more like a pathetic whimper. You slammed your weak fist against his shoulder, refusing to let go of the bottle. "You've been poisoning me! You made me take a break from my job, you kept me trapped here—"

​"Hey, stop it, you're getting worked up," he interrupts, his hands swooping in to pin your wrists. "Just give me the bottle. You're losing it, I'd never hurt you."

"I am not confused!" you fiercely insisted, your eyes burning with tears of fury.

With a final surge of will that defied the paralysis spreading through your limbs, you hurled the amber bottle across the room.

It smashed against the far wall, a harsh, shattering explosion of glass and brown liquid that stained the pale wallpaper. The sound was deafening in the otherwise silent house. But Follo didn't even flinch. He didn't turn to look at the mess. His eyes searched yours, waiting almost hopefully, as though expecting the panic to break.

When it didn't, he rose to his feet, calmly brushing the dust off his pants, his eyes turning entirely flat and devoid of warmth. He looked down at your shivering form on the floor, and didn't even bother to deny it anymore.

"Alright," he said, looking at the wet stain on the wallpaper. "You know. Now... what are you going to do about it?"

All the righteous fury inside you is instantly snuffed out.

And God, he was right, wasn't he? You stopped dead. Because when you actually thought about it—really, truly thought about it—what could you do? You lived alone. The neighbors should be at work right now, and it had been days since you'd even bothered to reply to your supervisor's messages. You were entirely on your own.

​You tried to drag yourself backward, but your fingers just twitched uselessly against the wood. (A total joke, honestly, considering how fiercely you'd just thrown that vial.) When you begged your legs to move, nothing happened.

And of course he noticed.

"Look at you," he continued. "You can barely walk on your own. Who are you going to scream for?"

He actually paused, waiting.

Not because he expected an answer, obviously. No, he did it because he knew, just as well as you did, that there simply wasn't one.

Your mouth opened once, then closed again. Whatever righteous declaration had surged through you only moments ago dissolved somewhere between your mind and your tongue, lost beneath the mounting heaviness spreading through your limbs. Your fingers, still stubbornly wrapped around the bottle, no longer obeyed when you tried to tighten them.

Follo watched the effort with a sigh. "You know, I was hoping we wouldn't have to do this today."

He leaned down and lifted you, but you weren't about to just let him take you—not without a fight, anyway. You managed to dig your fingernails into the fabric of his shirt, tearing at the collar, trying with everything left in you to twist out of his grip.

​But barely even flinched, just clamping his arms tighter around you, pinning your flailing elbows against your ribs with a grunt of mild irritation.

​Within seconds, the brief burst of adrenaline evaporated, leaving your muscles completely spent. Your limbs fell away, hanging like lead and completely useless as he gathered your limp form fully into his arms and carried you back to the bed. He laid you down against the pillows, smoothing your blankets before lifting your heavy, trembling hand to press a kiss against your knuckles. You flinched at it.

Turning slowly, his eyes drifted over to the far wall where the shattered glass lay.

"It really is such a shame you broke that one," he murmured. "But it doesn't matter, I always keep spares."

He walked over to the nightstand, reaching into his pocket for a vial you hadn't even seen. To your horror, he uncorked it and began to pour a clear liquid directly into the half-finished cup of tea sitting beside your bed. "I'll just have to make this batch a little stronger since you decided to spill your medicine."

You tried to scream, tried to thrash, but your body was a frozen cage. You could only watch in absolute terror as he sat down on the edge of the mattress.

"I know."

His voice softened immediately.

"I know."

One arm slipped carefully behind your shoulders, drawing your limp weight upright until you rested against his chest. He adjusted you, making certain your neck was supported, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.

"There, much better," he said. His other hand came up, his thumb and forefinger catching your jaw, forcing your chin upward to tilt your head back.

The cold rim of the ceramic mug pressed hard against your lips. You tried to turn away, though it was hardly movement at all.

"Don't fight it," he said, tipping the tea further.

Warm liquid pooled against your lips; some escaped down your chin, , sure, but most of it found its way past them. Its sweetness coated your tongue.

You coughed weakly, he paused just long enough for you to breathe. Then lifted the cup again.

"I know you don't understand. But I tried."

Another swallow.

"I told myself I'd let you recover... I really believed I could."

Another.

"But I love you far too much..."

He continued, his forehead rested briefly against your temple.

"...to ever risk you thinking you don't need me."

The darkness didn't wait long this time. It rushed in from the edges of your blurred vision, pulling you under before the mug even left your lips. Your head fell back against his shoulder, you thought you were still trying to fight and still trying to remember something desperately important. But the thought slipped away before you could grasp it.

He laid you back against the pillows with the same meticulous care he'd shown every day before, the blankets settled over you. He lingered only long enough to smooth your hair one last time, then he extinguished the bedside lamp.

The last thing you remembered was the sound of the deadbolt clicking into place from the outside of your bedroom door, followed by his muffled voice echoing through the solid wood.

… But you know better. This was the same man who'd once crossed three city blocks before a falling pedestrian hit the pavement; half-conscious didn't mean helpless when it came to him.

The country's Number Two Hero didn't survive this long by leaving gaps in his ledger. Because the heavy steel doors remained locked tight, bound to an encrypted Commission frequency you couldn't hope to crack—the same agency intercepted your police reports. And even if you did manage to scream bloody murder down to the street, who would the police believe? Because the they would just call him to come pick up his "unstable, paranoid spouse" again. 

God, his fans ate that narrative up. On every hero forum and social media thread, they swooned over how deeply he cared for you, how tragic and romantic it was that Japan’s busiest savior still found the time to his troubled partner. Half the officers downtown had grown up idolizing him; the other half had worked security beside him during disasters. His autograph was framed in their break rooms.

Looking back, a sick wave of nostalgia hits your throat. You find yourself missing the days when you were just a fan. You miss when he seemed so untouchable and magnificent on a billboard, miles away from your actual life.

​The realization didn't make you sad anymore. It just made you really irritated.

​He let out another cough that shook his entire frame, burying his face into a pillow with a groan.

You clench your hands into fists. You couldn't take another hour of the coughing, and God, the smell of damp feathers is making you nauseous. You need him well, and you need him well now. More importantly, the sooner he recovered, the sooner he would go back to work. If you played your cards right, the Commission would slap him with an away-mission to make up for lost time, and he’d be gone for days.

So here you are.

You don’t break his nose with the washcloth, but you certainly don’t treat his face like a delicate porcelain doll, either.

"Jesus—" Keigo hissed as the freezing washcloth landed squarely over his face. "Little warning would've been nice."

Water streamed into his eyes. He blinked through it with an exaggerated grimace before peeking up at you through damp blond bangs.

​"I swear if you don’t shut up—" you say. 

​Instead of being intimidated, his face melts into an expression of gooey adoration. "You're so cute when you're bossy."

​You genuinely consider the logistics of felony assault. If you hit him hard enough to knock him out, does a concussion stop a cough? Probably not.

You march back into the kitchen; the medicine cabinet was locked as always, and hanging there is an upside-down picture of you both from a while back. You're free to roam around this penthouse; Hawks doesn't use chains or dark basement cells to keep you—partly because he finds them "distasteful," his word, but mostly because his lifestyle doesn't allow for it.

Since you are a hostage and not a Michelin-star chef, his options are limited. You rifle through the pantry—stocked with premium ingredients he had delivered to make you feel "at home", with the pantry looking more expensive than your entire first apartment—and settle on a can of chicken noodle soup.

​You dump it into a pot, crank the stove up to high.

​While the soup heats, you hear a loud thud from the living room.

​You walk back to the doorway, ladle in hand, to find him flat on his face on the hardwood floor. He had apparently tried to stand up, wrapped entirely in a cream-colored duvet and tangled his own wings. 

Back then, you wouldn't have thought of seeing him like this.

​"I tried to come help," his muffled voice rings out from the floorboards.

​"Help with what? Testing the flooring?" You stand over him, unimpressed. "Get up."

"I'd love to… but my body disagrees."

"Well, that's tragic." You fold your arms.

"It really is." He tips his head back enough to look up at you through half-lidded eyes, a wing twitching helplessly beneath the blanket. "Pretty sure if I try standing again, I'm just gonna end up kissing the floor."

He offers a weak smile. "So… unless someone's feeling unexpectedly charitable?"

You sigh through your nose in annoyance before hooking your hands beneath his arms—avoiding his sensitive wings because you do not want a reflexive feather to accidentally slit your throat—and heave.

​For a guy who flies for a living, he is remarkably heavy. Television always made heroes look effortless. In reality, the Number Two Hero weighed as much as a grown man with another person's worth of muscle and feathers attached.

It's sick, really, remembering how it started. If you could go back in time and punch your past self, you would. You had been so flattered when he first singled you out from the crowd, so blindingly naive when a few casual encounters from a man who seemed entirely too magnificent to care about someone like you—it had been so easy to fall for the act. From time to time, you still remember the hookup that started it all, the late-night visits where he’d drop through your window just to pull you close and take your clothes off. He’d been a fantasy come true back then, a beautiful, dangerous thrill you couldn't get enough of. 

You actually thought you were special. 

As you drag him back onto the couch like a sack of laundry, slapping another freshly iced towel over his eyes to block out his face. The damp cloth quickly slips askew as he shifts.

With a click of your tongue, you lean over, reaching out your hand to adjust the washcloth back over his eyes. Your face is only inches from his as you pull the cloth upward.

Before either of you can even process the movement, his eyes snap open.

In a fraction of a second, his hand shoots out from the duvet and clamps around your wrist.

The grip hurts. His fingers dig into your flesh with the bone-crushing force of a raptor’s talons. A cold jolt of pure terror strikes your chest, leaving you breathless. It sends a reminder straight down your spine: if he wanted to, he could snap your arm like a dry twig.

Then, the fog in his brain clears. He wakes up fully.

He immediately lets go, tearing his hand away as if your skin had burned him. He scrambles backward into the cushions, his flushed face draining of color as he looks down at your bruising wrist, thoroughly horrified.

"...Shit," he curses.  "Baby... baby, I'm sorry. I didn't—I thought—"

You take a sharp step back, cradling your arm against your chest, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The last time he'd grabbed your wrist that suddenly, it had been to pull you laughing across a crosswalk before the light changed.

The soup on the stove chooses that exact moment to start aggressively boiling over, hissed warnings of burnt sodium filling the tense, quiet apartment. 

You force your shoulders back, swallowing down the bile and the panic rising in your throat. You shove the terror down into a locked corner of your mind and slap your unbothered mask back on.

"The soup is boiling," you say. Your voice is too tight, but it’s the best you can manage.

Without waiting to look at his horrified expression—because if you look at him right now, you might actually lose your mind—you turn your back and bolt into the kitchen. Your knees feel like water, but you lunge for the stove just as a thick wave of starchy broth cascades down the pristine stainless steel. You slap the burner off, the screeching hiss dying down into a pathetic little simmer that mimics the ringing in your ears.

Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely hold the paper towel as you aggressively wipe down the burnt stovetop, then ladle the surviving broth and exactly four soggy noodles into a bowl. Without a tray or a napkin, you turn around, ready to march back into the living room holding the burning hot ceramic bowl by the rim, letting the heat sting your fingertips just to stoke the fires of your own rage.

But your hands are slick with a stray smear of broth from the counter.

The ceramic slips. You fumble, your fingers scrambling against the smooth edge, but the heavy bowl tilts entirely out of your grip.

It shatters.

Before your brain can even fully register the sharp crack of the breaking ceramic—before a single shard can even bite into your skin—there is a sudden, blinding flash of crimson.

A feather hooks around your waist, yanking you backward so fast and with such tremendous force that your feet completely leave the floorboards.

Below you, the broken ceramic explodes, jagged shards and boiling soup splattering across the exact spot where you had been standing a millisecond prior. The hot liquid hits the baseboards, but not a single drop touches you.

Then, dead silence.

The feather lowers you back down to the ground gently, another catches a falling spoon before it hits the floor and hands it back to you.

Hawks is sitting up now, his massive wings half-flared and trembling, though his eyes are still heavily bloodshot, blinking blearily through his messy blonde hair. He looks thoroughly exhausted, his chest heaving as he tries to process what just happened through his fever-addled brain.

"...You okay?" he rasps. It terrifies you how deep his training goes for a second. 

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good. That's... good," Keigo murmurs, his energy visibly draining by the second now that the perceived danger has passed. His shoulders slump, his wings folding back down into a heap around him. "Scared me for a second, baby..."

He sinks heavily back into the couch cushions, letting out a weak whine as his face hits the throw pillow. "The floor is still sticky though. Can you... can you try again? With a plastic bowl this time?"

You stand frozen in the kitchen for a beat, staring at the shattered ceramic and the steaming broth pooling on the tile. Feeling stupid for how clumsy you were compared to him.

Even sick, he is still the Number Two Hero, after all.

It occurred to you with a bitter laugh that he'd never once failed to save you—from everything except himself. Until now, the conflict really twists in your gut. You hate him for the months he’d kept you locked up in this rotating carousel of high-rise safe houses, but the gap in power between you never failed to force you into this loop of fear, rage, and forced docility. The only weapon you have left is your resentfulness, because if you show him how truly terrified you are, you lose the tiny shred of agency you have left. 

So you turn right back to the pantry to grab another can, your eyes drilling holes into the label as you actively root for the sodium content to do what the fever couldn't.

Once the second batch is finished, you ladle it into a plastic bowl as he said. You march back into the living room, holding it by the rim, the plastic safely insulating the heat.

"Get up and eat," you say, making your voice remain level. 

He stirs, the cold towel has slid off his face, his eyelids fluttering open like a pair of broken blinds. The golden hue of his eyes is completely bloodshot. He looks at the bowl, then up at you, his throat clicking as he tries to swallow.

"Smells... good," he rasps. 

"It's canned, Keigo."

"So?" He tries to push himself up on one elbow, but his arm buckles immediately, sending him face-first back into the cushions. "...That was embarrassing."

You stare at him. He stares back, offering a shameless smile.

"Think you'd be willing to humor a dying man?" he wheezes, scrambling awkwardly to hoist his torso against the armrest, his wings flaring out to balance him.

You sit heavily on the edge of the couch, plunge the spoon into the scalding broth, and shove it directly between his lips. You don't blow on it. It’s fresh off the burner, practically boiling.

Hawks flinches as the liquid hits his mouth, and he swallows it down in one fluid motion. You cast a skeptical glance at the bowl, which is still sending up clouds of steam. His lips are already turning red, but he doesn't complain. 

Deliberately, you scoop up a few more spoonfuls from the very bottom—the hottest part of the bowl—and shove them into his mouth.

Yet, he obediently drinks it all down. His eyes are watering from the heat, but he just keeps taking every searing bite you give him.

"Does that not burn?" you ask in disbelief.

He lets out a huff that might be a laugh, leaning his head back against the sofa. "Oh, it's hot."

"...Then why aren't you saying anything?"

"Hurts a bit," he murmurs. "But I've had much worse."

You stare at him, your hand freezing mid-air with the spoon, waiting for his explanation.

"I grew up eating food like that," he says, his eyes drifting away for a moment, tracking the steam rising from the bowl. "Before the Commission bought my life, we lived in this broken-down shack. My old man was always hiding from the cops, and food only showed up when he felt like throwing us a bone."

He leans his head back against the sofa, a stray blonde lock falls into his eyes, but he doesn't have the energy to brush it away.

"When he did bring something back, you ate it instantly," he continues. "You didn't wait for it to cool, didn't spit it out just because it hurts a little, and you definitely didn't leave a single scrap behind. If you sat there whining about the temperature, he'd hit you for being loud."

He looks back at you, the golden hue of his eyes completely unbothered by the harsh reality of his own words. "I mean, I'm a top hero now. I can buy whatever I want. But the old way of living... it's still stuck with me, I guess." 

He exhales, a fever-hot breath that brushes against your knuckles holding the spoon, making you suddenly lose the desire to say anything more.

Speaking up now, throwing another sarcastic jibe would only make you look shallow and foolish. 

Slowly, you dip the spoon back into the bowl. Only this time, you lift it to your lips and blow on it. You bring it back to his mouth, waiting until the steam dissipates before pressing it to his lips.

Hawks blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his glassy eyes, followed by a look of gooey adoration that makes your stomach turn.

"Don't look at me like that," you say, keeping your eyes strictly on the soup. "I'm only doing it because I don't want to play the bad guy here."

"Whatever you say, baby," he wheezes, entirely compliant, as he takes the cooled spoonful from your hand. "I'm just a helpless patient, entirely at your mercy."

He parts his lips obediently, taking the cooled spoonful from your hand with a sigh of contentment. He swallows, leaning his head back against the cushion, resting his cheek against the throw pillow so he can keep looking up at you.

"You really hate me right now, don't you?" he asks.

"I hate you every day, Keigo," you reply instantly, your voice flat and cold. "Today just happens to be louder."

Keigo lets out a congested little chuckle. "That's fair."

​You close your eyes and pray that the fever will break by tomorrow morning.

Back to staring at the ceiling. The smart-clock on the wall glows, ticking away the hours. His phone on the kitchen counter from across the room, is still buzzing occasionally with emails from his sidekicks and scheduling alerts from the Commission: