scalenium

You may only have moved into this apartment complex a few weeks ago, but you already know the man the voice belongs to.

He's your neighbor, his apartment door right opposite of yours.

You don't know his first name, you haven't even spoken to him yet since he seemingly is barely home and only heard his voice muffled through his apartment door, but the name plate on his door is gracious enough to give you his last name—Riley. 

He's tall, hulking, the kind of presence that fills a space just by existing in it. 

His door is open just a crack, just enough for him to watch—his face concealed by a black surgical mask and a cap deeply pulled down into his face.

You force a polite smile.

"Yeah, well...I'm trying not to."

He steps out without another word, grabs the box like it weighs nothing and carries it up the last few stairs leading to the third floor your, and his, apartment is on. 

He doesn't grunt with effort nor asks, just does it.

"Thanks." you say a bit taken aback as you follow behind him, fumbling for your keys. 

"I think it has my coffee maker in it, I didn't want to risk breaking it..."

He doesn't respond and just sets the box down in front of your door before he already turns around to take the three steps in the hallway leading to his.

"Hey- wait!" you call out while try to keep your voice light, friendly. 

"Can I offer you something as a thanks? It's the least I can do."

Mr. Riley glances over his shoulder, eyes hard like steel.

He looks you up and down for a moment, his sharp brown eyes making you uncomfortable as they scrutinize you.

Then he just turns back around, vanishes in his apartment as he closes the door shut without uttering a single word.

You're left standing in the hallway for a moment as you process what just happened.

Right...okay then.

You blink, shift your weight, then turn back to your door and drag the box inside. 

It lands with a thud that echoes in the silence of your mostly unfurnished apartment. 

You shoot one more glance at his door across the hall—nothing, not even footsteps or a playing TV.

You close your own door behind you, lock it.

Inside you wrestle the coffee maker out of the box.

No damage, miraculously, despite your struggle to get it up several flights of stairs in great effort since the elevator is out of order ever since before you moved in.

You tell yourself Mr. Riley probably just doesn't like people, that's fine—you don't need to be best friends with the guy next door. 

Still, you chew your lip as you set up your machine. 

You're not sure what bugs you more , the coldness or the way his eyes didn't blink when he looked at you.

He made you feel like you were something hanging on a hook in a butcher shop, small and helpless somehow.

You wash away the weird feeling his gaze left on your skin, and the sweat clinging to it, under a hot shower.

The water turns cold after only a few minutes though, leaving you with cold water to finish showering before you turn into a block of ice.

At least your sheets are soft when you lay down for sleep a few hours later so you have enough energy for work the next morning.

Being a secretary to an asshole of a boss wasn't your first choice job wise but it was all you managed to get in this brutal job market.

You even had to move out of your small town to live in the big city or at least the outskirts of it, which doesn't seem to make rent any less expensive.

But that doesn't matter now, at least not for a few more hours, because you're off work and home—until tomorrow morning.

You pull your blanket further up until it's right below your chin, cold sweeping in through the cracks of the old wooden window frames.

Outside, late autumn wind whispers in the streets and occasionally pressing a few stray leaves against the windows in your apartment or swaying some raindrops against the glass.

It's cold outside, it has been for weeks.

Occasional rain muddies the street, making fallen leaves stick to any surface they can.

It makes your way to work even more unpleasant than usual, forcing you to take an umbrella with you every morning while hoping you will never have to use it.

Due to the weather, you ended up entering the office with wet feet from puddles more often than you'd like to admit and feeling so cold every morning that you'd shiver involuntarily at the warmth the office provided.

But for now you can enjoy your blanket warming you up, gathering your body heat under it.

You can enjoy the feeling of your muscles relaxing on top of your soft mattress while your eyelids grow heavier.

Soon enough, you fall asleep.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

After your alarm clock rips you out of your sleep the next morning, you get ready and enjoy a hot cup of coffee from your new coffee maker before you exit your apartment.

You lock the door securely, though you are sure if someone tried to break the old door down it wouldn't take too much effort.

Another resident, one from a story below, tries to stop you in the stairwell—again.

He's probably two decades older than you and hasn't really seem to have gotten the hint that you are not interested in him.

He's tried to ask you out and make advances on you ever since you moved in but you always excuse yourself by saying you're in a hurry even if you're not.

That guy is just a creep and you only want to avoid him, though this morning is sadly no different.

You're barely halfway down the second flight of stairs when he spots you.

"Hey, mornin' sweetheart."

You pretend not to hear him and quicken your steps but his voice rises as you round the corner and get closer to where he is.

"You got a second? I was thinking-" he starts, but you know exactly what he wants to say.

"No, sorry." you cut in quickly with a forced smile, eyes fixed on your feet and hand already clutching the rail tighter than you need to as you stop walking down the stairs to make sure he hears you.

"I'm late." you add, lifting your gaze to meet his with a distant but apologetic smile that couldn't be more fake.

You're not late, if anything you're early, but you would rather walk through fresh tar in heels than have a conversation with that man.

He doesn't move out of the way immediately. 

Just stands there, one foot planted on the step above you and blocking your path like he's thinking about saying something else. 

You try to step past him and his hand twitches slightly like he might reach out—like he wants to.

You feel the hairs rise on the back of your neck, already thinking about how you can bolt past him without any consequences...but then something shifts.

The man's smile fades like someone wiped it off with a rag.

His eyes dart past you, over your shoulder, for just a moment—you miss catching that.

He takes half a step back, then another and clears your path with it.

"Nevermind." he mumbles quickly and shuffles down the stairs like he just remembered something important on the ground floor, in the distance you can hear him open and close a door—probably the one to his apartment—before complete silence falls over the complex again.

He doesn't look back, doesn't say something else.

You blink taken aback, heart still ticking faster than you'd like. 

It takes you a moment to process that he left just like that because usually he will follow you all the way to the ground floor until you rush out the front door, leaving him behind.

Weird.

You exhale and keep walking.

Once on the ground floor you open the front door, rain has started to fall from the sky.

With a small sigh you reach into your bag and fish out your umbrella.

The door falls shut again as you step back to keep the cold air from seeping into the complex and hallway.

Your fingers are still blindly looking for your umbrella when you hear footsteps approaching from behind.

Instinctively, you step aside to make space for the person who seemingly wants to get out of the building too.

Once you finally manage to grab a hold of your umbrella, you take it out of your bag and your gaze lifts automatically—meeting a pair of eyes.

Sharp, steady and unreadable just like yesterday.

It's Mr. Riley.

He doesn't look at you so much as through you. 

His hood is pulled low, casting a shadow across his brow and his rain jacket is zipped all the way up to his nose bridge.

All you can see are his eyes—dark, still and unblinking with the kind of look that holds too much and gives away nothing.

He's dressed entirely in black again.

A thick hoodie beneath the jacket, heavy boots, long cargo pants, gloves on his hands. 

A black duffle bag hangs off his shoulder, not stuffed but not empty either. 

It shifts slightly as he moves, something solid dragging the fabric taut on one side.

You realize you're still staring and for some reason, your voice comes out before you can stop it.

"Good morning." you give him a polite smile before quickly continuing.

"Hey uh, thanks again. For yesterday, with the box."

Your tone is casual, polite, the way you'd speak to a bus driver or someone holding a door open. 

You're just trying to be decent, human...but he keeps walking.

Not fast, not necessarily rude. 

He just passes you like you're part of the wall, part of the floor, part of the rain outside—not worth slowing for, not worth answering.

He doesn't nod, doesn't blink, doesn't even make a sound that shows he even heard you.

The duffle bumps against his hip, one gloved hand holds the strap tight over his shoulder.

You step further back automatically as he brushes past you, the cold from outside clinging to his jacket like a second skin. 

He smells faintly of something metallic, of rain, of something sterile and sharp.

He pulls the door open and steps out into the street and that's it—he's just gone like a shadow slipping past the edge of your vision.

You stand there for a second too long, umbrella forgotten in your hand, your heart suddenly louder in your chest than it should be.

It wasn't just that he ignored you, it's the way he never even acknowledged you were there.

You watch his figure get swallowed by the rain from your spot near the front door.

He doesn't even seem bothered that it's now pouring, acts like the rain isn't even there as he strides down the street with heavy and long steps.

You snap yourself out of your stupor, and almost shocked state, with a shake of your head.

You press your hand against the front door to stop it from closing completely, using your foot to keep it ajar as you open your umbrella before quickly stepping under it outside and into the rain to avoid getting wet.

Heavy raindrops hit the top of the umbrella as you walk to the subway station.

The fat drops roll down the sides before they hit the ground and vanish between the rest of the wetness on the sidewalk.

You clutch your bag tighter, press it harder against your side so no one can grab it from you and run off with it.

Luckily, this has never happened to you yet but you guess it's better to be safe than sorry.

The area you live in isn't particularly safe.

While being mugged is rare, someone trying to snag a bag or wallet—or anything really—isn't.

You're sure to always keep this in the back of your mind when you're on your way to work or going back home.

That thought is enough to keep your mind away from the weird interaction, or a lack of one, with Mr. Riley.

Your walk to the subway station is the same as always.

You hold the umbrella tight so a gust of autumn wind can't blow it out of your hand as you use it to cover your head and torso so you won't be completely drenched by the time you reach the office.

The subway is quiet when you enter, remnants of sleep still written across everyone's face.

A man sits next to you after a few stops despite tons of other seats being empty.

It's not the first time this has happened, by now you almost expect it to.

You're not even surprised that he spreads his legs, making his thigh touch yours.

Also not the first time, also expected.

You just silently sit through it, endure it until it's finally your stop.

You squeeze past him and just glad he doesn't get off too.

At the office, you swipe your badge on the door to gain access to the building.

The day passes in the same dull rhythm as every other.

Spreadsheets, emails, phone calls, having to do your bosses tasks since he's just truly incapable at his job and someone tries to start a war—yet again—because someone else forgot to refill the coffee machine before lunch.

After work and the usual niceties of "Have a great rest day!", you make your way back to the subway.

You're already mentally preparing yourself for another evening of nothing special, maybe doing some laundry after cooking or calling your parents for a quick chat.

The hallways of the apartment complex are quiet when you enter through the front door, only your footsteps echoing through the stairwell.

When you reach the third floor, the one your apartment is on, you glance at Mr.Riley's door for a moment.

No sound comes from behind it, no quiet footsteps, no movement, no TV quietly running—nothing.

Perhaps he isn't home yet.

Not that you care of course, he's rude and obviously doesn't want anything to do with you.

You unlock your apartment door and inside you kick your shoes off before you hop into the shower to warm up your cooled down and drenched body—the umbrella only able to do so much.

The water runs cold after a few minutes again and you make a mental note to yourself to write, another, email to the landlord addressing the water heater.

Your last email from two weeks ago is still unanswered, you won't give up on it already though.

After showering and getting dressed in something comfortable, you cook and eat dinner before shoving some laundry in the washing machine.

You open a window for some fresh air, the old building having it's own smell of mold and dust—a unpleasant smell you don't think you'll ever get used to.

You pour yourself a glass of water and lean against the kitchen counter as the washer kicks into a sluggish rhythm behind you.

It's been a long day, not bad but just...long. 

Exhaustion settles into your shoulders like it's lived there for years, your hair's still damp from the shower and you can feel the warmth of the meal you ate not long ago still sitting in your stomach—heavy but comforting.

You scroll through your phone with one hand, catching up on nothing in particular—your parents don't have time for a quick chat because they have to go to bed.

Local news, a few messages from friends you left behind in your home town, some flash-sale emails you'll never open.

Another missing person.

You skim the headline. 

Some guy, mid-thirties, last seen near the Westside transit line. 

No photo, no new leads. 

You've seen stories like it more times than you can count since moving here, probably more since the weather started turning.

You lock your phone and toss it onto the couch.

The washer shifts into its spin cycle with a groan as the washing process finishes.

You sigh and pull yourself away from the counter, rubbing at your eyes as you make your way toward it. 

There's nothing urgent left to do tonight, maybe hang the clothes, queue up a movie you won't finish and call it a day.

As you walk past the front door, you pause for a second. 

You thought you heard something—a sound just beyond the door but it fades as quickly as it came and your hand just lingers on the laundry closet door.

Old buildings make noise. 

Pipes click, floorboards creak, neighbors come and go.

You're probably just tired.

You open the washer, start hauling out the damp clothes. 

The fabric is wet and cold against your fingers, you don't bother sorting and just hang things wherever they'll fit.

Behind you, the hallway stays quiet.

A minute passes, the usual city sounds muffled through the glass—sirens somewhere distant, the rumble of a car passing too fast down a wet street. 

The wind's picking up again outside, you can hear it snake its way through the cracks in the window frame. 

It's colder tonight.

You glance at the time. 

Still too early for bed, too late to really do anything productive.

Maybe tomorrow you'll start a new book, clean.

You hear the door across the hall shut with a soft click.

You don't pay it much mind—people come and go, it's none of your business.

So you keep hanging up laundry, humming something tuneless under your breath and already thinking about tomorrow.

Another couple minutes later, you're hanging damp shirts over a drying rack when you hear it again—the slight rattle of a door...but this time it's yours.

You turn.

The door's still locked, still shut.

But there was a noise—you swear there was.

You creep toward it and put your eye to the peephole.

Mr.Riley's door is closed, the hallway empty but for some reason your skin prickles like it isn't.

Your eyebrows knit together.

There isn't even a single indicator that someone was just in the hallway.

The lights aren't on, there are no footsteps in the staircase—at least you can't hear any from the comfort of your apartment.

'I must be really tired.' you think and decide to just go to bed after finishing to hang up the last shirts you have left.

You're halfway through hanging the last shirt when you feel it—fatigue settling into your bones a little deeper. 

You stretch your neck, sigh through your nose and finish draping the shirt over the drying rack. 

The radiator clicks quietly as it starts to warm up, its usual rhythm barely audible over the hum of the city outside.

You close the window, shutting out the smell of rain and exhaust. 

The air inside is still a little stuffy, but at least it's warmer inside your apartment than outside.

The couch calls to you but you know better—you'd fall asleep halfway through a show and wake up at 3 a.m. cold and aching. 

You flip off the kitchen light and walk to the bathroom, your footsteps soft against the warped hardwood floor.

You brush your teeth with the lazy slowness of someone who's done it a thousand times in the exact same order, after that you pat into your bedroom and exchange your hoodie for your comfiest old shirt—the one with the faded print and stretched-out collar.

The blanket is already cool when you wrap yourself tight, curling toward the wall where the wind hits least.

Your eyes close before your head even fully sinks into the pillow and you're asleep almost instantly.

You don't dream, at least nothing you remember—just the sensation of darkness and weight, of time slipping by in a slow, quiet current.

And then, in the distance, a sound.

It's not loud nor sharp, it's just...there—soft and close.

Something shifts in your apartment, or maybe in the building. 

Could be just a neighbor or a neighbor who has a visitor coming or leaving, you don't care.

You stir but don't wake, sleep keeping your eyelids shut.

The sound fades and everything settles into silence again.

Your breath evens out.

Outside, the hallway stays still.

The lights flicker once as they get switched on, then burn steady.

A pair of eyes stare at your door for a long, unmoving moment...and then they're gone.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

The alarm buzzes far too early.

You blink against the dim gray light creeping through your window, groggy and stiff. 

Your body aches the way it always does after a long workday—not from exertion, just from existing in a chair too small and a city too loud.

You reach over and silence the alarm, lying still for a moment.

No dream clings to the edge of your thoughts, just sleep—heavy and dreamless sleep.

You eventually push yourself up and swing your legs over the side of the bed, your feet hitting the cold floor. 

The room is quiet, still, a little too cold for comfort but not unbearable.

The radiator clicks again, doing its best.

You stretch once, arms above your head and then shuffle to the bathroom.

Your morning routine plays out exactly like it always does.

The smell of last night's laundry still hangs faintly in the air as you walk into the living room, a damp scent that never quite goes away in apartments like this.

You throw on your work clothes in your bedroom, still slightly wrinkled, and head toward the kitchen afterwards. 

A few taps on the coffee machine and your first cup of caffeine starts to brew. 

You lean on the counter while it gurgles, a yawn stretching your face as you wait.

Outside, the street is wet from last night's rain. 

The clouds haven't cleared and it looks like they don't plan to anytime soon so the umbrella is definitely coming with you again today.

You finish your coffee in silence, staring out the window and thinking about absolutely nothing—the best kind of thinking in the morning.

Eventually you pull on your jacket and shoes, grab your bag and double-check that you've got your keys.

Then, out of habit, you check the door lock once more before opening it.

The hallway greets you with that familiar stale air and weak lighting.

Mr.Riley's door is closed, not a sound from inside.

You don't look at it long.

You turn, lock your door and head down the stairs—another day, another routine.

The day passes in its usual haze of repetition.

You get off the subway, cold seeping in under your jacket from where the wind cuts through the streets. 

It's already starting to get dark when you reach your apartment building, the sun setting earlier in fall.

The rain's holding off for now but the sky looks heavy with it.

You were spared a downpour of rain this morning which you are more than glad about, especially since you were spared another one this evening while you were walking to your apartment complex.

You're halfway up the stairs when you hear it—the familiar tsk-tsk of someone waiting to catch your attention.

"Well, if it isn't our mystery girl from 3B." a voice croaks behind you.

You turn, already forcing a polite half-smile and then you see her.

Mrs. Allen, one of the long-time residents from the ground floor. 

She's probably in her late fifties though years of smoking and nosing around in other people's business have aged her voice more than her face. 

Her hair is dyed a reddish shade far too bright to be natural, a cardigan hanging off one shoulder and a reusable grocery bag is slung over one of her arms like a purse.

She smells like a mix of stale bread, cold drip coffee left too long on the burner and the thick tang of cigarette smoke that's soaked into her clothes so deeply you doubt it'll ever come out.

You don't even want to imagine what her apartment must smell like when you can faintly smell the cold cigarette smoke every time you pass 1A.

"Oh, you're just getting back now? Poor thing. Bet you're working your fingers to the bone for that corporate vampire you mentioned last week."

You give a soft and polite chuckle. 

"Yeah, something like that."

She waves you down the stairs and you follow, even though you'd rather just get inside and put your bag down.

"You know, things've been interesting around here lately..." she says with the exaggerated weight of someone about to unleash something juicy, her voice a hush whisper as she looks around as if what she's about to tell you is top-secret and only for you to hear.

"People coming and going, strange noises at night—not that you'd notice, sleeping like the dead in that little tomb of yours I bet."

You don't answer that, just nod vaguely and try not to breathe too deep.

"I'll tell you what though, that kid on 4A? He swears someone tried his door handle in the middle of the night. Gave him a right fright, he says." she makes a clicking sound with her tongue. 

"Cops didn't care, of course. Said it's probably just junkies trying doors."

You glance up the stairs, already half antsy to get to your floor.

"But here's the kicker-" She lowers her voice dramatically, even though no one else is around. 

"You remember that man from down in 2B? Real mouthy, always yelling for the landlord, making scenes? Haven't seen him in days. Not since Tuesday."

"I'm sure he's just out or something." you say quickly. 

It comes out a little defensive and you're not sure why—you have never seen the man, only heard him yelling in complaints.

Mrs. Allen raises her eyebrows. 

"Oh, honey, in this place? People don't leave, they just disappear. That's what happens around here."

You don't really know what to say to that.

She narrows her eyes at you in that overly familiar way she always does. 

"You keep to yourself, don't you? Smart. Real smart. Especially with him so close."

You blink. 

"Who?"

"You know who." she jerks her chin toward the ceiling, though she clearly means Mr.Riley. 

"The one that barely ever talks. The one with the eyes who always covers his face."

You give her a tight, polite smile, the kind that says 'please stop talking' without actually saying it—she doesn't take the hint.

"I wouldn't trust a man that quiet. I heard from Mrs. Leon in 2A that he's got something under his bed, like...something. She swears she saw him leave with empty bags and returning with stuffed ones several times. Real heavy and big bags."

You saw him leave the building with a somewhat empty duffle bag yesterday too, though you didn't see him come back to confirm if the bag was any fuller when he returned—not that you should care.

You're not sure why she's telling you all this. 

You're even less sure why your skin's crawling a little so you just chalk it up to being tired.

"Well..." you say, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder "I should go put away my groceries."

You have no groceries.

"Oh, of course of course." Mrs. Allen waves you off, already distracted by her own thoughts. 

"Just keep your ears open, darling. This building's got its secrets."

You offer a nod and make your way up the flights of stairs to the third floor, her scent trailing after you like a gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

When you reach your door, you glance at Mr.Riley's across the hall.

Closed, quiet—just like always.

You slide your key into the lock, giving one last glance down the stairwell behind you.

No sign of Mrs. Allen, no sound, just the low creaks and groans of the building settling into itself for the night.

Inside, the apartment is exactly how you left it—dim, still carrying the faint warmth from this morning's coffee and still smelling like detergent from washing and drying laundry the day before.

You lock the door behind you with a soft click and shrug out of your jacket, letting your bag drop next to the coat rack with a dull thump.

Your apartment isn't much, but right now, it feels like a cocoon. 

A small and quiet space that's yours, untouched by gossip, cigarette breath and the way Mrs. Allen talks like she's narrating an urban legend.

You set your phone on the counter and check the time. 

Late, but not too late to throw something easy together for dinner perhaps.

You settle on leftovers, reheating them in the microwave and leaning against the counter as they spin behind the scratched plastic door while you check your phone.

Nothing new is awaiting you—no messages, no headlines that catch your attention.

Unwillingly, your thoughts drift to Mr.Riley—you hadn't thought much about him until Mrs. Allen opened her mouth. 

He's been your neighbor for weeks now, and sure, he's strange—keeps to himself, doesn't talk, wears the same dark clothes and gloves like he's allergic to being seen—but none of that's a crime.

Still, your brain replays her words like background noise.

'People don't leave, they just disappear.' - 'Real heavy and big bags.' - 'The one with the eyes.'

You shake your head, scoff under your breath.

People like her love turning silence into something sinister.

The microwave beeps.

You eat your food on the couch with a blanket over your lap, TV playing something harmless in the background. 

Static-light comedy, too quiet to really follow but just enough to fill the room.

Eventually you wash your plate, change into something soft and oversized and go about the rest of your nightly routine.

You pass by the front door on the way to your room and glance at the lock.

You decide to turn it once more, just in case.

It's not because you're scared, it's just a habit—old building just make noises.

Later, as you lie in bed, you try not to think about duffle bags or the fact that you've never once seen Mr. Riley laugh, cough, or even speak more than a sentence.

Some people just don't seem to be the type to make a lot of noise, at least that's your guess.

You stare at the ceiling for a while, listening to the low moan of wind against the windows.

Then, finally, sleep finds you.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

Three weeks pass after Mrs. Allen cornered you in the stairwell, stinking of smoke and rumor, until you see Mr.Riley again.

You hadn't thought about him more than for a passing second at a time the last three weeks—usually when the kid from 4A played his music until deep in the night, the bass damp but loud enough to keep you awake which made you notice that Mr.Riley comes home pretty late whenever he leaves in the morning.

He seems to come home way past midnight when the complex has already settled for sleep, considering you don't hear his door open and close most of the time, which makes you wonder what kind of job he works to be out for this long.

But life moved on, the way it always does.

The elevator is still broken, the water still runs cold after five minutes, your boss still can't send a coherent email and the office coffee machine still breaks down like it's being purposely sabotaged.

Nothing dramatic has happened. 

No missing neighbors, no suspicious bags and no strange noises at night—or at least none you couldn't blame on the pipes.

So you adjusted, routine took over again—burying the unease in the rhythm of work, bills, laundry, emails, dishes.

That is until you meet Mr. Riley again, your boring routine interrupted for long enough to notice that it's interrupted.

It's a late Saturday evening and you're still fighting with the instructions of a bookcase.

It's been hours since you started trying to build it but you can't make sense of the instructions and feel like a few parts are missing.

You're hammering the shelves into the obviously crooked frame, screw them in place but nothing seems to fit anywhere.

You groan in frustration as you try to get the shelve, you just tried to force into place, out again.

Then, there is a knock on your door.

It's not violent or angry, it's determined and almost faint—almost making you miss that it's even there.

You don't even look into the peephole to check who stands in front of your door before you unlock and open it.

Mr.Riley is looming over in front you, eyes lowered to something in the middle of the previously closed door.

You forgot how tall and big he is, making you involuntarily swallow hard.

His broad shoulders are almost as big as the doorframe and he barely avoids the top of it with his head.

He is dressed in all black again, his face covered by a black surgical mask and the hood of his hoodie is pulled deep into his face once more.

"It's late." he say's, his dark voice booming across the hallway despite being quiet.

He doesn't say it in a angry or accusing tone, just states a fact.

You need a moment before you're able to answer, Mrs. Allen's gossip of how she heard he leaves with empty bags and returns with full ones playing in your mind.

"I know, I'm sorry." you say quickly, polite.

"I was...I'm just trying to build a bookshelf but it's more of a challenge than I thought." you admit a bit sheepish and shy, a embarrassed chuckle escaping past your lips.

Mr.Riley glances past you.

His eyes wander over the interior of your apartment for a moment before they ultimately land on the parts of the half unbuilt and crooked bookshelf.

He hums deeply, almost grunts, his eyes still fixed on the mostly dissembled bookshelf before he takes a step forward.

Instinctively you take a step back as he looms over you so easily and he seems to take your step back as an invitation to step inside because he just squeeze past you into your apartment.

Your lips part in polite protest, but the words die on your tongue before they could be heard.

You're frozen in place for a moment, staring at where he was just standing with your hand still holding onto the door handle.

It's the sound of his heavy boots becoming quieter before they stop that gets you out of that statue like state.

You turn around, eyes slightly widened in confusion and surprise at the fact that he just walked in without even asking.

Your gaze find his figure—he's hunched over the dissembled bookshelf, his eyes seemingly examining it.

He shoves the instructions aside, not even sparing them a skim, before he takes off the black cotton gloves he always wears.

His bare right hand picks up the screwdriver you had used to try and assemble the bookshelf and Mr.Riley crouches down as he begins undoing the screws.

You close the door again, not fully though—you leave a gap big enough for someone to slip through.

Just in case.

"Uhm.." you mutter, unsure of what to even say.

Mr. Riley doesn't react and just continues to undo the screws and take the shelves out of the crooked frame.

It only takes a few moments for him to be done with that, shelves, screws and the dissembled frame laying on the floor of your living room.

He stands again, slow and steady, unfolding to his full height like a shadow stretching under a streetlight. 

Without a word, he grabs the first two wooden panels and fits them together with a precision that makes your earlier efforts feel like finger-painting on concrete during rain—utterly useless.

You linger near the doorway, one hand still hovering over the half-closed door behind you while watching him work. 

He doesn't glance up, doesn't ask for help, doesn't even make a single sound.

You're not even sure if he can speak beyond the few clipped words he's given you a few weeks ago.

There's something mechanical about the way he moves, efficient and focused like he's done this a hundred times before—like he could do it blindfolded. 

The only sound in the apartment is the scrape of wood against wood, the soft click of screws turning into place and the dull thud of the frame finally sitting flat against the floor.

He doesn't touch the instructions, doesn't need to.

You step away from the door slowly and hover awkwardly near the kitchenette, arms crossed loosely over your chest as you watch him work in fascination.

"Would you like something to drink? A water, maybe..?" you offer out of politeness, voice low—still no answer.

You watch him screw the last shelf into place, hands steady, movement fluid. 

He doesn't speak even after he stands back up and gives the finished piece a once-over. 

It looks perfect—straight, stable and solid like it's always been there.

He wipes his hands on the thighs of his black jeans, then reaches for the gloves he laid on the floor earlier. 

He pulls them on slowly, tugging each fingertip snug with little practiced jerks.

"Thank you." you say genuine this time after you manage to get yourself out of your amazed staring at just how fast he built the bookshelf because you had needed hours to even figure out how to even get the frame together.

Your voice is still soft, but steady. 

"Seriously. I couldn't figure it out."

Mr. Riley turns to face you. 

His eyes meet yours briefly, unreadable in the low light, the only part of his face still visible beneath the hood and mask. 

He gives a single nod, so small and subtle that you doubt ever seeing it.

And then, without a word, he walks toward the door.

You step out of the way instinctively.

He doesn't acknowledge you further as he passes—just pulls the door open with a slow, controlled motion and steps back into the dim hallway.

The door swings shut behind him with a soft click.

You stand there for a moment in silence, then you look back at the bookshelf.

Perfect, not a single screw out of place.

You cross the room and trail your fingers along the edge of the top shelf, trying to shake the lingering sense of...something.

You're not sure if it's gratitude or discomfort—or even both.

You walk over to your front door and lock it, check if it locked once then twice.

After what Mrs. Allen told you about the guy from 4A, you make sure to always check twice or even three times if the lock clicks in place—just in case.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

Sunday morning is slow and silent, the kind where the city feels half-asleep and the air in your apartment hangs heavy with stillness.

The bookshelf stands against the wall like it's always belonged there. 

Every time you glance at it, it still looks too perfect—too precise, not one shelf out of line, not one screw loose. 

It's the only new thing in your apartment that doesn't creak, lean, or make some kind of mechanical complaint aside from your coffee maker.

You try not to keep staring at it, but you do. 

More than once.

You catch yourself thinking about how quickly he moved, how quiet he was, how he just knew how to fix it like it was muscle memory.

You wonder what he does for work—if he has work which you guess he does since he does leave the building some mornings. 

You've never seen him leave at regular hours though, never seen him dressed for a job and never have you even seen him carry anything except that black duffle bag.

Shaking your head to get yourself out of your thoughts about him, you take your gaze off the perfect bookshelf.

You're not trying to obsess, you're just curious—that's all.

The rain starts up again around noon.

It's light at first, then steady and relentless. 

It drums softly on the windows and you try to take the gloomy weather as permission to stay inside all day.

You throw together a late breakfast then settle on the couch in a hoodie and thick socks. 

You almost manage to relax—almost.

But your attention keeps drifting toward the hallway, you haven't heard anything from across the hall all morning. 

Not a single boot step, no creaking wood, not even the usual soft clunk of Mr. Riley's lock locking behind him.

You tell yourself that's normal.

Still, when you bring your empty coffee mug to the sink, you pause beside the door and press your ear lightly against the wood—nothing, just the sound of your own breathing.

You back away and sigh. 

This is stupid. 

You don't care where he is or what he's doing. 

You don't care that he came in, fixed your shelf, and left without saying more than four words total.

You check the lock again before walking away and it's definitely clicked in place.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

You don't realize how exhausted you are until you're halfway up the stairs the following day, your legs are burning and your umbrella is dripping cold rainwater down your wrist. 

The subway was packed, your boss was in one of his moods, you didn't even get a real lunch break and you still had to walk half a mile in the soggy mess to reach the apartment complex.

When you finally reach the third floor, you let out a breath and fumble for your keys while already thinking about heat, food and collapsing on the couch.

But when you push the key into the lock, it doesn't go in.

You blink, try again—it doesn't fit.

Your heart skips a beat as you straighten up and look at the door more closely.

The lock is different—shiny, new. 

A deadbolt that wasn't there before with a reinforced strike plate and a smoother, sturdier handle—definitely not the one from this morning.

Your eyes flick across the hallway to see if Mr. Riley's lock was changed too, but it wasn't.

Though his model was newer and better than your previous one anyway.

You stand there for a second, dripping, as you try to piece it together.

Digging through your key ring, you find the second key—the one the landlord gave you as a spare that never fit.

This time, it turns easily.

The bolt slides open with a quiet, well-oiled click.

Inside, everything's as you left it. 

Still dark, still warm and still your tiny apartment.

You close the door behind you, lock it and flip the switch for the light before you stand in front of the new lock and stare at it for a moment.

It's definitely an upgrade, you just don't remember anyone saying it was coming—no email, no heads up, nothing.

Later that night after you've warmed up, changed clothes and reheated soup from yesterday, you open your laptop at the kitchen table and write a quick email to your landlord.

Subject: New Lock Installation. Thank You!

'Hello Mr. Levington,

I just wanted to say thanks for the new lock on my apartment door - I noticed it had been replaced when I came home from work today. It's definitely a big improvement over the old one and makes me feel a lot safer, especially after some of the recent stories going around the building.

While I have your attention, I also wanted to kindly follow up again on the water heater issue. I'm still getting only a few minutes of hot water before it turns cold, which makes showers pretty uncomfortable—especially with the weather lately.

Thanks again for the lock,

Unit 3B'

You hit send, turn off the laptop and sit in the quiet for a moment—staring at the screen as it fades to black.

Something about the whole thing gnaws at you, but you don't exactly know what.

You guess it's just odd that Mr. Levington hasn't responded to your two previous emails about the water heater but then decided to change your lock for a brand new one without even a warning or addressing it at all.

You hadn't even complained about the lock, not even mentioned that it could use an upgrade even once.

The lock wasn't even one of your concerns about your apartment, though of course you had considered it to be one after what Mrs. Allen told you.

You don't mind the upgrade of course, it's great to have, but the shiny new lock looks somewhat out of place on the old wooden door.

You try not to think about it too much though, shouldn't make a problem where there is none.

Instead of wasting the last bits of energy you have left on breaking your head over the lock and Mr. Levington not telling you he wanted to replace it, you use it to get ready for bed.

You sigh deeply as you lay down, later than you normally would—it's almost midnight.

And as you drift into sleep, the sound of boots on the vinyl floor of the hallway drums your eyelids heavier.

The quiet click of the lock across the hallway outside your apartment locking is the last thing you hear before you fall asleep just a few moments later.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

The days blur into an entire week.

Work eats your energy, the weather stays miserable.

The water heater still hasn't been fixed, you haven't even heard a word from your landlord.

And the lock? 

Still shiny, still silent.

No explanation, no update and no receipt of installation.

You stopped asking.

A bit more than a week after you got your new lock, you catch sight of Mr. Riley again.

You're leaving your apartment early, too early, to catch a ride share after the subway line shut down for maintenance.

He's standing at his door, locking it.

Dressed all in black, face obscured as always. 

His hood is pulled down low, gloved hands moving with steady precision over the deadbolt.

You step out quietly, hoping not to startle him.

"Morning." you say softly, not expecting anything—and you don't get anything in return, just as expected.

He doesn't turn his head, doesn't nod, doesn't even pause what he's doing.

You pass behind him in silence, the only sounds being your own hesitant steps and the soft scrape of his key turning in the lock.

You tell yourself you weren't trying to start a conversation, you were just being polite.

Another two weeks pass before you see him again.

It's after sunset. 

You're coming up the stairs with your phone in hand, keys ready and half-distracted.

He's sitting on the top step of the landing, elbows on his knees, head resting on top of his folded hands as he stares into the distance.

He's not doing anything, not looking at anything, just...sitting.

Your stomach tightens at the sight of him. 

Not with fear exactly but with something colder—uncertainty.

You step slower as you approach, trying to figure out if he's blocking the way. 

He's not—there's just enough space to walk around.

And yet you pause a step or two from him, unsure of what to say.

"Are you alright?" you ask softly.

No answer.

His hood shifts slightly—a small tilt, not quite toward you and not quite away.

You glance at his gloved, intertwined hands. 

A few fingers of his right hand are curled loosely around a lighter.

You step around him, quiet and careful.

When you reach your door and turn the key, he still hasn't moved.

You go inside and lock the door.

Another month later on a wednesday evening, you return home to find a piece of your mail has been slipped under your door—a thin envelope that must've fallen out of your box or has been misdelivered.

You bend down to pick it up and as you do, the hallway light flickers once overhead.

You glance across the hall.

Mr. Riley's door is cracked open just an inch and you think about knocking, but you don't.

You straighten up, check that your lock is still latched and go inside.

The following weeks you catch a glimpse of him a few more times.

You keep greeting him, out of sheer politeness.

He never responds or even seems to acknowledge you, by now you don't really mind anymore but these last couple of weeks he seems to not come home everyday.

You don't hear his lock click into place a few nights in a row which isn't too unusual since he often returns long after the building has settled to sleep, first guessing you yourself are asleep when he returns and therefore not noticing.

What gives away his absence however is the mail in his box not being taken out, a few letters piling behind the metal hatch.

Even Mrs. Allen doesn't know why he's away—but she doesn't hesitate to, unasked for, fill you in on all the gossip and rumors recently circulating around the complex.

She even tries to get some information out of you, but you manage to shake her off.

'None of my business.' you tell yourself and shove all and any thought of your neighbor from across the hall away.

That approach works, at least for another few days.

It's on one of the few occasions that you decide to watch the news.

Nothing else interesting to watch is running on any other channel and you don't want to, yet again, start a movie you know you won't finish.

You had made yourself some tea that has already gone cold, forgotten in your hands as you half-heartedly watch the news.

Inside your small apartment the soft blue flicker of the TV bathes your living room in a ghostly, almost eerily, light.

''After a decade-long manhunt, the criminal known as 'Ghost', was captured this evening during a heist in Bolton. Authorities confirm that the suspect, who was wanted in connection with at least sixteen homicides and a series of armed robberies that resulted in several deaths, was able to be detained-''

You stare at the screen.

The news anchor's voice is steady, clinical, almost bored as she reveals the circumstances of the criminal's capture.

Besides her pretty face, a grainy black and white photo appears—the man himself.

It seems to be a CCTV image, the frame besides the news anchor's head not moving while she continues to talk.

The man in the frame is tall, a rifle in his hand with the opening of it pointing upwards.

He holds a duffle bag in his other gloved hand, a wide rain jacket doing an awful job at concealing his clearly muscular build while a black balaclava with a skull mask sewn onto the upper part of it—you're guessing just above his lips—conceals his face but the frame is too unfocused to make out a lot.

People are on the ground besides him, covering their ears.

Some are laying flat on their stomach, others are sitting on the ground while some are crouched down.

And even though the frame is of too bad quality to be able to be sure based on their expressions, you can tell that they're scared—probably for their lives. 

You don't know what you expected to feel regarding this type of news.

Relief, maybe, or disgust or some distant kind of victory—as if the country itself could exhale, let go of a breath held in fear with this criminal finally captured.

And you do feel all of these things, but the unexpected ache in your chest is strong and strange.

It's a quiet kind of pity for the man who had done all these kinds of atrocious things.

You're not sorry that he was captured, you would never feel sorry for a man like him going behind bars, you're sorry for the weight of a life misshaped into something monstrous.

You set the cup down, the half drunken and cold tea swaying with the movement.

The photo changes, now showing a paparazzi photo of Ghost as he exits a police van.

The focus is on his masked face and he looks straight into the camera.

You freeze.

The news anchors voice as she continues to speak echoes through your skull as you try to process the information she's giving.

The photo lingers on the screen for only a few moments, but that's all it takes.

Because somehow, you recognize him.

It's not the build, though it matches.

It's not the duffle bag, though that detail cuts a little too close.

It's not even the black gloves or the cold, hunched posture.

It's the eyes.

The same unreadable, slate-brown eyes you've met a few times across the hall that were barely visible beneath a hood or mask—quiet, flat, unblinking.

You tell yourself it's a coincidence, that it's impossible, but the news anchor's voice only confirms your feeling of familiarity with 'Ghost'.

"In a statement released a few hours later, authorities confirmed the identity of the man known by the alias 'Ghost' as Simon Riley. Riley is currently being held in custody after his capture this evening in Bolton."

Simon Riley.

Especially the last name lands in your chest like a brick.

You stare blankly as his name repeats in the news crawl beneath the anchor's face.

SIMON RILEY, ALIAS 'GHOST,' CAPTURED DURING BOTCHED ROBBERY. THREE SUSPECTS STILL AT LARGE.

"Authorities believe Riley is part of a robbery and homicide crew responsible for over a dozen fatal incidents across the country in the last ten years. During the attempted heist in Bolton, Riley was the only suspect detained after a standoff with local and federal authorities."

The screen shifts to video footage of the depot aftermath—police tape, floodlights, a heavily guarded van. 

Then a freeze-frame of Ghost again, this time with better quality.

His eyes are calm, sharp but still look somewhat tired.

You've seen these eyes right across the hall, for months.

You've seen those eyes look at you through a crack in a door, you've seen them glance at your hallway and through you.

You've stood two feet away from them, said 'Thank you' while he was in your apartment.

"According to law enforcement, Riley's three unidentified accomplices managed to flee through a secondary exit before units could secure the perimeter. It is currently unknown whether they sustained injuries or where they may be headed."

The screen cuts to a different shot—grainy footage of three hooded figures sprinting through a side alley. 

One of them limps slightly, another carries a second duffle.

The news anchor keeps talking, now mentioning something about tip hotlines—you don't hear most of it.

You sit back slowly, the couch cushions barely responding under your weight and your cup of tea trembling slightly where you set it down.

Your apartment feels colder somehow.

Your mind replays what Mrs. Allen had said—'People don't leave, they just disappear.'

You remember Mr.Riley sitting on the steps, still as stone, with a lighter gripped between two gloved fingers.

You remember noting that he didn't seem to have returned to the apartment complex in days and now you know why—because he was in Bolton probably planning a heist, starting it and possibly even killing people to get to his goal.

''Riley is currently being held at His Majesties Prison Frankland, where he will remain in custody until his trial.'' the news anchor finishes her report on him before switching to the next topic.

You sit there long after the screen has moved on to the weather, the weather man's voice fading into white noise inside your head.

You should feel something sharp—shock, fear, maybe even rage.

But instead, it's something quieter and heavier.

Like someone dropped a weight into the center of your chest and now you're waiting to see if it sinks or breaks you.

You would've never guessed, not in a thousand years.

Not once did you look at Simon Riley, your neighbor and the man across the hall, thinking 'murderer'.

When you thought of him you thought quiet, gruff, maybe even rude. 

You thought creepy on the worst days, when his silence stretched too long or his stare stuck to your back a beat too hard and long...but never did you think violent or dangerous.

You remember how he carried your box that day without being asked, how he fixed your bookshelf like it was nothing.

How he never said hello, or you're welcome, or anything really—but also never once made you feel unsafe.

Just...uncomfortable. 

Like he didn't know how to be around people anymore, like he didn't want to.

You replay it all now, searching for something you missed or some moment where the mask slipped.

But there isn't one.

Even when he stepped into your apartment uninvited—even then you didn't feel threatened.

You were tense, sure, guarded...but not afraid.

He was quiet, distant, unreadable but he wasn't cruel—he didn't make you flinch.

And that's what unnerves you most now.

The fact that someone responsible for that many deaths could walk beside you and never once reveal it, could sit across from you in silence and not leak anything.

The world sees Ghost—sixteen confirmed bodies, dozens of robberies, a name spoken in headlines like a myth finally caught.

But you remember him as the man who stood in front of your bookshelf with one hand braced on his knee, eyes scanning crooked boards and misaligned screws like the mess offended him personally.

The man who never looked at you for more than two seconds at a time.

Not like a predator, not like prey—more like someone who'd forgotten how to be human and was just going through the motions.

When you finally manage to force yourself to turn the TV off and go to bed, your mind keeps spinning around him.

'Will he come back?'

Mrs. Allen mentioned a neighbor saying she saw him leave with empty bags and return with full ones—perhaps he really has something underneath his bed that that he just wouldn't leave behind.

Will his three companions help him escape 'Monster Mansion'?

Frankland, or 'Monster Mansion' as most people call it due to its fairly dangerous inmates, isn't as far away from you as you wish.

If it was your choice, it'd be at the other end of the world but in reality a two-hour car ride and the prison walls itself are the only thing keeping you save from England's most gruesome murderers, rapists and terrorists.

And now your neighbor is imprisoned there too.

Would you be safe if he actually managed to escape?

Your mind keeps reeling and reeling, refusing to let you fall asleep.

As you bury yourself in your sheets you find yourself wondering if Mr. Riley even fits in there.

Sure, he is a killer.

There is more blood on his hands than you'd like to imagine, but he's not batshit crazy like all the other men imprisoned in Frankland—at least not by what you can judge based on how he acted around you.

He had so many chances to harm you, so many ways to do it without getting caught—but he didn't.

Suddenly, you remember the criminal justice class you once took way before your live became...this.

You had never taken it out of any particular interest in crime or punishment.

It was an elective class, something to choose outside your major that you had picked on a whim.

The teacher was kind, sharp and deeply unsettling with how easily he made the room question their ideas of morality or the way they looked at crime.

One day, he had handed everyone in the class envelopes with names that didn't ring a bell.

''Read about an inmate. Ask yourself who they could be, who they could've been before and who you think they would want to be.'' your teacher had said.

You remember having stared at the name on the envelope given to you by your teacher for a while.

It was a woman in check for fraud and petty theft.

A single mother and former nurse that was already five years into a seven-year sentence.

You had read her case half-heartedly before you found the back of the paper where she had written a few things.

She had written about herself and her crime, her words full of vulnerability, regret and sadness of having lost custody of her kids due to being imprisoned.

Classmates got other prisoners of other ages convicted of other minor crimes and you all exchanged a few words about the inmates you got at the end of class.

By that you found that it's impossible to ever forget that feeling that even behind concrete and steel, people were still people.

Flawed, angry and desperate, sometimes even dangerous, but not gone.

It's probably stupid and naive, but something inside of you rebells against the idea that a man could be nothing but a list of horrors for no reason.

There had to be a thread left in him, however thin it might be.

Like a child neglected and just begging for a hug, like a dream suppressed that was just waiting to be asked for, like a wound having been repeatedly reopened by being licked raw and only waiting for a bandage to heal.

You imagine people see a monster when they think of him—a man who leaves nothing but pain and fear behind wherever he goes, and they're not wrong.

You won't act or pretend to understand the choices he made and you won't make up excuses for them either.

After all, people are hurt and scared and grieving because of him.

And still, you feel sorry for him—it's a weird feeling that mixes with all your emotions in the grand scheme of things.

Of course you feel more sorry for his victims than for him, but it's still the same emotion even if it's less prominent.

You don't feel sorry for him being caught and his streak of terror ending, you could never feel sorry for that, but rather for the boy he once must've been—for the path of pain and misery he must've been forced to take to make him become what he ultimately became.

You don't believe anyone is born evil. 

Not only that but you think something, or many things, went terribly wrong for him.

Maybe no one helped. 

Maybe no one listened when it might have made a difference—you don't know.

Maybe he is shaking fists and trembling teeth, and you don't think he meant to be cruel if he had the choice...but it doesn't mean he was kind either.

And it also doesn't mean forgiveness is owed to him, not that it would be yours to give anyway.

You just hope that, in whatever time he has ahead, he tries to understand himself and the harm he has caused.

You hope he finds something that brings him peace, something that makes him feel like a person and not a sum of crimes.

You hope, truly, that he finds something worth holding onto that motivates him to be the best version of himself and repent.

You're convinced that Simon Riley didn't choose to become Ghost, at least not freely.

Perhaps it was his only way which of course doesn't excuse anything he has done.

You're glad with the way things are now.

He is gone, miles away from you behind bars and there is nothing for you to worry about.

You let out a slow breath, pressing your cheek deeper into the pillow.

The thoughts keep circling, folding over themselves and spiraling in patterns that don't lead anywhere useful. 

Maybe it's just the mind's way of trying to make sense of something that never will make sense.

You close your eyes.

For a moment, you imagine him again.

Not how he looked in that photo on the news, but how he stood in your apartment—crouched over the mess of wood and screws, methodical and silent. 

His movements precise, focused, like fixing something was the only way he knew how to communicate—no anger, no violence, no threat.

You remember the way he never even once looked at you while working, or in general really.

You wonder if he's alone in his cell now.

If he's sitting on the edge of a thin mattress, still and silent just like he sat on top of the stairs weeks ago?

If he's staring at a wall and not thinking about anything, or if his mind's running itself raw just like yours is now?

You wonder what it feels like to be caught, to stop running and stop hiding.

A deep ache settles under your ribs—it's tiredness, it sits so deep it hums in your bones.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, the room is quiet.

The heater groans low in the corner, the building creaking faintly like old lungs inhaling in sleep.

And maybe it's okay, just for tonight, to stop turning it all over in your head.

He's gone.

He won't be walking past your door again, won't sit on your steps, won't lock his door across from yours anymore on the rare occasions he seemingly returned to the complex and lived in his flat.

It's over.

Whatever Ghost was, whatever Simon Riley became—he's not your problem.

You exhale slowly, the weight of everything pressing just enough to soften your limbs.

Your eyes flutter once, then again.

The next breath is deeper.

You don't even remember closing your eyes for the last time.

Sleep takes you gently, quiet, heavy and dreamless.

a/n: I almost imploded forcing myself to proofread this and I'm 10000% certain there are still a ton of mistakes because I'm still sick somehow?? Maybe I shouldn't learn for my drivers license while sick and actually rest

The sword swung, slicing through the air with a hushed and brief whistle before clashing against another blade. Sparks floated, witness of the prowess displayed by the men wielding the protecting and slaughtering instruments, that danced in a slowed and choreographed tempo. 

Two steps forward from him meant two steps back for the other. A clashing of swords, almost bent the knee of the shorter soldier, earning a condescending smirk from the taller one. 

The perks of having a considerable height sure did wonders among his peers. His soldiers. Men that would always follow him, even to hell itself if that meant to remain as a team. 

Individuality did not exist in his squad as it was not only punished, but frowned upon. In battle, his men, their swords and him became one. The holy trinity. A force little to none dared to reckon with. But outside the warlike conflicts, within the castle’s walls and training sessions, each man stupid enough to defy him meant a target. A lesson to keep themselves grounded.

Mercy abandoned him, like the restraint and consideration he often carried towards his men in the battlefield, as soon as their feet entered his ring.

“Is that all you got?” General O’Hara sneered, almost amused that his best soldier so far had the gall to actually take the lead, and show the future contenders how they’d end up, if they asked for a one-on-one spar with him. 

The soldier’s shoulders squared, as he adjusted his angle to tilt the sword to a side, steering the general’s blade to the left, using his boss’ weight as a leverage against him  to make it follow his stumbling body; before piercing into the air in a powerful stab. Just inches away from the general’s face. 

“You’re getting old–.” Another stab, and he dodged. Barely. “ –and slow!”

Miguel stepped back, planting his feet in a steely stance before delivering a clashing swing that made the soldier’s hand tremble along his sword. 

“That’s low, even for you.” The blows kept coming, and as expected of his right hand, he deflected and attacked, as he would do in the front lines. “C’mon!” 

That last clash sent the soldier toppling to the ground, his sword falling feet away from his hands. 

Miguel dropped the sword and his knuckles cracked, as the thrill of what came next coursed through him. Probably through the spectators the session had gathered too. His fists readied, just in time to receive a growling deputy once the dust released him from the floor.

Always throwing himself headfirst into danger. Literally. 

A powerful headbutt connected with the general’s abdomen, pushing all air out of his lungs in a go. Using his lower stance as an advantage, the man steadied his fists and connected a couple of jabs on Miguel’s sides, right where an enemy’s spear had grazed days ago. 

“You little—” He hissed, curling to the side to protect the wound, despite the painful stings pulsating each time he breathed. “¡Cabrón!” A surge of pride crossed his eyes when the soldier smirked and shook his hands to fend the cramping off his knuckles. Then, they balled into fists again, ready to imprint their own share of fight into his now tender skin.

“See?” The aforementioned spat the blob of saliva to the floor with a sided grin. “You sound like a grandpa now.” 

But the man, that strange soldier of his, often forgot one important thing during their spars. That he, The Red Blight, was the general for a reason.

In two big strides, Miguel planted himself before the soldier, and grappled him by his waist, jostling him over his broad shoulders like a ragdoll. Almost in slow motion, before slamming his body on the ground. A dusty cloud shrouded them both, blocking the sight for the rest.

All they could hear were grunting, growling, a couple of breathless and mocking laughs —and a broken cry ringing through the dry fog. Sometimes a boot and a bandaged hand peeked out, as a clear warning to stay away. A choked yelp stopped the struggle.

“You’re done.” The general’s voice rasped in between breathless pants. Dust stuck to his sweaty face and body, but that didn’t stop him from giving his subordinate a jeering smile.

“Fuck you! You cheated!” His hands flailed, trying to connect another jab, but they were quickly snatched and criss-crossed over his chest with a powerful shove.

“And so will the enemy.” He pressed tighter and his red eyes watched as the air abandoned his soldier’s lungs. “You fight men bigger than me on the front, but you can’t stand me in training?” His lips twitched in a mocking scowl. “Do you even deserve to be my captain?”

Miguel’s words didn’t sting like they used to, rather sparked alive another wave of anger flowing in the captain’s veins the more that brute pressed against his chest. His teeth ground together, baring in a glower dedicated to the man above.

“Answer the fucking question, Corvo! Do YOU deserve to be my captain?” Miguel pressed, but the pained expression in his soldier —bloodshot eyes quickly glossing when he pressed tighter, almost fusing his arms against his chest, stopped him. 

Shit. 

He had gotten way too excited. Again. 

Corvo inhaled sharply, drowning a sniff that almost escaped from his nose as he scrambled away from the crushing weight above.

“Are you okay?” The giant man asked, concerned when The Raven held his chest as though something had broken. Maybe it had. 

Silence. Corvo’s best attribute in war as it’d meant he’d be too busy slaughtering enemies to speak, but the worst in training. Because that meant anger, directed exclusively his way. 

“Hey—” 

He was gone. 

Like the spectators that dispersed as soon as the dust cloud vanished and saw him on top. Triumphant, reclaiming his position as the invictus contender. 

“Fuck…” 

He’d apologize to his friend later. For now, his body demanded a bath.

Corvo. 

The Red Blight’s right hand. His best friend. 

“Good lord. Again?” The doctor quickly closed the quarters and drew in the curtains, blocking the view from any impromptu visitors. 

A liar.

“I called him old and slow.” 

An imposter.

Jessica gathered a couple of flasks filled with oil-like concoctions and ointments with a frown. Her expert hands unbuttoned the dirty vest and slowly peeled off the layers. Starting with the chemise, already suffocating the muscles and drenched in sweat. Then, the inner linen, trying to contain the bruised and tender skin, to finally meet the final barrier.  

“I didn’t think you’d get this devoted to the cause and risk your breasts.” The doctor squinted her eyes as she removed the binder. Slowly, almost too careful and wary of the bruises blooming the more the tight cloth fell, just to reveal a pair of supple and swollen breasts, marked by the threading pattern of the fabric constricting them.

“He didn’t mean that.” A hiss escaped through your mouth as Jessica prodded at one of them. A mean and purple bruise flaunted itself between your shoulder junction and the slope of your tit, just where the previous battle had left its mark, which Miguel had just worsened.

“Of course he didn’t. Neither the other times, hm?” Jessica’s fingers collected a good amount of minty ointment and her eyes met yours for a moment. “This will hurt.” 

“Shocker.” One of your hands reached for a piece of wood by the bed, scarred by old biting marks. One more wouldn’t hurt as you bit down and groped the sheets underneath, like it was the most logical and normal thing to do, after getting your own ass handed over. 

“You’re getting as reckless as he is.” Of course, your friend, the only one aware of your little secret, would scold you while massaging a tad rough your sore breasts while you whimpered, to allow the ointment do its magic. “God forbid he actually delivers a bad punch and I’ll have to cut your tits open.” 

The mental image almost revolted your stomach. If having a massage to ease and soothe the pained  muscles hurt like hell… A chill ran down your pained spine by just imagining it. 

“And then, everyone will find out.” The doctor scoffed while pouring a green-ish oil in the blackened areas.

You knew. God fucking dammit, you knew the outcome to that. 

Imprisonment, interrogation —probably done by your best friend himself, the accusation of being a spy; Miguel’s repulsion, hatred… Execution.

You gulped and averted your eyes to the flasks. 

Corvo. 

An unknown soldier’s name that just showed up one day in the recruitment list. None asked much, the kingdom couldn’t be picky when it came to the meat that would feed the cannons in a war against another conqueror wannabe.

A strange soldier that always slept with his back against the wall. A man that never washed with his peers in the lake after a well deserved break from killing, despite the grime and sweat itching in his eyes, skin and hair. 

A man that each month, for a week, devoted himself to silence and reclusion just to appear in the training ring like a mad dog, making other soldiers bite the dust and his blade slick with crimson on the battlefield. A man that found revolting the mud-fights his companions often subjected him to for fun. Because, that’s what men did, right? 

A man that had soft hands. Maybe too soft and small for a sword but mended and inflicted wounds like no other.  A voice that didn’t need to be louder to be obeyed or heard. The shortest soldier that had earned the respect from the squad, because no matter how many times war’s horrors tried to yank that gentleness out of him, he came out undefeated. And what better way to prove himself than saving the General’s life. Twice.

Your  name rang a bit too stiff in Jessica’s lips. 

A ghost's name, buried beneath an armor that sometimes fitted too tight and suffocating around your breasts. Underneath a badly shaven head, a lie and a bound chest to make it to the recruitment lines, in order to escape a fate a woman often ended up finding in the midst of war between men. A name you had erased when your enemy count surpassed hundreds, like the flock of ravens tailing behind you, carrying the omens of The Red Blight. 

Corvo, “The Raven”, had been born three years ago. 

The quizzical look from the soldier upon hearing the made up name to enlist, had almost made you smile at his gullibleness, but it quickly vanished upon heeding his warning. 

“Try to not die within the first month.” he said without looking your way twice. “I hate the corpse-cleansing shift, and if I see you there, you better be cleaning up with me. Or I’ll piss on your body, yeah?” 

You didn’t die. In fact, some labeled you as a try-hard for doing exactly what a good part of your story resumed into. Surviving. But they didn’t escape a home that had been ravaged to the ruins by the enemy, or had taken the bravery of cutting your hair so short you could barely comb through it.

They hadn’t bound their breasts so tight it often gave you back problems, aches impossible to tame without opium, and more bruises than boots to polish, just to breathe another day. 

But most importantly, they didn’t carry the crushing weight of lying to their best friend for three years in a row. 

“Let the ointment seep in, and then I’ll help you with the binder again.” 

Your eyes darted towards the fabric on Jessica’s table, and for a second disgust knitted your brows together, refusing immediately the expected offer, to then focus on your breasts. Resting unbound in their full glory and begging to taste freedom for a bit longer. 

“I’ll take a nap in your storage room.” 

Unable to watch for another second that scroll of fabric that oppressed your chest, 

or stand the idea of covering at once; you headed towards the hidden and makeshift room Jessica had helped you condition (after discovering your secret by accident during an ambush) and plopped yourself, topless, on the soft hay bed. Conceding your old self a moment of autonomy and rest from the ever present role of Corvo.

Your blade clashed and sliced through a soldier’s throat, trying to get a hold of the medical loot your team guarded. Just to barely dodge a fist that moved at full speed to your sides by another. 

You knew the route, the orders, the risks that it carried, and still you took the assignment with your team. A decoy from the main raid happening at Miguel’s orders on the enemy’s commander's settlement. 

Fuck. Fuck—

Your feet gave another dodge, just to stumble against themselves, swollen and sore from the extra weight the armor offered. It was enough for the soldier to land a powerful punch right and square to your lower belly. Folding you instantly. 

“What’s wrong pretty boy?” Mocked the soldier as his knee just emphasized the pain with another punch. “Kicked your pussy too hard?”

White light danced behind your lids, all air escaped from your lungs in a pained scream. Too high-pitched even for a wounded man. Tears welled up in your eyes as your vengeful insides clenched in a powerful contraction, enough to make you expel an ugly puke next to the dead soldiers.

“Get up!” The fiend barked, but your knees wobbled. Tears no longer cared if they were seen. They just wanted out.

Much to the soldier’s ironic misfortune, his eyes darted past your waist, instantly fixating on your armored thighs upon catching a glimpse of bright red;  flowing, spreading downwards the more you moved. Nothing had prepared him when comprehension fell like a pile of heavy maces, when he found and stared at the unmistakable source of such odd bleeding. 

No…

The enemy blinked and snapped his gaze between your legs, and back at your horrified face again. His eyes widened with that unsettling understanding that didn’t bode well the more his brain worked. Those lips of yours were too plump and pretty to be a guy’s. Your hips, too defined and curvaceous for a man’s, even if the armor did its best to conceal them. Your frame, smaller than the rest, even for a short guy, but average enough for a— 

You kicked dirt right in his eyes, out of embarrassment. 

It wasn’t supposed to come this soon!

“Aghck!” The man tried, uselessly, to clean his sight. But he didn’t stand a chance against your blade, which sliced through bone and nerve to sever his head. 

Headless men couldn’t speak, nor reveal secrets. 

The pain folded you again. Enough to make you kneel before the carriage, wheezing and trembling when yet another contraction scraped and bit from the inside. Your sight blurred for a moment. 

“Corvo!” 

Your lieutenant approached, alarmed to see you alone, kneeling with some corpses on the ground. 

“Quit the praying shit! We have the cargo!” One of his arms fetched yours as he draped it over his shoulder to steady your balance, and pulled up, earning a breathless and shaky yelp from you. He didn’t seem to mind the blood on your knee, probably mistaking it for a battle wound. 

Bless him. For not asking questions, or insisting too much besides the familiar ‘Are you okay?’. Your team had won the deathly tag-game, and that was all that mattered most. 

Your legs almost gave out, but you had to push through. With an effort that squeezed fresh tears (but were blinked away), you hopped on your horse and took the reins. 

“Send…” Your teeth ground as your jaw clenched. A deep inhale filled your lungs, trying to steady and lower your voice into that scrimpy lilt your men were already used to. “Fuck —Is the windmill’s path clear?” 

“All dead.” He confirmed.

“Take the cargo back to the castle.” Your head pounded, like the ill-timed spasms inside. “Report to General O’Hara.” Your fingers curled as you sharply sucked air, tightening on the leather straps on your hand. “T-Tell him… Fuck…”

“You’re hurt.” The lieutenant frowned, ready to pull you down from the horse and take you to the nearest doctor.

“Precisely why I need you to stop being an obvious fuck and go report.” Your tongue clicked, cueing your horse to turn and gallop before your subordinate could even protest or reach you. “Move!” 

A few very times you were close, really close, to falling off to the side of a road. Your sight vanished for tiny fractions of seconds, but the spasms, which grew stronger, like the urge to retch again, kept you anchored to consciousness. 

You had to make it back. To the castle, to Jessica, whom you had no doubt would scold you again for being reckless. Cause God forbid you fainting and being found by someone else. But, what could she possibly tell you when she was the one in charge of your tracking? 

A little irresponsible to leave such a personal affair in her hands, you knew. But between the training, the enemy and the guilt pulling from you in all directions, to try and get your complete attention; you had forgotten about the monthly reminder of your old self’s existence. 

Corvo didn’t bleed, nor fold over in pain. Or hopped off the horse with tears threatening to fall as his breeches reeked in iron, secretly panicking at getting noticed by the nearby absentminded soldiers. Your lips paled as your legs wobbled. 

And then, everyone will find out. 

It wasn’t an option. Neither a possibility you’d allow to happen, so with all the strength left you could muster, you grabbed a cloak from the nearby hanger and hurried through your pain to reach Jessica’s territory. 

The faint voices, and low hiss followed by a whimper turned clearer the more you approached. 

“ —And some rest, do you understand?” Jessica’s gentle but authoritative voice stirred the tears pooling at your inner corners. 

“What if the infection turns worse?” The soldier protested, "It's my shooting arm!” 

“Then, you'll die and we bury you.” Your voice cut through the no longer private meeting. Before your friend could speak, you held the door wide open for the stupid deputy with a bandaged arm. “Out.” 

“But I’m—”

“Out. Or I’ll chop that fucking arm myself right now.” 

The soldier blinked a little too late before scurrying off through the door, which you slammed shut and secured, alarming Jessica in the process. 

The lock clicked, allowing you a moment to blink away the pooling tears, even though each nerve in your body hurt to exist. 

Jessica frowned and stood. She rushed to the door, and pressed her ear against it, but the soldier had been long gone. And then, she faced you. Worry already painting across her countenance.

“Are you alright?…” her hushed voice earned a weakened and quick shake of your head. Dread crept up her features immediately as you held your lower belly. “Did someone…?”

“Almost.” Your hands removed the cloak, revealing the bloody armor. “I… I killed him. Fucker punched me twice.”

“Maker’s mercy…” Jessica helped you undo the rest of the armor, as her nose wrinkled lightly at the smell of fresh blood and sweat. “I don’t understand. It was supposed to arrive within a week!” 

“You tell me! That soldier knew, he just—” All that bravado from earlier vanished, leaving a shaky sob instead. “I-I got it mid battle, Jessie!” 

Jessie. Uh oh. 

“Go to the storage room. Get undressed. I’ll draw you a bath before Miguel arrives.” She unclasped as much armor  and clothing as she could before sending you away. 

Much to your dismay, the cloak you’d borrowed was none other than Miguel’s. And you had stained it. 

In a matter of minutes the sounds of pots and crackling fire echoed in Jessica’s office as steam rose. The brief memory of your first period under her watch, replayed almost instantly in your mind, while the tinkering of instruments and pots continued.

You, panicking and teary-eyed, wrapped like a scared child; sobbing, almost incoherently at the mess you carried  under your arm. Firmly tucked despite your shaking, until out of nervousness, you threw the sheets into the fire upon hearing another captain calling Corvo’s name. 

And ever since, you both —more like she, made the effort to keep in check that ever pestering moment.

“Are you alright?” Your friend peeked through the door when silence stretched for too long, and found you, almost naked and laid down over the hay bed. Passed out and still bleeding. “My poor girl.”

Damned be the consequences. You needed her. 

His steps marched, heavy and solemn, towards that safe space his best soldier had made out of Jessica’s infirmary. 

As much as the mission came to an end successfully, not seeing his Captain there didn’t sit right. Even worse when the lieutenant had reported that Corvo was injured, thus the reason for his absence. 

Miguel knew that the enemy’s group had been six men in total, and they all had perished, most under Corvo’s blade probably. He had endured countless battles, fighting at his captain’s side as though that spot in the army had been purposely created for him. Yet, no other soldier or private compared to him.

None had his cunning, that fury in his eyes that pushed him and his squad to give their best, wherever they went. He had seen men working and bleeding to the bone, but Corvo always fought like it would be the last time; as though time had punished him long ago with a burden so strong that only more dead men would pay it off.

But Miguel knew him. It wasn’t enough. That strange man he named captain a half a year ago and had earned a spot as his best friend —much to his reluctance at first, harbored such unease in his eyes. A weight only those with a heavy past carried. 

The General often wondered what had happened before the short man appeared in his ranks. Corvo possessed this unusual appeal Miguel had only seen in portraits of these royal and god-like descendants, earning him this other title of ‘pretty boy’ among the rest.  But not in the way it would be a compliment, as it contradicted every concept he had forged about the men under his command. 

At first, Miguel had thought Corvo wouldn’t even last for more than a month. Most of the men that arrived at the fortress were just looking for a place to recover their strength by being fed and taken care of, before ditching. Each morning had turned into a guessing game of how many men had quit overnight. 

But not that little bastard. Not him. 

Always with his back against the wall, as though he didn’t fully trust the men around him, still didn’t, perhaps. Why? Miguel hadn’t asked, neither blamed him. He had learned to not push his friend to sate his ill-timed curiosity. 

His cleansing habits were at first criticized by some, even him, by how obsessive he seemed to be with body odor. But having stinky men around him no more sure did wonders for his nose. All thanks to that eccentricity of his.

Sometimes he liked to play guessing games in his head about Corvo’s past. Perhaps he had been a noble, because of the finesse he often saw him perform with, even in the most disgusting of chores he assigned him. Or maybe, he was one of those people mingling with dark magic, because ravens and crows followed him like cawing shadows, way before The Raven was born. After all, Miguel had once found him, feeding the birds like they were his pets. 

He’d never get over that week Corvo refused to speak to him and disappeared, just because he threw him to the mud in the same way he’d do with every soldier under his command. Their initiation ritual. 

Miguel had come to accept these temporal absences, even though they upset him at first. Where did he go? What did he do? Who helped him being gone? Was he alright? A man that had saved his life, twice —his best friend— could be suffering and he was nowhere to help. 

But seeing him returning with more energy, like nothing had ever happened after the seven days; sometimes more, sometimes less, soothed him plenty to not push or dig deeper. Some might say there was a growing favoritism, maybe it did, or maybe the friendship had grown strong enough to let the bastard get away with some things. 

Right now, however, he needed to make sure that injury wouldn’t kill him. That was his job. Mission sure had been a feat, but he had defied orders, the squad’s principle of teamwork by leaving his men alone. His pace quickened once he left his armor behind, staff and men alike scurried away from his presence. Either busy as he was, or too fearful to meet his wrath early in the day. 

In a matter of minutes he crossed the hall and reached the medical area, with no Corvo on sight. Earning a vexed grunt. 

Jessica, of course. 

She was always protecting him. Always having private meetings with him. His teeth sunk in his bottom lip’s insides until he tasted copper, to fend off that question resurfacing whenever Jessica hovered around him like those crows following him.

Was Corvo gravely sick and he didn’t tell him? 

His eyes quickly scanned the recovery room, searching for that odd soldier he couldn’t wait to smack on the head for disobeying. Or punch in the face, depending how severe his injuries were. But didn’t find him. His feet took him to the other room, the doctor’s office, and halted. 

He couldn’t decide where to stare at first. If his cloak, stained and bloodied in a chair, or the little mountain of bloody rags gathered in a basket. He blinked, unsettled at the amount of red in them. 

“I know you dislike chamomile, but you have to drink it!”

Miguel froze for a moment. Where was Jessica and why did he hear her voice in the storage room? 

“It does nothing on its own!” The other voice, sweeter and sure on the verge of crying protested.

“I’m not giving you opium until later, it’s too damn early.” The sound of a cup scraping a saucepan gritted in his ears for a second. “Chug it. Now.” 

Chamomile tea. Bloody rags, murky water in the bath… 

Oh. 

His anger vanished, letting a growing sense of coyness take the reins in lieu. He knew what periods were, Corvo seemed settled for him to learn about them, to the point of offering his services to gather ingredients for medicine whenever Jessica and the staff needed them. A possible reason why the women on site were a bit more amiable towards him. Some had even swooned over the ‘beautiful and kind young man’.

“You’re a man, not a caveman. What if your future wife needs it? Get over it.” 

Had said The Raven with a hint of honest dislike at Miguel’s nonchalance towards the problem. Sadly, the idiot was nowhere to be found. And before he discomfited anyone even further, Miguel took the bloodied cloak without really looking. A couple of metallic cups and other instruments fell on the floor with a loud rattle, silencing the banter on the other side instantly. 

Shit. 

Miguel quickly picked everything up, as the steps hurried, almost running; just to reveal a startled Jessica. Looking as though a ghost had materialized before her.

“Miguel…” She gulped, looking between the cloak and his expression. Discomfort, yes —A lot of it, but not alarm or mistrust.

“Did Corvo come?” 

Part of her tension vanished, but her eyes narrowed suspiciously, he noted. 

“Yeah. He’s okay, just a minor scratch, actually.” She nodded and his shoulders relaxed, finally. “You know how he is.”

Hmm. 

He was totally punching him in the face. 

When he appears again.

“Look, el cabrón disobeyed an order.” His head shook while placing the instruments on the table and gathered the cloak again. “If you see him, send him to the latrines, since he thinks it’s fucking funny to hide.”

Jessica blinked, dumbfounded, but nodded while he left without saying further. 

Pendejo.

The first night had been like descending to hell itself and purposely allowing the imps to stab your uterus. No opium worked, marking your cheeks with paths of long dried tears. That soldier’s punch had made it all worse. It unleashed this sickening domino effect all over your body. 

Fever broke when the last sun ray died. The blankets Jessica brought were too itchy on your skin, but the inner cold attacked intermittently to kick them away. There were moments you didn’t know whether to snug tighter in the sheets, or strip yourself naked. 

The second day was a carbon copy of the first plus some clots that left Jessica’s rags supply empty. The third and fourth day were easier but not less painful. The fever vanished, leaving aches and a swollen lower belly that matched your feet. But nothing that hot soups, sweets, warm baths and a massage in your limbs fixed. 

Jessica constantly received a plethora of ‘thank yous’ ‘I love yous’ ‘I’m so grateful you’re my friend’ from an emotionally maundering you. And when she gave you these reports of Miguel asking for your presence, the urge to cry increased tenfold. 

Guilt often surpassed your willpower, to the point of having a pile of scrumpled notes, with the many ways you’d reveal your secret to your friend. Because, yet again, you had finally decided to come clean to him and whatever the consequences of it were, you’d bear them. 

With a deep and tired sigh, you submerged yourself in the wooden bathtub and washed your hair. Now long enough for your fingers to rake through and get lost in between the tufts. Those purple and green-ish bruises had healed and left your skin unblemished. Ironically, you hated the occurrence, yet, it was the only time where you were allowed to exist as a woman. 

No pretense games, no binders, no stupid, risky and senseless jokes. And of course a whole, private room for you. There were no more midnight snorings, or staying up late because your teammates had decided to wake their prank's victim, by pulling the pants down and sprinkle chili powder on areas it shouldn’t be. Or dousing them in cold water. You didn’t have to scarf down food within the brief breaks missions conceded. 

The most painful days of your existence were the best to recover from the constant testosterone exposure. 

Even though the water turned colder, you refused to leave. Not yet. Not when you did take your time to enjoy these little things the rest took for granted. The bath curtains were closed, the oils in the water made your body ache less and perfume your skin with a soft flowery scent.  

“Maker’s patience, you sure are persistent. I told you I don’t know!”

Jessica’s voice however, and the frustration in it, made you shrink deeper in the tub, startled and already looking for a way to make your escape towards the storage room. 

“I know you are hiding him, Drew.” Miguel snapped, his voice at the door as his heavy steps followed her.

“You corner me again, and I’ll let your men rot in their wounds. Am I clear?” The concoctions drawer opened and closed with a bang at her words.

“Where is Corvo?!”

“Beats me. Move.” A couple of bottles and tools tinkled in a basket as Jessica gathered them. “I’ve got men to patch up. Your men, mind you!” 

Her steps grew distant, and so did Miguel’s. 

And you wasted no time. The water sloshed and fell over your body in loud rivulets, cascading in every curve it could before letting you go with a splash. You shook the excess from your feet once you were outside, but halted when the rushed steps returned. Too soon and too damn fast—

“Pinche cabrón holgazán, ya sabía que…” Miguel’s voice, initially billowing, stopped, like his breathing altogether just as he shoved the curtains to a side. (You fucking lazy ass bum. I knew you were—)

His heart stopped for a second too long. Every fiber in his muscles dictated to not move, to not breathe and to not speak. His eyes however, did all the job for him. 

They started with the messy and wet chunks of hair sticking to your head as though rain had doused you over a thousand times, framing those cheekbones only a woman such as yourself had. Then moved to your lips, trembling and exhaling in quickening breaths, in fear. His gaze wandered over your neck, bobbing with a gulp. 

His fingers gripped the curtains so tight his knuckles whitened, when he stared, not with that characteristic manly morbidity, rather surprise at your breasts. As though looking at them would make them go away, but your nipples just shrunk and hardened in return, making his pupils widen on their own. His throat burned, or was it his skin? His ears definitely grew warmer. Why did everything feel so much warmer? 

Miguel’s lips parted, so did yours. 

His eyes resumed their tour and stopped at your waist. A place where his hands had fit a bit too perfectly, like if that curve you tried with all your might to conceal had been made specifically for his hands alone. A light jolt tingled in his fingertips, remembering the sensation of your skin. Too rough and shapeless from what that smoothness he had just discovered felt like. But your hips…

Miguel had to blink for a tiny fraction of second, just to make sure that the sight before him wasn’t a product of his already awestruck imagination. 

Corvo. His ever reclusive and odd soldier, the man— No. 

No. 

The patch of darkened curls between your legs said the opposite. Even if you tried to clumsily cover the sight from him. Like the rest of your body. 

Corvo— No. Not Corvo. 

Corvo was an odd man. Obsessed with cleaning, always sleeping in odd positions, as though ready to pounce if someone got close enough. He killed enemies, commanded crows, and saved his life. Had sometimes won in the sparring ring, taught him about periods and how to ease pains. Taunted him like no other soldier had the privilege to.

And bled. 

The small crimson droplet streaming down your inner thigh —like the ones staining his cloak and the pile of rags— snapped him from his thoughts, or the sudden void eating away all possible logical explanations. Leaving nothing but the absolute truth. 

Corvo, his best friend, soldier and his right hand in battle, was a woman. 

“I-I can explain.” Your voice pounded in his ears. Sweet, mellow, fearful. And way past  regretful. Unlike that jeering soldier calling him a grandpa months ago.

The Red Blight didn’t say anything. His hands unclasped the cloak with trembling fingers and removed it from his shoulders, draping it over you in a firm embrace that, if someone looked and didn’t know you both at all, would've said that he had taken a woman by the lapels of the cloak to shake her. 

“I never meant to—” Your voice broke and his grip tightened for a moment, while his lips tweaked in a scowl, before letting you go, as though the contact burned him. “I didn’t want— I’m sorry.”

Something, a mix of disbelief, guilt, pain and confusion crossed his eyes. His mouth parted. Probably to speak, or shout, maybe the latter but he quickly closed it. The first step he took back echoed like a hammer in your ears, the second one, like a sentence. Never his eyes tore from you and the way you tried so miserably to hold onto his cloak, covering that little detail that explained… everything. 

Your insides clenched with such force your knees wobbled, the pain however, wasn’t a match for the one stabbing your chest the more he stepped back. The way his jaw clenched and his Adam's apple bobbed, ever slow and painful, made you gulp tighter. Almost like trying to swallow an indigestible truth.

“Miguel—”

He left. And didn't dare to look back. 

Silence shouldn’t be allowed to stretch this long, nor the tension this heavy. 

For how long would he punish you? 

Changes created this unspoken rift between both, leaving the squad with more questions than answers. 

They had noticed the terseness in Miguel’s voice whenever he spoke with you, no more than what was necessary. The glower his eyes shot your way whenever you asked to train with him. His refusal sure made everyone stare, disturbed. The General’s favorite apparently had fallen from grace. 

Your duties shrunk with each week, leaving you mostly out of the action, and when you finally thought things had gotten back to normal, General O’Hara —No longer Miguel— assigned you to stables, as though you were a rookie all over again. Even the squad acted wrong. Too busy to talk, to joke, to… be there. Sleeping against the wall never felt that lonely, until now.

The Captain, overruled. Cast aside. Friendless. Useless. 

You had tried to talk to him, but his duties or the pretense of these, always made it impossible to reach through. And when you did, no matter how many times you searched for his eyes, he refused to meet yours.

That was it. 

Even though the resolve to leave didn’t sit right in your chest, what could you possibly do in a place no longer felt like home? Disgusting but loyal men and all, it was everything you knew. The few memories of your old life had been long buried, to let new ones to inhabit your mind. 

But that was before that slip up distorted and hindered every plan ahead. Before Miguel knew. 

There wasn’t much to pack. Breeches and chemises mostly. Your armor and sword laid on the mannequin, polished and untouched, just as it was given to you, like the medals the court had blessed under Corvo’s name. They didn’t belong to you. 

The binder constricted as always, but for once, you needed the pain to think and anchor yourself. Your bed had been stripped, and the sheets folded. Ready to be occupied by a new recruit, a future captain perhaps. 

Jessica had tried to talk you out of it, by offering you a spot in her apothecary wing. But you were as useful as a dull blade in combat in that line of work. And sitting down and healing others, although noble and needed, wasn’t your suit. Patching superficial wounds was one thing, it was easy and quick, grown men handled it well. But children? Women? Elderly people? The mere thought made you squeamish. 

A heavy sigh left your nostrils, as you packed the last things of your actual belongings. A pouch of money that would take you to the nearest village, hopefully; a wooden hair comb, a couple of clothes changes, the pair of rundown but still useful boots you had come with. And a resigning letter, seal-waxed with Miguel’s name. Nothing more nothing less. 

The barracks door swung open, and those familiar heavy steps rushed in. You didn’t have to turn your head to know he was coming. The overbearing presence approaching you was enough. 

“What are you doing?” His voice, rougher than you had ever heard it, echoed behind you. 

Your hands moved faster, before reaching for his letter and tossed it on an empty spot on the bare bed. 

“I need you to sign that, sir.” Your feet moved towards the drawer, where the medals gathered, but you left them untouched. It was your turn to avoid his eyes, despite his burning holes into your back. “The carriage to the next village arrives at—”

“No.” His hands reached for the tucked in belongings and pulled, but you beat him to it and snatched the bulk from his hands. “I won’t sign it. Because you’re not going anywhere.” 

“Says who?” Your hands grabbed the letter and pushed it against his chest. “Cause as far as I am concerned you left pretty damn clear you don’t want me around. Sign it.” 

His fingers grazed yours for a second as he took the letter and tossed it carelessly to a nearby fire, not even looking twice its way. 

“What are you doing!?” You rushed towards the fireplace, ready to save the letter but his massive frame blocked any advances. Your jaw clenched and your teeth ground, before you could even think properly, your hands pushed with all their might against him, stumbling him back a couple of steps. “Fuck you!”

It took him one stride for his feet to plant themselves before you and return that push. Unlike him, you almost fell on your ass. What angered you the most was that Miguel grabbed you by the folds of your chemise and pulled you towards him. Baring his teeth a couple of inches away from a squirming you. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” 

A fist connected with his cheek, silencing him. His lips spat a thread of saliva, just in time to shake off the brief daze your punch provoked, but it wasn’t enough to dodge another one under his chin. 

Miguel loosened his grip as his steps staggered. His height didn’t help sometimes, he knew, making a weakness for you to exploit like no other. For a moment, bewilderment crossed Miguel’s eyes, since, when did this turn into a real fight with a feral cat? 

You hadn’t just pounced on him, but climbed him with such ease the armor could never have allowed, and punched him. Once, twice before landing on a bed with an unceremonious thud after he yanked you away from his torso.

“Asshole!” 

“An asshole, not a liar.” The words gritted through his teeth as he scrambled on top of you, in that position he always pinned you in the training ring. This time however, instead of criss-crossing your arms against your chest, he stamped them on each side of your head. “All this time you chose to hide. Why?!” 

The grunt leaving your throat only turned into this enraged growl while you tried to free yourself from his grip. 

“You fucking—!”

His grip tightened and for a moment all of your air escaped in a yelp as he crushed you with his weight, stirring angry and desperate tears from your eyes. 

“Let me go!” Your voice trembled, but he didn’t budge, if anything just pressed your wrists  further against the bed. “I’ll fucking scream if you don’t let me go, Miguel!”

“¡Déjate de pendejadas y dime la verdad ya!”  His throat closed, his chest heaved erratically, upon seeing your eyes welling up, but he didn’t stop. (Quit your bullshit and tell me the truth now!)

“I had to! Alright?! Or else I’d be dead. Fucking dead years ago!” There it was. You broke. Your tears, those that weren’t from physical pain finally saw freedom as they rolled down your cheeks. 

His throat tightened before loosening his grip, but didn’t move. His eyes studied you, trying to find any hidden truths, but found none. Just regret and a shame so big that rivalled with the powerlessness of not being able to break free from his crushing weight. You truly hated his height sometimes. 

“If you get into that carriage this very noon,” His eyes narrowed. “I fucking swear for all I deem sacred, I will ravage town by town, until I find you.” Your breath hitched. “ And when I do, I will drag your stubborn ass back here.” You gulped. “You’re my captain. Is that clear?” 

The way his eyes pinned you wasn’t normal. Neither was the unruly heartbeat outmatching the adrenaline coursing through both of you. Or that unusual heat creeping up your neck, ears and cheeks. 

“Yes, sir.” 

His eyes lingered, like the entirety of him swallowing you. They were too busy memorizing each detail they came across. His pupils widened, involuntarily, for a second time upon stopping at the heat in your cheeks. His thumbs took a quick taste of your inner wrist, almost too soft and imperceptible as his hands released you.

“Try and leave again, and we’ll have a problem.” 

And only when he removed himself from you and left, you breathed. 

Fuck.

Changes slowly seeped in between both and the rest. First, Miguel made the arrangements in the castle so you could have a room on your own, a couple of halls away from his, outside the barracks. Second, he made sure Jessica had all the rags and medicinal ingredients for periods in full stock, always. The food quality improved in the army’s dining hall, and the chefs were always at his disposal whenever your monthly absence came. 

Sadly, he couldn’t do a thing about your armor, but got you breathable and light linens so you could use instead of that thick and old binder. Of course you still had to hide and wear the name of Corvo, fearing it might be too much for the rest to assimilate. Both of you had agreed that once the war ended, you’d speak to the king, or whichever royal remained standing, to appeal your case. 

Although the changes were good, there was one that enraptured your whole attention. One that provoked a parade of feelings on your face. Suspicion at the way he forbade the visits to your personal chambers after a certain hour to the squad; annoyance to know that he now held back whenever you sparred with him, but curiosity at the way he sometimes stared your way.  Evaluating, calculating maybe, but definitely watching your every move. 

The punishment for your deception eventually got suspended after three months. The invisible tension between you and the squad vanished, as if it never appeared in the first place. Jessica got her fair share of the scolding pie, but being a doctor had its perks, so she came out unscathed, with the only condition of reporting everything regarding your health to Miguel. 

Now, all you had to worry about was to finish the plate The General brought from the feast, celebrating another grand victory against ‘The Blue Bastards’. Or so your men called them. The enemy had lost a great fortress to your army, making them go back to their lands, liberating more subjugated territories to the people. 

“You didn’t eat much.” said the General, as he refilled your cup again and took a grape for himself. 

“Hard to do so when everyone puts their hands on the food, and you know how your men are.” A grunt rasped in the back of your throat as your nose wrinkled in disgust, but drowned it with a long gulp of wine. 

“My men? They do wash their hands… sometimes.” Miguel’s lips curved in a faint smile when your nose sniffed the plate he placed between both. And sensing your discomfort he gently pushed your shoulder. “Relax. I asked this one directly from the kitchen.” 

Even though the victory passed as temporary, the king had decided to reward you all with a feast. The grand salon buzzed with lively tunes of flutes, hammered dulcimers and drums, food filled the trays and drinks were served. Your men danced, ate and sang off-key, until it grew a bit too much for your likings. So you stepped aside, cup of wine in hand and walked back to your room. 

“Good. I hate feasts.” You took a piece of ham and cheese, while he shared the roasted turkey leg and potatoes. 

Silence fell comfortably between both, letting the clink of your cups and sometimes the approving hums from the food fill your room. 

The music filtered through the walls, in tandem with the joyous cheering. A much needed change of pace among the gore and loss war often left in its wake. 

“Don’t get me wrong but-” Miguel started, putting away the leftovers to keep his fingers busy. “Thought you’d spend the feast with Jessica.”

Your eyes rolled and a satisfied half grin stretched on your lips. “Can’t be a third wheel tonight.”  Your hand fetched the waterskin filled with wine and poured more on yours and his, which he quickly drank. “Gotta let my friend have her fun.” 

“Are you talking about me or her?” His back rested against the window 

“Jessie.” His lips frowned in a refrained line. “You always have fun.” Your shoulders shrugged, “Either on the ring, in battle or with the women I see entering your chambers. You tell me.” 

“Those women are spies, corazón.” The explanation rolled off his lips with such speed it surprised you and probably himself too. “Double agents reporting me. How do you think we got our victory?”

“Oh sure, sure. And I use dark magic to talk to ravens.” 

“Then, tell them to help. We could use them. Feathered fuckers just get there to eat.” A small laugh shook both of your shoulders. Besides the little fight and the lie, your friendship didn’t crumble, and you were grateful that three years of knowing each other’s secrets –now literally—, didn’t go to waste. “But in truth… It’s more trouble than it all is worth.” 

“I thought that being a general gave you the permission to do whatever you wanted?” 

“That doesn’t mean I’ll give in to the first woman I come across.” His shoulders slumped, relaxed as he finished his drink. Probably the third one. Or was it the second? You didn’t remember much. “I know better than that.” 

“Oh, selective, are we?” 

“Keeps me from trouble. And from being half town's father, apparently.” 

An ugly and porcine snort escaped your mouth, earning a disbelieving scoff and a shake of his head as you laughed.

“Well, aren’t you charming?” 

“Forget about it! You really had women passing their children as yours?” 

“A couple of times, yeah. Blonde ones actually.” Miguel admitted with a light scrunch on his nose, wishing to forget said events. “I know it’s a possibility, but literally, they weren’t the ones I’ve laid with and still they came with the news.” 

“Good lord.” The laugh eventually died but a lazy smirk lingered instead. “How do you… keep yourself from getting someone knocked up though?” 

The world came to a full halt and Miguel blinked. He had to, because his ears refused to process what he had just heard, even though they worked in their full capacity. His eyes blinked again and narrowed your way, dumbfounded. 

His captain, his right hand, a woman that beheaded enemies if they looked her way with anything else that wasn’t respect, didn't have an idea of—

Dios mío. 

“What?” Your eyes shot back at him.

“You really don’t know?” There was everything but mockery in his question, and that derisive titter he usually sported in his comments lacked completely. 

“I know what sex is, Miguel. It’s not that hard to understand.” Your eyes flicked in a deadpan.

“But, have you had it?” 

Never in your life had the urge of crawling underground, gnawed at you with such force upon seeing his disbelief. Your neck grew warmer, as the silence stretched, maybe for far too long to be socially acceptable. For a second, you swore his pupils swallowed the red in his irises completely.

“What if I haven’t?” Your shoulders shrugged, almost defensive.

“Ever? Even out of curiosity?” 

Your head shook. “Never.” 

Miguel swallowed, trying to gather his thoughts. He shouldn’t be this stoked to know things. This, especially, out of everything. 

“Forgive me, but it’s hard to believe.” This information fell heavier than finding out you were a woman. Not that he didn’t believe you. He just assumed, wrongly perhaps, that most women once reached a certain age in adulthood, were versed at least once in sex. 

“It’s not. My duties and hiding keep me busy. And men reek.” Your nose wrinkled as your hand served yet another pour of wine, and downed it as if it was a good dose of liquid bravado. “And our men brag too much about it.” 

“And what do they say?” Miguel inched closer, leaning in to better his listening with a curious smirk.

“Nothing worth remembering. I wasn’t impressed anyway.” You shrugged. “Bluffers are usually the worst type of men to lay with.”

“According to…?”

“Women! Jeesh.” your eyes rolled. “I’ve heard enough to know that if a man boasts too much about what he did in bed, sex was terrible and he came before even getting a woman wet.”

A deep and rich laugh rumbled through Miguel’s chest and your lips couldn’t suppress that smile the sudden spike in your heart rate provoked.

“Well, you’re not wrong.” He also shrugged. “Men often don’t heed the signs in a woman.”

“And you do?” 

“Never have I heard complaints from the women I’ve bedded. So, that should say something.” His hand put the plate away on the window as your eyes rolled.

“Why does it sound so serious though?” 

“Because it is, especially when it comes to experiencing everything for the first time.” He nodded. His eyes followed yours. “Taking time brings the best of outcomes.”

“Sounds like a help offering.” You huffed, but he just watched. “Is it?”

The initial mockery in the scoffed words you gave him, slowly melted the more Miguel stared into your eyes. Unwavering, like the time he’d name you his new captain. That steadfastness did nothing but make your skin crawl. 

“If you want me to, that is.” The softness in which his voice flowed with, sent a dangerous jolt directly to your heart. Your eyes couldn’t find where to settle nor your hands what to do. 

“Uhm… Like… right here, right now?” Alarmed, you gulped.

“No, tontita.” His nostrils huffed. “Just… lemme handle that, okay? Finish your food.”

After deciding further details such as location, meaning your room, for your official welcome to the sex world, the nerves wrecking you just turned more unstable with each passing day he didn’t come at night, as promised. 

Not that you blamed him. War never truly stopped and there was always something demanding for attention or intervention. The latest forfeited cargo had everyone in awe as it was something never seen before. Fireworks. 

The damned explosions rumbled and illuminated the sky a couple of times, before being taken away to a nearby storage room. The use your army would give them remained a mystery, since the war prisoner your team secured, died from his wounds before he could even explain what they were.

Not that you feared them, just didn’t feel comfortable with the sky thundering too loud as expanding blasts boomed in colorful successions. Probably they were used to confuse the enemy, or inflict fear. In any case, they worked. Too well perhaps since Miguel found a new hobby to pass time. Threaten you to guard the spot if you ever lied to him again. 

But now, all you could do was to stare at the note left in your room. Something simple, pithy and probably written in a rush as some letters diffused at the middle sloppily.  

Skip the feast. We’ll have our own tonight. —M. 

You knew your men couldn’t care less whenever it came to your whereabouts or Miguel’s. They just wanted to get drunk, eat, maybe fuck too. 

Like me. 

The thought pulled a nervous laugh out of yourself. You had heard stories of all kinds regarding that specific thing. Good ones, cringey and funny ones, and a couple of infuriating ones. 

What kind would be mine? 

Your eyes wandered to the bed, big enough for two. A sturdy and heavy frame that not many would move, but again, when had Miguel been an ordinary man? His bed was twice as big as yours and the wood frame had been custom built. You could only hope yours lived to this very important task. After all, he had insisted for it to happen in your room. Out of making the moment completely yours, without someone else’s trace tarnishing it. 

He wasn’t taking you in the very same spot he had taken others. Or so he said when you had insisted on the why of his choice. 

The linens had been his pick. Soft and comfortable, to prevent anything that would interrupt the sensations he’d provoke on your body. Food trays had been delivered some moments ago, directly from the kitchen. The helper instructed you to eat, and to properly hydrate yourself. You’d ask him later about this secret obsession for you to drink plenty of water, since he had advised you a few days ago to do so. So you ate and drank. 

Much to your detriment, the only thing you didn’t receive instructions on was the dress code. What on earth did a woman about to get her virginity taken should wear? 

Most of the stories you had heard, the women didn’t dress provocatively, since it was their wedding night. In the rest, the women had complained that, although they had chosen a risqué piece, their husbands were far more focused on taking them than admiring what they had pulled off for them. 

Of course. Men. 

So you stuck on wearing one of his chemises, as yours were hanging dry outside. Clothes stealing didn’t change between you in the slightest. More like, on your side, and Miguel didn’t seem to mind. Even before discovering your secret. 

Minutes ticked, and you bathed to remove all grime and sweat from the front lines. This time, however, you made sure to use those rich scented oils Jessica had gifted you years ago. They left your skin smooth and shiny. And the more you prepared, the more ritual-like it all became. 

And when you were done, you waited. And waited. And waited. Until sleepiness came over you. 

None dared to cross his path. Not when his eyes gleamed in this wickedness the more his steps approached your room.

Miguel knew he was late. Maybe a bit too late —when he entered your chambers, found you sound asleep on the bed. He locked the door, pushing all those cheering and loud noises back into the hall as he ventured deeper.

His eyes spotted the food tray and hummed silently in approval upon seeing it empty. Good. You’d have the strength to endure him. The flames in your fireplace flared with dim light. That, were it not for the fact they were dying, anyone would find them the perfect mood setter. He fed the starving fire with a few more logs and finally stopped before your bed. 

The world had changed. The first time he had seen you was almost comical to him to see such a weird man among his ranks. But now, you, the woman that had fought to his side and protected him in ways none could; laid before him, sound asleep with a soft pout on your face. With one of his garments clinging to your body, just enough for your curves to cut through the shadows with their appetizing slopes.

As much as Miguel had tried to see you through those soldier’s eyes, he couldn’t. He had tried to act the same, treat you the same as always. Not because he knew your secret, but out of self-restraint. You were more than capable of taking him in the training ring.

But this… This was a completely different thing. He never asked for things none could give him, so he risked his best shot and left the decision in your hands. Because, for once, he'd been allowed to see and share something of utmost importance. A part of yourself that none else but him would have the privilege to have. 

A part of you that would only belong to him for the rest of his days. He’d be your first. And when you stirred to stretch, and his pupils widened upon seeing there were no undergarments under the camisole; the need of being your first, last and only one settled like an immovable longing.  

His hand reached for your shoulder and shook gently, until your eyes fluttered open.

“Hey.” His fingers squeezed gently before sliding up to your cheek and caressed it softly, as he sat at the bed’s edge. The mattress squeaked under his weight. “I’m sorry for being late. The king needed to meet before the banquet.” 

“Oh?” The heat of his hand on your cheek stirred your skin with a pleasant shudder. “Is it bad?” 

“Not really.” His fingers brushed your bottom lip before giving you space to sit before him. His face remained a couple of inches away from yours. “Did you sleep well?” 

“A couple of hours I think, but yes. I ate too, just  like your note said.” 

“Good.” He nodded. His hand reached for yours and kissed your knuckles, without removing his eyes from you. “That’s very good.” The dim lights from the chimney gave him enough view to know your cheeks had flushed again. “Before we start-” He looked at the window and returned his gaze to you, “I need you to understand that if you don’t feel comfortable in any way, or if it turns too painful, you will tell me.”

You nodded without hesitation.

“If something feels wrong, you’ll speak.”

“Okay.”

“If—”

A clumsy,  well timed peck silenced him. 

“I chose you with this because I trust you.” 

And those words were enough to make him undone. It was no longer General and Captain. Just a man brave enough to take a deep and gentle taste of your lips, while his hands held you gently. Again and again, until your lungs demanded for the air he had just stolen in between kisses. 

To his surprise you kissed him back. Inexpertly, like a complete tyro in the arts of kissing a man, earning a chuckle when you bit him a tad roughly. 

You stopped immediately and pushed him back by his chest with a trembling hand and your brows frowned.

“Hey.” His hand wrapped around yours and kissed your knuckles again, before stealing a  peck on your lips. “It’s okay. Relax.”

“Stop making fun of me then.” Your protest only made him release your hand and wrap his behind your neck. His fingers fisted carefully around the base of your hair, to keep you in place. 

“I’m not.” Another peck. “I liked the bite. May I try one on your lips?” His breath brushed against your mouth. 

And when you nodded, his lips claimed yours again. Revering, tasting, stealing your breath in between lovely whimpers, until one of his canines sank softly on your bottom lip and pulled towards him. Your head followed the motion and your throat let a groan escape, when he bit again in another spot of your plump muscle. It was enough to slide his tongue inside and twirl it against yours. 

And no matter how much you tried to follow his pace, his tongue rubbed and lured yours into this push and pull where he led and won as usual. Like the battles carrying his name as the only victor. But this wasn’t a battlefield. It was you. 

You, that moaned and panted in his mouth the more he sucked on your tongue until air vanished from your lungs. You, that quickly, had learned the ways in which his lips moved and how to tackle them back in an addictive motion. Teasing and biting whenever you both could. A flurry of pecks mixed with full kisses and bites had every pore of your skin prickling in utter delight. 

His free hand crept up under the chemise and slid upward your hip, to confirm there was nothing underneath. 

His lips abandoned yours to kiss a trail down your cheek until he reached the tender and sizzled up skin of your neck. To his surprise a not-so-shy, unceremonious and breathless laugh came out of you, that quickly turned into this lovely moan when he bit gently on the junction of your shoulder. 

“W-wait” Your laugh pulled at the corners of his mouth, earning another whimper when his tongue tasted the bit skin and sucked. Marking it with a lovebite. 

Oh, fuck…

“Hm?” His nose dragged over the seams of the chemise above your breasts and inhaled deeply. That sweet scent of flowers and yourself sent a tremor straight to the tip of his cock. But he’d follow his own advice and take his time.

Miguel needed you drenched and prepared if he wanted to claim you. The least he wanted was to hurt you.

“Can… Can I touch your cock first?” 

God, you were killing him. 

He kissed you once more, while his hand fetched yours and guided it over his crotch. And Maker’s mercy, he really wished to have something, a spell or anything that could turn back time and see your reaction all over again. Even underneath a couple of layers, his cock defined itself in a gorgeous, considerably thick and trembling silhouette; poking upwards, begging to be released and pampered. 

His eyes never left you, and steered your hand to breach the cotton layers, and his breath faltered, when yours abandoned you, upon coming in contact with his short and well trimmed curls, joining in a happy trail. It led to a warm and velvety cock, that twitched when your hand held him. Every vein pulsated in a synched beating, greeting your timid strokes. 

“T-This is what happens when a man likes you too much for his own good.” He almost whimpered.

“Is it a good or a bad thing?” Your hand wrapped around the base, pulling a grateful hiss out of him, to then glide it up and down. Like you had accidentally seen a maiden do with a soldier behind the barns. The effect was the same. Absolute bliss. 

“F-Fuck. Good.” His voice broke. “Definitely—hnn-good.” He nodded while his thighs spread wider. Allowing you to explore him, after all, both of you were here to learn. And my, weren’t you a perfect student?

Miguel had to admit that he loved how quickly you soaked up the information his body gave you, and turned it in these exquisite touches his cock relished in. But this wasn’t about him, or his cock, no matter how good it felt, or how perfect your hand stroked him.

So, gently, he pulled your hand away, earning a protest from you, while he inched closer with his hand reaching for the chemises' hems.

“Hands up.” 

Your arms obeyed and they rose, and he pulled the cloth upwards. 

His eyes barely blinked, almost not believing the sight before him. His brain had decided to simply stop working the more skin appeared under that annoying fabric. His pupils swallowed all color upon stumbling on the patch of trimmed curls dressing your cunt. The soft curve and pudge of your stomach; your hips framing that gorgeous pussy. Not to mention those beautiful breasts that hardened when he removed the camisole completely. 

His hands didn’t stop there and pulled his own away. Revealing the gorgeous, darkened and scarred skin of his torso, dressed up with a healthy coat of hair distributed through his pecs, abs and lower belly. 

Your eyes couldn’t help but admire what the armor often hid, like your hands that brushed gently over his hovering torso. It had been the first time you saw him without the armor, bandages or wounds covering him. And he did not disappoint in the slightest. Soft veins traced around his hips, mingling between the well worked muscles that shaped his upper torso, arms and abdomen. 

That sinful v-line just defined itself even further when he propped himself above you. His pants rested midway his thighs, with his cock half free. Which became warmer the more it pressed against his underwear. His hands took each of your legs and made enough space for him to fit in between.

His heart jolted, and his lips parted, breathless, completely enraptured to see you underneath him. Naked, with the skin burning and prickled, awaiting for his touch. 

Miguel wasn’t a man of prayers, but he had to thank whoever above for this. For this chance, for this sight, for what he was about to do. 

“Must I spread myself open?” The question, completely impatient but endearing, tore a soft laugh from him. 

“No. Not yet. That’s my job.” His kisses peppered your cheeks, jawline, neck, which bobbed as you drowned a laugh, he then made a descend over the slope of your chest. 

Miguel kissed that wonderful valley, and his attention drifted towards the left mound. His fingers massaged upwards your forearm until they reached your hand again and entwined it with yours, just as his tongue donned your nipple with a soft lick. 

The grip tightening on your hand was enough for his mouth to part wider and circle your whole nipple and sucked. Hard. 

And never had his ears been so blessed with a sweet cry like yours, until now. 

“Miguel!” 

There was no space for breaks in his tongue. Not when he had found your taste absolutely life-changing. The sucklings his mouth performed, hazed your brain in this flurry of hiccups and moans the more his tongue curled, twirled and flicked in each movement. Leaving a sensitive, hardened, warm and moist nipple. Joined by a thin thread of his saliva connected with his lips.

Your whole body quivered when he applied the same treatment to the other. This one however, was the canvas for some lovebites to be inflicted around the nipple. The way his name rolled off your lips had to be his favorite sound after a desperate ‘I yield!’ from his enemies. 

“Have you touched yourself before?” He asked, panting, dizzy in this urge taking over every reasoning in his already racing mind, while he kissed yet another trail down your abdomen.  Stopping a couple of times just above your navel to then kiss underneath it. 

“I was told not to.” Your mouth heaved, and your legs by instinct spread further. “T-The church's archbishop said it was dirty.”  

Miguel snorted and propped himself away from you, just to accommodate his broad shoulders in between your legs, until his face came vís-a-vís with your moist and gorgeous cunt.

“It’s not. You can pleasure yourself whenever you like.” His head turned to kiss the inner muscle of your thighs, earning a sudden jerk from it. “Although, I’d rather for you to come to me whenever you feel like doing so.”

“Who else would I go to–Oh!” Your spine almost turned into this perfect arch as his tongue lapped a few inches away from your melting hole, asking for permission. 

Both of his hands hooked underneath your knees and pressed them towards your shoulders,  exposing you completely. His heart stopped for a moment when your clit, swollen and quivering, peeked out from between the parted and bare lips of your cunt. Begging for attention.

And everything you could see before the world turned blurry with need, was him, dipping his head between your thighs, open-mouthed; going straight for that small nub of flesh his tongue wasted no time in teasing and sucking like a savorous treat. 

His forearms kept your thighs in place, while his mouth worked you with this constant ease. His gaze locked with yours, although blurry and teary eyed, he’d dare to say it was the most beautiful sight someone had ever given to him. 

The way your chest rose, erratically, with each staggered breath the more he moved his tongue and lips in a sucking motion. Tearing scrumptious moans and hiccups as you melted in his mouth. The way your abdomen sank and trembled with each drag his tongue did around your cunt before dipping itself in, or how your pussy-lips jiggled softly when he released them with a soft pop. 

The slurps slowly increased when he buried his mouth in between your folds. Hungry, thirsty, completely enraptured by your taste. Bewitched by the flurry of moans and whimpers he pulled with every suck. His chin glistened with the thickness of your slick, not minding one bit if it smeared all over his skin. Like his battle scars, he’d wear it proudly. Like a prize. 

His name floated in the air in several intonations he couldn’t pick a favorite, since each just turned sweeter and louder the more he ate. His hands grabbed your thighs, and placed them on his shoulders before lifting himself up, suspending the nether region of your body from the bed, while your back remained on the cushioned surface. 

The position granted you a privileged and unholy sight of his mouth devouring your pussy as though it was the last meal he’d ever have. Your sight made the effort of keeping yourself sane, because of the way his tongue snaked all over your clit. Provoking in all angles available. And if there was no other, he made it up. Just to see yourself coming undone for the first time in a man’s mouth. His mouth.

His hands refused to let your hips go. They didn’t care how much you squirmed and groaned and kicked. They didn’t. If anything, their grip doubled their firmness. And when his tongue slid above your clit, like a serpent, giving you this lewd and scrumptious sight of his tongue teasing your mount’s curls just to slide back again to press insistently on your clit. 

The hardened nub moved in whatever direction his tongue pushed it. You could see it in between bleary eyes, but nothing sent these electric shivers down your spine as hearing those satisfied clicks and hummings rumbling through his mouth, when his lips pursed, pulled and released your clit. Or when his mouth pried open and devoured your pussy, leaving a messy trail as he sucked and left teasing hickeys in your pussy-lips and inner thighs.

Broken and incomplete syllables came way before a flurry of sputtering of his name filled the room. Your hand tried to reach for his head, but he just grabbed your wrist to take a good look at your face. 

The flush in your cheeks, the blood rushing to your panting mouth; the daze in your unfocused and heavy-lidded eyes that almost rolled back a couple of times, had his tongue swiping left and right on your clit with such speed it almost vibrated. And his pupils blew once again, when your eyes widened. Desperate, almost fearful for the sensation coursing through your body like a whip. 

A big wobble of your legs announced the first of the many climaxes he was determined in giving you tonight. Your toes curled, and your eyes clamped shut despite the pitiful effort of keeping them on him. You didn’t want to miss a thing, but like the gentleman he was, he’d rather for you to be on the experiencing side of your very first orgasm. 

“M-Miguel!” an unknown pressure rushed upward. “Miguel!” Pulsating, bulldozing all coherence in your head. “Mig–” 

You came. 

Your hips stuttered in the air, your thighs squeezed him, almost drowning him for a second, but he’d die a happy man. He had seen heaven by just witnessing how his devotion had paid off in this gorgeous and sensual show of you experiencing pleasure for the first time ever.

“Fuck.” he lapped up gently, cleaning your spasming cunt as your shrieked and whimpered through the blissful waves suffocating your body. “Thank you-” He kissed your clit, and nodded approvingly with his eyes closed while his tongue took the last taste of your peak. “Thank you so much, corazón.” 

Carefully, his hands deposed you back to the bed, to admire a second time what he just provoked. Of course watching women cum was always something beautiful to witness, but you… Maker’s mercy. Nothing compared. None of the ones he had before compared to this, and he had just started. 

“Are you still with me, hermosa?” He returned to the initial position –shoulders between your legs– and pressed languid and soft caresses in your inner thighs. His eyes wandered all over your body, as you assimilated what you had just endured. 

“Hm-hm.” A weak nod of your head was everything you gave him. A satisfied smile stretched on his flushed face. 

Tan jodidamente bella. (so fucking beautiful)

“We’re not done yet.” With a gentle pull downward by your thighs, your cunt rested a few inches away from his face. “Give me your hand.” 

All he received was a hiccup and shaky hand, barely able to stand on its own. 

Miguel wasted no time and guided it between your legs. The contact sent another jolt through your body while he pressed your middle and right ring finger directly on your clit. 

“Now, look at that.” He kissed the side of your knee and watched keenly at the clumsy but effective rubs your fingers did. “Does touching yourself feel good?” 

A whine and a nod was all he got in return while his fingers led yours to move in a different motion. Soft circles. 

“Can’t hear you, preciosa. Does it feel good?” 

“Yes–” A hiccup, then another when your fingers pressed gently enough to bring that spark alive in your gut  again. “So good… so hnn!”

Your spine arched, and his fingers spread your outer lips wider. His tongue instinctively licked his bottom lip when the soft gleam of your juices coated your cunt. You were wet, yes. But not drenched. Not yet. So he rubbed two fingers around your spasming hole. 

“Keep moving those fingers, corazón” He approved when the circling moves your fingers did increase their speed. Each tore sweeter and desperate moans from you, but he stopped your hand, earning a yelp. “Don’t chase it too fast, let your body feel it.” 

Your fingers resumed their exploring, and he didn’t dally neither. His fingers separating your outer lips rubbed once again around your cunt, and with all the care and patience he mustered, Miguel dipped one finger first. A wet suck received him as the tightness inside almost crushed him. 

A hiccup made his eyes snap back to your face, which eyebrows had knitted together. 

“Does it hurt?” He stopped, but a wriggle of your hip to swallow him an inch deeper debunked the assumption. One finger in. You could do it. “Good.” He kissed your fingers, urging them to move again while he pushed, slowly and carefully, his finger inside out.

You could only obey, as your hand continued its praise. A quickened pace was a must when he gingerly added another finger, stretching you a bit more. A tad uncomfortable, sure,  but nothing the motions of your fingers on your clit dissipated. 

The combination of fingers slowly turned your mind into a mush, the more you kept touching like there was none watching you, but Miguel. You knew his eyes were fixed on your cunt, marvelling at the wetness pooling all over his fingers, dripping from it. Soft and thin threads of your slick glued to his fingers, sopping them completely. 

“You’re doing so wonderful, hermosa.” His fingers spread inside, gently, stretching you as gently as possible while his other hand pulled his pants down, releasing his aching cock, that bounced with a light slap against his abdomen. Angrily flushed and spitting precious beads of creamy pre-cum. 

His hand shook with every push, slowly picking up the tempo to match the growing spasms inside you. 

“Don’t cum yet.” He panted, letting the front strands of his hair fall on his forehead. A thin layer of sweat dressed his flushed skin the more he worked your insides. Two fingers fit in perfectly. 

“C-Cant hold it–” The words came rushing, as your hips swayed with every push his fingers delivered. They prodded and teased in all those spots you had just discovered in having. “I’m cumming— Oh I’m cumming, Miguel–” 

“Wait, hermosa–” He choked, and pushed a third finger, rather half of it inside before your insides trapped and squeezed them. “Dios mio…” He pushed the other half before another spasm hit you. His mouth watered upon seeing your insides, twitching and milking him, stretched at the makeshift girth his fingers created. 

That oppressive tightness no longer crushed him completely, rather embraced him with a warmth so maddening, that made him prod deeper once. A delicious and shaky moan got his cock spitting another bead. He pushed the fingers again, meeting your orgasm’s contractions, stretching the sensation to the point of curling your toes again. Sliding was easier, as you now were drenched. Just like he wanted. 

“Good girl.”

A few more pumps of his fingers inside almost drove you to the brink of doom again, but he pulled them out —just as he pushed them in— slowly.

“Such a good girl with a lovely pussy.” He brought the fingers before you. “See what you can do when you touch yourself? Pretty, isn’t it?” And he licked them clean. Savoring eagerly. He had only had your taste twice and his tastebuds were already addicted. 

But his mouth and finger have had enough filling for the day. The cushion sank underneath both as he moved a final time between your legs. His heart almost exploded out of tenderness when he saw your eyes widening upon the sight of his cock, in its full glory. 

Although your hand had seized and felt him, it didn’t compare to what stood before you. The veins tracing and pulsating –if you squinted enough– just added the perfect texture to that exquisitely proportioned cock. 

For a moment your mouth watered, and your eyes crossed with his. He smiled and hovered over you. 

“Do you need a break?” His lips reached your temple and kissed a couple of times before moving to your lips and neck. 

“I can do it.” You nodded, breathless, still hazed  and he chuckled. 

“Of course you can.” He scoffed and pecked your lips again. “Let me handle this, okay?” 

His thumb reached for your clit and pressed gently, pulling a deeper pant before tracing in those circles he taught you, while his other hand wrapped himself and pumped a couple of times, smearing that precum all over his tip. This was it. This was the moment he had been tasked with. 

His adam’s apple bobbed, and his eyes focused. His hand guided his tip to stroke in between your folds, soaking itself in all the slick he could. Before pressing in. Another gulp and your eyes shot back at your face, no discomfort yet.

Good. 

He pressed another inch and his breath hitched when your brows pinched together. Almost too softly, but he had noticed. 

“Does it hurts?” 

“Keep going.” You grunted, watching him with the same intent just as his before drifting your eyes to where his cock disappeared, slowly. 

Another inch pressed in and it made you gulp. But you breathed, steadying your breathing, letting another couple of inches in. Your insides clenched, and you hissed at the fullness, even though he wasn’t completely inside. 

Miguel stopped. The most difficult part of his cock was half buried inside, and if he pulled away, he’d have to start all over again and it’d only create unnecessary discomfort. So he pressed his thumb against your clit again and flicked it. Although it created another jot of discomfort, the well worked nerves and his expert touches provoked a new coat of wetness. Just enough for him to ease himself inside. 

You choked and your eyes squeezed shut, in a pained grimace. 

“Shit. Perdón–” His eyes rushed in between your legs but found nothing alarming, besides feeling the spasms turning stronger, like their grip. There weren’t tears in your eyes, just a pinch of distress when he bottomed completely. 

“S-Shut up.” You hissed and exhaled. “God—you’re big.” 

He silenced you instead with a kiss, to distract you when his hips rotated into this slow motion. Grinding tenderly against your insides, that squeezed and released him in a more controlled pace, as though understanding that he meant no harm. 

Your legs spread a bit further to properly fit his hips and ease the entrance for his cock. You weren’t by any means a natural, but your body guided you through it, like the many times it had done so in the battlefield. But again, this wasn’t the front lines. It was you and your best friend, kissing and doing things no friendship did. 

Miguel’s hands finally landed on your waist, the eagerness in each finger massaged your sides, as if finally feeling that waist he saw for the first time ever back at Jessica’s baths wings. His anger wasn’t enough to banish the image of your naked body, matter-of-fact, he stroked himself to exhaustion a week later. 

And that angered even more. He knew it was wrong. He knew that thinking about you in that way made him no better than the same men you often avoided. He understood many many things that day. But now, he was buried to the hilt within you as his arms wrapped around you in a secure embrace. 

You had chosen him for this. What better proof than allowing him to be your first? Even better yet, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him yourself while he slid in and out of you?

Oh, but the ultimate trust proof came on its own. When your mouth searched for his neck and kissed and bit, before exhaling your true name with a moan in his ear. Your most hidden treasure, now his too. 

Miguel stopped for a moment to take a proper look at you. Beautiful, breathless, and now his. His mind had come with a resolution and there was no coming back from it. He wasn’t known for stepping back in his decisions.

“Are you sure you want me to call you that, instead of mine?” His fingers wiped a droplet of sweat rolling on the side of your forehead.

Your breath hitched and your pupils could only blow for a thousandth time. He wanted you. 

“W-Well–” You hiccuped, melting under his body, “You’re not calling me Corvo when- Oh! –we’re like this. So yes.” 

“You’re still my raven.” His thumb now traced your bottom lip while his hips resumed their slow but steady and deep work. “And my captain.” He groaned. “And now mine.” 

Neither of your lips decided on who would conquer who. Nor cared. Everything around you was him. Because who else would’ve given you a chance at life? And now the ultimate reward to your sacrifices paid off in the shape of this gorgeous man that devoured your lips like he owned them. Maybe he did. 

Miguel had the authority to sell you out to the king and face execution. Instead, he increased the rhythm and force of his hips just enough to make you cling to him; with every bit of your body while your name, the real one, rolled off his lips like a prayer.  Because you were his.

His hands held, squeezed and reassured whenever doubts and pain appeared in your countenance. His moans melted your brain as he buried himself to the hilt over and over. Grazing at those spots that never in your life you had imagined to have. And like the great conqueror he was, he claimed each one of them in between hungry kisses. 

All the women he had before were gone. Their mementos, erased with every thrust he pushed inside and made you moan his name. But to make it completely official, his thighs spread and his hands went straight to your waist once more. And he pulled you up, your legs wrapped around him immediately. Your mouths couldn’t part from each other, not when he squeezed your hips and guided you to ride him.

“Fuck!”

He loved the sound of that. Of every moan and whimper that he provoked, and just urged him to move your hips faster. 

Your hands held on the tufts of his nape and both of your foreheads joined. Each panted and drank from each other’s breath, as there was no longer a single trace of pain. Just raw and utter pleasure every time you met his hips. 

“Gonna–” he hiccuped, when a particular clench squeezed so tight around him, that for a moment he saw stars dancing behind his lids. And another. You were close. “Gonna cum, hermosa. N-Need to-”

You gasped and held onto him like life depended on it while he increased the pace to a tempo that had your breast bouncing against his chest and your eyes heavy and lost. 

“Miguel!” A whimper. A beg. 

A broken, breathless and high-pitched whimper erupted from him before growling your name right into your ear. 

You gushed while he exploded in thick ropes of himself inside your spasming walls and held you tight against him. Both hearts beat wildly, so out of sync, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Not when something had irremediably changed between you both for good.

Your breaths fanned on each other’s mouths as your foreheads came together, sharing that well earned sweat. Your smile made his appear, before giving you a deep kiss to distract you as he slid himself out of you.

Miguel rolled to the side and pulled you to his chest. One of his hands rested behind your head, and the other on your waist, tracing idle circles on your hips. Silence fell comfortably between. At least until your breathing evened. 

“Are you okay?” The hand resting behind your head slowly kneaded at your scalp. “Was it too rough?” 

“It was perfect.” You kissed his chest. 

The fire crackled with soft snaps in the air, letting the flames land on the curves of your shoulders and every bit of exposed skin. Bathing you in this warm gleam.

“I wanna know something, though…” His eyes narrowed to one of the hickeys in your left breast. “Why Corvo?” 

Another ugly snort escaped your throat. “What?” 

“Why did you name yourself Corvo?” 

Your thigh draped over his as you scooted closer. “A pet of mine.” 

“You had a raven as a pet?” Miguel wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed your forehead. 

“No.” You chuckled. “It was a dog. A good boy.” Your fingers traced one of the scars above his pec. “He came one day, barking like the sky was falling and led me to this injured raven. I helped the poor bird and fed it.” Your eyes squeezed in a teary-eyed yawn. “And…ever since then, the bird and his friends just tagged along, I guess.”  

“So you’re not a witch.” His lips pursed in a thin line, trying to hold back a huff.

“No. But I might die like one if someone discovers me.” 

Although your words were nothing but an imminent truth, they weren’t any less jarring or uncomfortable to digest. Time was no longer an ally ever since Miguel found out. If he could, any other soldier would too, eventually, despite your obsessive precautions and routines. You could only be careful for so long before mishaps caught up to you and blew your cover.

“That won’t happen.” His lips pressed, a tad rough against the crown of your head. “I’ve got a plan.” 

Your eyes snapped at him. Curious and wary. He had spoken before about different sorts of solutions to your predicament, but the conversation often led to something else, leaving the plan behind for further discussion at another time.

“And that is?” 

“Marry me.” 

As much as both wanted to be brave enough to enter the king’s presence and reveal your secret, war called. It never stopped. 

The Blue Bastards had given the last offense and both kingdoms fought with everything they've got. They lost. Their lands were conquered, and redistributed to the real inhabitants that were forcefully displaced many centuries ago.

A kingdom lost its king, and your army had made sure to not leave loose ends in the succession line. Because that would mean to keep feeding a cycle Miguel refused to keep participating in. 

All that General O’Hara wanted to do was to go to his home in the prairies, throw or bury the armor in a place he wouldn’t remember in his future old days, take a hot bath until his muscles melted and sleep until a new era arrived. 

Battles always left him exhausted and drained in many ways. 

“General.” A soldier called, unsure to approach. “Are you okay?” 

Miguel just nodded, there were so many things to do ahead, and the least he needed right now was sympathy. He had somewhere to be.

The soldier watched him for a second longer. The Red Blight looked way too calm for someone that had just lost his raven in battle. 

The King, unfortunately, didn't take the news of his Captain’s death very well. Corvo was a quintessential part of his army, and without him, The Red Blight had asked for his early retirement. It had been both’s last battles. 

But as much as the king wanted to convince Miguel to honor Corvo’s legacy by staying, the General stood in his decision. And quite frankly, he was tired. War sickened him, the armor weighed too much and the food sucked; but choices were scarce for a man like him. A man whose whole life had been surrounded by conflict and blood, now wanted out. 

Not with grandeur or grand gestures revering his milestones, just peace. 

The king didn’t oppose it. He couldn’t. There wasn’t anything left he’d stay for anyway. His service with the crown had been completed, and a man could only last for too long before he started to hate everything around him. 

The only thing Miguel couldn’t escape was a goodbye feast. Where his men and Corvo’s honored the fallen captain’s memory between toasts and tears.

As soon as the palace’s gate closed behind him, the general title no longer belonged to him. Maybe for honor, but he couldn’t care less. The feast had been a mere formality; he had to smile at the memories, nod at the men’s speeches, and play his part. 

The only thing he’d miss was shaping good men. And meeting with you in your chambers at the crack of dawn. 

But now, with autumn knocking on earth’s doors, war had become a distant memory in his mind. Peaceful times had settled with the comfort that made his spine and every joint in his body pop back into place. Unfortunately, it stirred a sleepy wife awake with a yawn and a playful giggle upon listening to the crunch of his muscles. 

“You’re getting old.” 

Miguel chuckled, and wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you closer. “And you, slow.” 

“Me?” An undignified scoff escaped you. He smirked. “I wasn’t the one taking forever in faking mourning.” 

One of his hands picked your thighs from behind to scoop you closer to his chest.

“Had to make it convincing, or else the king would’ve kept me there forever.” He kissed the side of your head.

“Yeah, he’s always been so damn lazy.” Your hands cradled his face and kissed his cheek and lips as a response. “Bet he wanted you to pick and train your replacement.” 

“Not my problem anymore.” His hand reached for the back of your head, kneading your scalp gently through your hair. “Can’t be with my wife in peace if war keeps going. I had to win.” 

Of course he’d say so like winning wars just to be by your side was the most logical and easiest thing to do. 

“You won, for me?” 

“Who else?” That smug snort rumbling in his chest only sent a jolt to your heart. 

“I still can’t believe we almost didn’t make it.” Your fingers traced his bottom lip and he nodded. 

“But we did.” He took your hand and caressed your ringless finger. “And now I get to say that my wife fought in war with me too. That’s a double win.” He kissed your knuckles.

The soft and coy snort you did didn’t go unnoticed by him. He just smiled, letting his eyes crinkle at the corner.

“Yeah, about that…” You curled against his lap, leaving your cheek mushed against his pec. “I think the messenger stole our rings.” 

“Are you serious?” His brows furrowed instantly and his bottom lip jutted in a vexed pout, which you tried with all your might to not laugh at. “It took me a couple of weeks after I proposed to get them done.” 

You blinked. He hadn’t mentioned that, at all. Matter of fact, ever since that first time with him, there were many things Miguel didn’t tell you. Like about this home you both lived in, or that he had a replacement prepared and every possible detail covered to fake your death. 

The idea itself was risky, you both knew. But it’d be riskier to remain in the army and have your secret found out by someone else. And with Jessica’s help, the plan came into fruition.

Everyone had believed that The Raven had died. The body was too unrecognizable to be identified, but the height didn’t lie. None questioned a thing. And wrong as it was, Miguel saw the task through. He’d free you from the impostor you’d become to survive. 

Corvo was no longer needed. He needed his wife, the woman he still considered his best friend and had saved him twice. The only one he truly trusted his life with. And the one that had given him a purpose beyond barracks and scraped armor.

You had missed so much in life just to survive, and he was more than willing and ready to make sure you didn’t miss a single thing any more. 

“Wanna hunt him down?” The question only made him stand up and squeeze your chin as he kissed you until your lips turned purple. But you stomped on his feet softly, with enough force to let you go. “The last one getting to the horses cleans their stables next time!” 

And you bolted. He just watched you go with a resigned smile. It was his turn anyway. 

"You worried?" he deadpanned. "Miracles do happen."

Soap snorted loudly from across the armoury. Price sighed into his coffee.

Gaz simply shook his head. "Can you two go five bloody minutes?" he asked.

"No."

"She started it."

You pointed dramatically. "I absolutely did not!"

Ghost finally looked over. Behind the skull mask, those dark eyes carried that same infuriatingly blank expression. "You breathed."

"...You're actually unbelievable."

"You'll live."

"Oh, will I?"

"Unfortunately."

You threw a cleaning rag at him. He caught it without looking. Arsehole.

It became routine. If you walked into a room—

"You're late."

"I've been here three minutes longer than you."

"If you say so."

During training— "You call that aim?"

"You call that personality?"

Soap nearly dislocated something trying not to laugh.

In the mess hall— "You taking all the chips?"

"I am now."

"You've got the appetite of a horse."

"And you've got the bedside manner of a cactus."

Everyone assumed the two of you genuinely couldn't stand each other. Maybe you did. Maybe he did. Sometimes you weren't entirely sure anymore. Because beneath every insult... He somehow always ended up beside you during briefings. Always covered your blind spot during training. Always silently shoved spare ammunition into your vest if yours ran low. Never acknowledged it. Never looked at you afterwards. Just...Did it. Which somehow made him even more irritating.

The mission wasn't supposed to be difficult. Quick in. Grab intel. Get out. Instead... Everything went sideways. The warehouse had been compromised before the team even arrived. Bullets erupted from every direction. Radio chatter dissolved into shouting. Someone screamed. Explosions rattled the concrete floor. You got separated.

Ghost noticed first.

"Where is she?"

Static answered.

Price's voice crackled. "Last seen east corridor."

Ghost was already moving.

"Ghost—"

Too late. He'd disappeared.

You fought your way back alone. Every corridor looked identical. Your ears rang. Your rifle was nearly empty. Blood soaked through your sleeve where a round had torn across your upper arm. Another sharp piece of shrapnel had buried itself into your side when the grenade detonated nearby.

You could still move. Mostly. Just... Slowly.

By the time you staggered outside... The extraction helicopter had already landed.

Soap spotted you first. "Jesus Christ!"

You tried smiling. "I've looked better." Then your knees gave out.

You never actually hit the ground. Something caught you. Hard. Strong. Familiar.

"What the hell happened?" Ghost.

You blinked up at him. It took a second to process why his voice sounded... Wrong. Not irritated. Not sarcastic. Angry. Terrified.

You managed a weak grin. "Thought you said I'd live."

His grip tightened around you. "You don't joke."

"I literally always—"

"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip.

You froze. Soap did too. Even Price looked over. Because nobody... Nobody... Had ever heard Ghost sound like that.

Blood dripped steadily between Simon's gloved fingers. Far too much of it. His pulse thundered so loudly he barely heard the medic shouting. "Move!" He ignored them. His entire world had narrowed to the warmth soaking through his gloves. To your face, far paler than it should've been. To your eyes struggling to stay open. "You stay awake."

You gave a sleepy blink. "Bossy."

"I'm serious."

"You usually are."

He swallowed hard. "You stay with me."

"You still... hate me?"

The question barely left your lips. Soft. Half-conscious. Half-delirious. It hit him harder than any bullet ever had. His jaw clenched. "...Idiot."

"You do..."

He crouched beside you in the helicopter as the medic worked around him. One hand never leaving yours."I never hated you."

You frowned weakly. "You call me insufferable."

"You are."

"You said... I breathe wrong."

"You do."

"...You said unfortunately when people asked if I'd survive."

His eyes squeezed shut for the briefest moment. "...Yeah."

"So..."

His thumb brushed absent circles over the back of your hand. Gentle. Almost impossibly gentle. "So if you die..." His voice dropped into something rough enough to scrape against bone. "...I'll have no one left to argue with."

You smiled faintly. "That's... romantic."

"Shut up."

"There he is."

Relief punched straight through him so violently it almost hurt. There you were. Still mouthing off. Still impossible. Still alive.

Back at base, the medical wing became Simon's personal prison. He wasn't technically allowed inside while the doctors worked.

He ignored that.

Price tried once. "Riley."

"No."

"You'll only be in the way."

"I'm staying."

"There are medics—"

"I said I'm staying."

No one argued after that.

When you finally woke properly several hours later... The room was dim. Quiet. Someone sat beside your bed. Massive. Broad shoulders slumped. Forearms resting on his knees. Fast asleep. Ghost. His mask still on. One gloved hand wrapped loosely around yours, as though he'd fallen asleep making sure you couldn't disappear again.

You smiled. "...Didn't know you cared."

His eyes opened instantly. Combat reflexes. Always listening. "You shouldn't be awake."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

"You've got a funny way of showing it."

He leaned forward before he could stop himself. Checking your IV. Your bandages. Your breathing. Searching every inch of you for injuries he'd somehow missed. Only when he was satisfied did he finally meet your eyes. "You scared me."

The admission was so quiet you almost thought you'd imagined it. Simon Riley. The man who stared down death without blinking. Who walked into gunfire like rain. Who never let anyone see beneath that skull mask. Looked genuinely shaken. Because of you.

"I came back."

"Barely."

"I still came back."

His shoulders sagged. Then, before either of you could think too much about it... His forehead rested lightly against yours. Just for a second. A tiny gesture. Hidden from everyone else. "I can't..." he whispered.

"You can't what?"

"...Do that again."

You stared.

He pulled back slightly, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. "I can handle bullets." Silence. "I can handle losing men." Another silence. "I know how." His voice faltered. "But if you ever come back looking like that again..." He exhaled shakily. "...I don't know what I'd do."

Your heart did something embarrassingly soft. "So..." You reached carefully for his hand. "...Does this mean we're friends?"

His eyes narrowed. "No."

"No?"

"We're still arguing."

A laugh escaped you despite the ache in your ribs. "There he is."

"There I am." He squeezed your hand once. Hidden beneath the blanket where no one else could see. "...But next time," he murmured, "you stay where I can see you."

that morning simon had been ripped from sleep, heart pounding against his ribs, eyes flying wide open.

for a few disoriented seconds he stared at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom, chest tight. then it hit him like cold water.

she's still downstairs.

still in his basement. still breathing. still alive.

he sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, dragging a rough hand down his face. he never keeps them overnight. ever. the job was simple: grab, play, dispose. clean. repeat.

efficient. safe. controlled.

but this one…

this tired, mouthy thing with the same dead-eyed exhaustion he saw in the mirror everyday - still sees, if he's truly honest with himself, which he rarely is. the one who’d chosen the alley like she was begging the world to end her, then spat in his face like a challenge when he put her on camera.

he’d meant to kill her last night.

he should have.

instead he’d put her in a cage like some fucked-up pet he couldn’t bring himself to put down.

“fuck.” he sighed, voice rough with sleep.

this isn't just breaking routine.

this is dangerous. the longer she stays alive, the more complicated it becomes. evidence. risk. and worse - the uncomfortable flicker of something human in his chest that he thought had rotted away years ago.

he didn’t want to feel seen. feel recognition.

he didn’t want to feel anything, particularly.

it was easier not to.

simon stood, jaw clenched, and forced himself through the familiar motions — mask on, gloves on, tea brewed, toast buttered. but his hands are tighter than usual. his mind louder.

he told himself he’ll finish it tonight.

he almost even believed it.

but first? breakfast.

ghost appears carrying a polystyrene cup and a paper plate - nothing you could turn into shards and use as a weapon. the skull mask is firmly back in place, hiding any trace of the man who had just been borderline panicking upstairs.

he crouches, knees creaking, shoving the items through the gaps in the bars of the cage: two slices of buttered toast and a cup of black tea.

you glare at the provisions, then at him, mouth pressed into a flat line.

“eat.” he says flatly. an order, not a suggestion.

you stare at the pathetic little meal again, then up at the mask. “fuck off.”

ghost tilts his head. “not very grateful for room service, are we lamb?”

he crouches down so he's closer to eye level with you, brown eyes boring into yours through the gap in the balaclava. "eat." he repeats, voice forced into something colder now. "you're going to need your fuckin' energy tonight, okay?"

you swallow. audibly. visibly. snatching the toast and eating it in angry bites while he watches. the tea was good which somehow made things worse - a brief glimpse of normalcy in hell.

when you finished, he took the mug back through the bars, tilting his head again.

"you need to piss?"

you flinch at the bluntness of the question - and at the realisation that yeah actually, you do need to.

you nod, a tiny jerk of your chin, eyebrows pinching into a frown as you wonder what exactly your bathroom situation might be.

ghost nods, disappears to the opposite corner of the basement, barely visible in the low light as he digs around for… something.

he returns moments later with a bucket.

a black, plastic bucket.

you stare, eyes flicking from his masked face to the bucket, connections firing in your sleep deprived and terrified brain, shame and anger twisting in your gut when you realise that is going to be your bathroom situation.

"scoot back. not havin' you try and claw my eyes when i open the fuckin' door." he mutters, reaching to unlock the padlock keeping the cage door shut. when you don't move, when you continue to stare wide eyed, his own eyes narrow behind the mask.

"i said fuckin' scoot back." his voice comes out colder this time, more of an order than a suggestion, harsh enough that your stomach clenches with fear. "fuckin' move, lamb. or i'm takin' the bucket away and you can just piss in your scrubs instead. leave you like that so chat's got somethin' to look at later."

chat.

later.

the thought of being put back in the chair was bad enough. the idea of being back in the chair covered in your own urine added an extra layer of humiliation that had bile crawling up your throat; a sharp acidic sting that makes you gag slightly.

you move. press yourself to the back bars of the cage, metal digging into your back, making yourself as small and inoffensive as possible whilst he yanks the door open and shoves the bucket in.

ghost turns, gives you a semblance of privacy, registering the sharp twinge of guilt that flares in his chest. guilt he shouldn't feel. guilt he hasn't felt before in this basement when he puts simon back in the box he'd built to contain him during his military service and let's ghost run free. he doesn't let it show. just stands rigidly near the cage, arms crossed over his chest, attention firmly on the wall and not you.

you notice.

the privacy.

but you don't know what it means.

this is ridiculous. this is your life. not some low budget horror movie. kidnapped by a man in skull printed balaclava.

pissing in a bucket.

you hate him. hate this. but most of all you hate that the tea tasted nice.

the basement is silent except for the sound of both your breathing and the stream of your piss hitting the plastic bucket that you've somehow managed to crouch over, scrub trousers and underwear pulled down to your knees.

eventually the silence becomes more unbearable than filling it.

"this is a shit hotel. wouldn't stay again."

ghost's back straightens, but he doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't turn away from the wall.

but the corners of his lips twitch under the mask. not that you can see.

when he doesn't respond you continue, "pretty sure the piss bucket is a health and safety violation."

this time ghost makes a rough sound in the back of his throat that could be annoyance or amusement but still doesn't turn.

you finish, tug your trousers back into place, push the bucket towards the door of the cage. "done."

he retrieves it in silence, locks the cage door, disappears back up the basement stairs wordlessly, leaving you alone again in the red tinged room.

you wonder if he's coming back or if you're going to spend however many hours until he hauls you back into the chair in lonely silence - and you're not sure which is the worse option.

you're not wondering for long.

heavy footsteps descend back down the basement stairs, followed by the screeching noise of metal dragging against concrete as he brings a small folding chair over, propping it open in front of the cage, taking a seat with his arms crossed over his chest like you're a particularly interesting exhibit in a zoo.

you glare up at him, waiting for him to speak first.

he doesn't.

so instead you do.

"one star." you say flatly. "'accommodation poor. staff hostile. bathroom facilities lacking.'"

ghost makes another rough noise in the back of his throat. you still can't tell if it's annoyance or amusement.

he's glad his mask hides his expression. he's glad you can't see the flicker of humanity that crosses his features every time you make a sharp little comment, every time you show more spine than he expected the woman who picked the alley to show.

"continental breakfast choices limited." you continue. "tea surprisingly good."

"...'s yorkshire tea."

you blink. "…what?"

"'s yorkshire tea," he repeats, like that somehow explains everything.

you blink again. "tasted like pg tips."

ghost levels a look at you through the mask, "tastes like yorkshire tea."

you stare at him.

"you're arguing tea brands with your kidnapping victim."

ghost shrugs one shoulder. "you started it."

"you kidnapped me!"

he pauses. stares back at you. then shrugs the same shoulder again. "...fair."

you blink.

that wasn't defensiveness. or justification. just a flat acknowledgement that yes, he had in fact kidnapped you, drugged you, locked you in a cage, and is now discussing tea brands with you like this is any other day.

you swallow. once again very aware of your current predicament.

"the bucket dragged the rating down." you add, but it's got more waver to it that before.

he sighs, glad you can't see the way his lips tilt downwards under the mask when he sees realisation flicker across your features, also once again reminded of his own role here. "it's a fuckin' cage. what do you expect, an en suite? christ, you're demandin' for someone locked up."

you fix him with a flat look. "i worked a fourteen-hour shift in the shitshow that's the NHS before you grabbed me," you snap. "i've earned the right to complain."

ghost goes still.

not dramatically. just enough that you notice.

"NHS?"the question slips out quieter than the others. less mocking.

you immediately regret opening your mouth. "...yeah."

his gaze settles on you properly for the first time since he'd shoved a bucket through the cage bars.

you have the uncomfortable feeling of being assessed. not as prey or entertainment.

just… observed. evaluated.

"nurse?" he asks, voice quiet, head tilted to the side.

your mouth flattens into a thin line as you look up at him. "if i say yes, are you going to let me out? freedom would be worth more than the fucking applause we got thursday nights during the panny d."

his lips twitch slightly at the fact you referred to the covid pandemic as a panny d but when he replies its flat, no room for argument: "no."

"then what difference does it make?" you snap back, hands curling into fists where they rest on your thighs.

he shrugs, "doesn't. but we might as well fill the time."

a lie. he doesn't just want to fill time. for some sick, twisted reason… he wants to know you. wants to know what made the woman in the scrubs choose the alley.

even if that makes the basement all the more dangerous for both of you.

his eyes flick down to your scrubs. to the trainers you'd still been wearing from your shift. to the dark circles carved under your eyes that looked permanent at this point.

"nurse." he confirms, almost to himself, before he glances away again. "should've guessed. you've got that look about you."

you huff out a humourless laugh, wrapping your arms around yourself against the lingering cold.

"rather be dealing with blood and shit and arsehole patients that this." you mutter, more to yourself than anything. "patients are usually less stabby."

"'aven't stabbed you." ghost cuts in.

"yet." you sigh quietly, lead lining your stomach.

ghost doesn't respond immediately.

but his gloved fingers tighten against his biceps where his arms are folded across his chest.

when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter.

"...yet."

your stomach twists.

the reminder settles heavily between you.

because that's the thing.

this - the tea, the bickering, the complaints - none of it is normal.

he's still the man who built this room. the man who bolted that chair to the concrete floor. the man who had stood under red lights while strangers paid to watch people suffer.

the man who could decide tonight that whatever hesitation had kept you alive so far had finally worn thin.

you glance towards the chair without meaning to.your pulse stutters, you swallow audibly. "how long?"

ghost tilts his head to the side, "what?"

your voice drops into something almost inaudible. "until tonight."

he doesn't answer straight away and for a moment you think he might simply refuse. "got a few hours. no point logging in early."

the words land like a lead weight in your stomach.

you nod once. "right."

silence stretches between you again before you decide to fill it - talking, even with him, is better than thinking. better than counting the minutes until you're put back in the chair.

a few hours. a few hours before the cameras switched back on. before the audience returned. before he remembered what this room was for.

…or maybe you just want to see if there is a man under the mask.

"what did you do before this?" you ask quietly.

ghost goes completely still. the atmosphere in the basement shifts instantly into something heavier, deeper.

ghost contemplates ignoring you entirely. or telling you to shut up. or lying.

instead, "military." it comes out clipped, like it's not something he thinks much about anymore.

your eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. but it… makes sense. considering how comfortable he is around blood and guts and knives. "how long?" you ask quietly.

he shrugs, "eighteen years."

you blink. once. twice. "is the… military to murder basement pipeline a well established one?"

he freezes. and for the first time since waking up in the basement you hear it - a genuine huff of amusement from behind the mask. brief. almost reluctant. gone almost before you can register it.

but there.

ghost straightens immediately afterwards, like he can physically pull the reaction back inside himself. "no. the military to murder basement pipeline is not a well established one." he pauses, like he's weighing his words. "just didn't 'ave many options after."

you're silent. absorbing. wondering exactly what he saw in those eighteen years that meant he ended up like this. against your better judgement you hear yourself ask, "have you always been like this, or did the military do it to you?"

the silence that follows is longer this time. ghost doesn't answer straight away. doesn't look at you. his gaze settles somewhere over your shoulder instead.

when he finally speaks, his voice has lost some of its edge. "...bit of both." he finally meets your gaze again, a far away look lingering in his brown eyes - like he's not quite in the room with you anymore. he shakes his head, "'nough about me. why the fuck did you pick the alley, lamb?"

you freeze.

completely.

look up at him like he's asked you to solve world peace and not a fairly simple question.

but it's a simple question that doesn't have a simple answer.

you're quiet for a long time, staring down at the metal floor of the cage. the so quietly it's almost more a breath than words, "just… tired. i'm just so fucking tired."

he watches your lips press into a thin line, your shoulders curl inwards on yourself, hands tucked against your stomach like you're protecting your soft parts.

"tired." he repeats - hating how soft his voice is. "it's not really tired, is it. it's more like done, in't it lamb?"

you nod, once, without looking up. "yeah. more like done."

he hates the crack in your voice more than he hates the softness in his.

"get some rest, lamb. i'll be back for you later. you'll need your energy."

you don't look up until you hear the basement door click shut - when you do, you stare at the metal chair he was just occupying like maybe you imagined that whole interaction. that you imagined the fact his voice slipped into something almost gentle.

upstairs simon lights a cigarette, grits his jaw, tries to dampen the fire burning in his chest when he thinks about your voice breaking, and how he'd do anything to take it away.

he doesn't know you. not really. but he recognises a creature lost in their own darkness when he sees one.

maybe the kindest thing he can do is put you out of your misery.

Those lashes do not belong to ghost. But to Simon Riley. And you find yourself staring at them in calm moments.

In the moments as you grow closer. And slowly but surely he removes every mask for you. The physical one first, he is unashamed of his face. Handsome, scarred and handsome. His nose had been broken in a skirmish and it needed to be set.

Being the medic you quickly take care of it. Apologizing as you move it back into place with a sickening crunch sound. But you barely heard it as he was watching you. Eyes the color of cognac, lashes the color of old lace, though stained onyx in places by the eyeblack he wore under the mask.

You couldn’t look away from his eyes for long, positioning your fingers appropriately before doing your job. He winced. Just barely. But you saw it.

The crinkle at the sides that usually signifies a smile, but in this case showed a reaction to physical pain. There were even involuntary tears in the inner corners. That happened to anyone, even as strong a soldier as Ghost, when you had to set a broken nose.

Still, the single drop that slipped out, rolling down through the eyeblack, dragging it further down one cheek, the stain reminding you of what happens when your allergies got worked up during the spring and you forgot to wear waterproof mascara.

On instinct after taping his nose to hold it in place you dabbed the tears with a tissue. The eyeblack coming off the corners of his eyes, revealing a few pale freckles on his eyelids. The black must cover them on his cheeks as well.

So pale you would have to be as close to him as you were now to see them. He was an honestly beautiful amalgamation of contradictions. And nothing showed that more than his eyeblack stained champagne lashes.

You had the overwhelming urge to see his face completely bare. See the man truly behind the mask.

Yet you said nothing. Let the moment stay as it was. Oddly intimate for a safehouse after a fire fight.

That moment seems to be what opened the floodgates. And you get closer still.

Talking casually. Sitting closer. And eventually his gloved hand brushes some dirt off your cheek and you both realize how far gone you are. The kiss which follows that moment is slow. Tentative. Uncertain of what this meant for either of you.

But craving the act of finding out.

Knowing things would never be the same.

And they aren’t.

But it’s wonderful.

Everything is slow as that first kiss. The trust built with Ghost is done the same way you earn the trust of a feral cat. With calm understanding. A soft voice. Offered warmth and safety.

And of course a treat or two.

Ghost being particularly fond of your blueberry muffins.

Eventually he becomes Simon. Not Ghost. Not anymore. Not to you.

Simon is your heart. And you are his sanctuary. The place he feels safest to take off his masks. All of them.

Removing the balaclava is easiest.

The eyeblack slightly more difficult, if only because it took ages for you to convince him to use a good makeup remover rather than just scrubbing at his eyes with water and a rag.

A side benefit of that is saving more of those soft, cornsilk lashes from being piled out as he rubbed and rubbed and rubbed to get all the black off.

But the hardest mask to take off, was the one he kept over his very soul.

How he protected himself.

The mask he put on to pretend like he didn’t still feel broken from his past.

Once you earn that masks removal you work hard to keep it off when you are together. Letting him know that he could trust you. Not with words but with actions. A warm cup of tea at the end of a long day, prepared just how he liked it, and resting his head on your chest, your heartbeat lulling him to sleep or just relaxation. Running your fingers along his back, scratching and soothing the tension away.

He talks to you most in these moments, these moments where he doesn’t have to make eye contact. Where he can close those pretty lashes over those tragic eyes and let you in. He tells you everything. And you take it all in.

Accept and love him through it all.

Simon has never been afraid to be open with you. To love you.

He trusts you.

Allows you to see him vulnerable.

Allows you to see him cry.

And while you would never give up that trust which you have earned you only wish that the first time you ever truly saw him cry wasn’t what it was.

You hadn’t been on this mission, having been out of commission due to a broken foot. And you hadn’t been briefed or debriefed about what had happened.

Not until Simon arrives home. Your apartment was his second home. The one he spent more time in, keeping the old one out of a deep urge to have a refuge if he grows uncertain about anything or feels like he is being too much for you. Even when you assure him he never could be.

His masks was off.

All of them.

The balaclava removed at the base.

The eyeblack haphazardly rubbed off in the car before he drove here.

His heart open. Wounded.

He walks over to you. And you set your tea aside. Allowing him to crumple onto the couch beside you. But he doesn’t move to allow you to embrace him just yet.

Staring ahead at the paused movie you had been watching.

His lashes, still wet with makeup remover and perhaps even tears, were stained dark onyx in multiple places. His cheeks were slightly pink. Like he had rubbed too hard to remove the eyeblack.

Finally he looks at you.

And the pain in his eyes nearly breaks you. His voice, as he says your name, as if making sure it’s truly you, is raw, and forced, like it was all he could do to produce a sound. And the only other thing he says is another name.

“Johnny.”

And you know. You know what that means. And when he finally cries, perhaps for the first time since it happened, your heart shatters. Tears dragging the remaining eyeblack down his cheeks, their paths mapping out his despair at losing his best friend.

Your arms are quick to open and to hold him. Allowing him the space to cry. And be vulnerable. A few tears of your own leaking out as well.

Simon Riley was many things. And in this moment he was wounded. He needs you

So you just hold him.

Saying nothing.

Crying with him.

Loving him.

Just loving him.

in his late thirties, visibly older by his heavier eye bags, a handful of sliver streaks mixed his chocolate locks, a stubble decorated across his face, and eyes in their regular shade of dark brown.

the differences were miguel-3050 wore a similar suit to miguel-2099 but in silver with light blue streaks instead of the familiar red and dark blue. it’s obvious he was born later since he is from the year 3050 yet is older than miguel-2099 in terms of his universe, where the spider society is established.

as the grump asshole he is, miguel-2099 isn’t very fond of having a variant of himself here. but the reason is because of self-loathing, it’s like looking in a mirror. his own reflection pisses himself off because all he sees a broken man with a bunch of failures resting like anchors on his shoulders. but with this new variant of himself, it hurts even more because miguel-3050 appears to be much better and healthier than him. a sting of jealousy, which he heavily denies, bubbles in his chest.

“cálmate, niños.” said miguel-3050 in a calm tone, a little smile tugging on his lips. “cut your boss some slack, vale?” the laughing died down but other miguel was still kinda pissed off.

miguel-2099 fights the urge to roll his eyes before speaking, arms folded over his broad chest as he faces his variant. “you’re willing to join the elite force of protecting the multiverse?”

the older miguel variant nods. “claro, pero i can’t stay away from home for an extensive period of time for my daughter’s sake.”

miguel-2099 suddenly feels his heart stop and his whole body freezes, all tensed up. the scowl on his face falters by a fraction as that familiar anxiety slowly creeps in. “your daughter?…”

“sí, gabriella.” miguel-3050 smiles softly. “mi princesa.”

suddenly, that ugly familiar tension in his chest begins to forms. tension that felt like an anchor fell on his chest and suffocated him. the same tension that he hasn’t felt since the incident. the moment when his little girl vanished in his arms into the void, crying for her father while holding onto him for life, not knowing where her fate would lead to. the cries of gabriella and her disintegrating in his arms forever haunted miguel to this day.

now here stands a variant of himself claiming to have a gabriella of his own and that stabs miguel in the heart a million times.

miguel-3050 begins to notice the shift in miguel-2099’s demeanor. the scowl on his face is replaced with a panicked expression, his broad shoulders tense up, and chest starts heaving. immediately, concern spread across his features.

“¿oye, estas bien, jefe?” miguel-3050 takes a careful approach towards his younger variant, reaching out a cautious hand.

miguel-2099 could barely register the man’s words because his rapid heartbeat was the only thing he could hear. “p-perdón…” was all he could manage to say before swiftly walking away as his breathing grows more intense and difficult, leaving his variant and the spider teens confused but concerned for him.

with his heart rapidly beating in his chest and tension stuck in his throat, miguel-2099 travels to a discreet area in HQ away from the public eye to sort the fuck out of what’s happening to him. considering he is a man of control, he hated the fact he couldn’t control his own damn breathing. he hated not being in control.

the anxiety and overwhelming memories of gabriella was consuming him whole that he hadn’t registered your presence beside him nor the concern look on your face.

“miguel? what’s wrong?” you ask concerningly, eyes wide filled with worry when you notice his heaving chest.

he looks like he’s suffocating. it’s an anxiety attack.

without hesitation, you carefully turn him around by the arms to face you. his furrowed brows, scarlet eyes widen with panic, heavy breathing through his nose, rapid heaving chest, shoulders shaking made your heart ache immensely. miguel isn’t even looking at you nor has noticed your presence but that wasn’t your concern. your main priority was to calm him down.

very slowly and gently, you place your hands on his rapid heaving chest as a way to let him know you’re here but he was still in panic mode. “miguel, breathe…” you whisper, looking up at those wide scarlet eyes with such patience. “i’m here, look at me, miguel.”

deciding to bite the bullet, your hands slowly reach up to gingerly cup his face. that’s when miguel finally snaps and looks down at you with shocked eyes, finally registering your presence. one moment he was drowning in a void of pain and regret, then suddenly he sees your angelic face like he saw the light he so desperately needed. your soft voice was a bit muffled in his ears but miguel can tell you were speaking to him. the little smile on your face when he finally looks at you was it for him.

“breathe with me, okay?” you demonstrate a steady, yet slow breathing pattern. those scarlet eyes fall down to your chest, observing the slow rise and fall before attempting to match his own with it. “eso… tranquilo.” you praised him softly while continuing the demonstration. “nice and slow, miguel.”

those crimsons orbs remain on your angelic face as his breathing soon begins to calm down. he no longer has his own heartbeat in ears and instead hears your pretty voice. the one voice that somehow brings him peace. ever since you began working for him as a secondary assistant and ‘lady in chair, ( you’re from his own universe thankfully, which is perfect ), miguel has been experiencing strange emotions towards you. emotions that he’s been burying because miguel cannot afford distractions. however, no matter how hard he tries, those feelings always linger. the strange times miguel would lean closer while you’re explaining a mission report, his eyes immediately finding you the moment you step into a room, lately been awkwardly asking for your input on certain topics, and always sits in his desk chair to be eye level with you so you don’t strain your neck when speaking to him.

miguel would never admit it, due to his stubborn ass and the ice walls secured around his broken heart, but your presence evokes a sense of peace and comfort. two particular feelings he hasn’t felt in god knows how long, like fucking decades. not since gabriella because before that his life was basically shit. it got worse after the loss of gabriella. that was until you entered his life. the most beautiful woman those scarlet eyes have laid on. in the beginning, miguel knew he couldn’t deny your beauty and believed it was simple attraction, nothing more because he couldn’t afford distractions, remember? well… that failed because remember those strange feelings mentioned earlier? yeah, it fucked him up. not a day has passed without you entangled with his thoughts, practically consuming his mind. it’s been driving him crazy, no matter how hard he tries denying it. you’ve been driving him crazy.

the longer miguel stares into those gorgeous eyes of yours, the ones that captivate his soul, his breathing becomes more relaxed and the anxiety starts fading away. that horrible tension, that invisible anchor has finally lifted off his chest and miguel can actually breath now. all thanks to you, the warm comfort and peace that radiates from you. his rapid heartbeat no longer rings in his ears and miguel can finally hear your angelic voice more clearly now. his heart has calmed down to its regular rhythm, his body free from that awful tension, and his vision clearer than ever.

all thanks to you.

a small smile of relief graces your lips when you notice miguel has truly calmed down. you silently thank the multiverse or whatever higher being. “you’re okay.” you whisper, softly smiling while your thumbs subconsciously caresses his face.

miguel finally noticed your hands cupping his face, making him pause for a moment. you’re actually touching him. you feel so warm, exactly how he envisioned, and honestly miguel doesn’t want you to let him go. never has the man craved the touch of another human being in fucking forever. warm, soft, tender. that’s you in general, not just your delicate hands. you manage to calm this hunk of man built of muscles and anger issues down, that honestly is impressive. that’s as if you’ve become his anchor. definitely not the anchor he felt moments ago. no, you’re the anchor to bring him back from whatever his fucked up, corrupt mind has been poisoning his mind with. one look, one touch from you makes that hellhole disappear in an instant.

miguel continues admiring you silently, utterly lost in your pretty eyes, as you whisper to him, “better? can you talk?”

with a steady breath, he finally answers. “yes…”

another thing miguel realized is he hasn’t experienced this kind of care and comfort in… fuck knows how long. such tenderness that could make him cry if he would allow himself to. it hurts even more to remember that never once his mother showed him that much care and tenderness. conchata was always harsh on miguel, yelling at him for anything or nothing at all. with that, this tender moment hits even harder for him. a big reality check for him.

his answer makes you smile softly. now that miguel has calmed down, you realized how kinda intimate this may have seemed and you know miguel isn’t a fan of physical contact. so, you slowly retract your hands from his face and lower them until they rest at your sides. miguel panicked momentarily because the warmth you’ve given him vanished immediately when your hands left his face and he so desperately wanted to place them back. miguel was about to when a third voice interrupts him.

“¿estas bien, jefe?”

miguel-3050 slowly approached with a mild concern expression. the other miguel completely forgot about him. miguel-2099 internally groans at the interruption of the little intimate moment with you. upon approaching his younger variant, miguel-3050 fails to see you due to miguel-2099’s hulking figure covering your entire being, hiding yourself behind your boss.

with a reluctant look, miguel-2099 turns to give his variant a nod. “yes, just needed a… second.” that earns him a skeptical look from his older variant, which doesn’t surprise him considering they are basically the same person and think the same.

but what miguel-2099 failed to realized is when he turned, he shifted a bit to the side that you were no longer hidden and finally revealed to the other miguel standing across from you both. you eyes land on miguel-3050 and they widen a bit in surprise because you definitely didn’t expect to see a variant of your boss. this miguel, however, definitely seems older and more mature than your miguel. different colored suit and demeanor.

miguel-3050, on the other hand, is completely shocked the moment his eyes land on you. his whole body froze, as if it went into shock because he couldn’t believe who was standing before right him. the one person he had lost long ago.

his wife.

“¿mi reina?”

It was well past midnight as you sat up in bed, the sheets pooled around your thighs. Miguel was still tucked away in his office, working on god only knows what. You worried your bottom lip between your teeth as you finally decided to get out of bed, making your way out of the room and into the hallway.

His office door was closed but you could see a faint orange light peeking from under the door. You silently padded toward the door, turning the handle as you peeked your head in.

Miguel was hunched over his desk, the glow of LYLA’s holographic arrays washing over his face. He was in a black tank top and sweatpants. He clearly had planned at some point to go to bed and something kept him from doing so. He looked completely buried in his work, a large, calloused hand coming up roughly rub down his face as his jaw flexed.

You didn't say a word as you quietly stepped inside. His eyes flicked up to where you stood, the irritation in his gaze melting away when he saw you. "Cariño," his voice was a low and gravelly. He stopped typing, his eyes roaming over your frame, over the robe that was tied around your waist, the hem brushing against your thighs. "What are you doing awake? It's past midnight."

You didn’t answer him right away. Instead, you closed the remaining distance, stepping right between his parted knees, reaching out to rest your hands against his tense and impossibly broad shoulders. "I was lonely." You admitted quietly as you looked down at him. "The bed is too big without you. I just... I want your attention, Miguel. I need you."

Miguel completely froze under your touch. The commanding man who carried the weight of the multiverse on his shoulders looked up at you, his brown turning dark and intense. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he took a slow, deep breath, trying to hold onto his remaining restraint.

"Cariño," he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave into a rough, warning growl. "You shouldn't tell me things like that when I'm this tired. I have a mountain of data to clear and you are making it very hard for me to be good right now."

"What if I don't want you to be good?" You whispered softly, a hand coming up to run through his hair. That was the exact moment his system completely overrode, his restraint snapping in half.

"Mierda." He muttered the Spanish curse under his breath as he stood. With a aggressive flick of his wrist, Miguel swiped his hand through the air, completely dismissing LYLA. Before you could even say a word, his massive hands wrapped around your waist. His grip was firm and possessive as he hoisted you onto his desk, scattering a few stray papers aside without a second thought. He stepped in immediately, crowding his massive frame right between your thighs, pinning you to the edge of the wood.

His hand shot up to your jaw, his calloused fingers gripping your jaw with a firm, unyielding possession. When his mouth crashed down onto yours, the kiss was rough and full of hunger and lust. He let out an animalistic growl, nipping roughly at your bottom lip in a way that made you gasp. It was the kiss of a man starved. You whimpered, your hands instinctively flying up to tangle into his dark hair.

When he finally tore his mouth away, his lips dragged down your jawline, his warm breath fanning over your skin as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. His fangs scrapped against your flesh before he sucked roughly against the sensitive skin right above your collarbone.

His voice was completely wrecked when he spoke against your neck. "You have no idea what you do to me. Walking in here looking like that. Telling me you need me."

His hands slid down to your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he parted your knees wider, crowding his hips flush against yours. You could feel his clothed erection pressing against your clothed pussy. You whimpered, clenching around nothing. "This is what you fucking do to me." He growled as he tore open your robe, pushing it down your shoulders so you were left in just a bralette and your tiny sleep shorts.

"You want my attention?" He rasped, his hands sliding up your thighs, to your hips, fingers curling around the waistband of your shorts. "You have all of it, cariño. Every fucking bit of it."

He yanked your shorts down your legs along with your panties, discarding them to the floor with a dark, impatient growl. "Look at you," He rasped. His dark eyes roamed over the exposed expanse of your skin. "So beautiful. So needy for me."

You shivered as the cool air hit your bare skin, but the chill vanished a second later when Miguel crowded right back into your space, his large hands gripping your waist. He didn’t give you a chance to think. His hands slid up from your waist, his fingers hooked into the edge of your bralette, pushing the fabric up to expose your tits.

He nuzzled his face into the valley between your breasts, his ho breath fanning over your skin before he kissed along your tits, moving to your nipple as he tugged it into his mouth, lightly biting down, the feeling drawing a breathless, needy cry from your lips.

"Miguel." You whimpered, your hips grinding against his erection, wetness pooling between your thighs.

"I know, cariño. I know," he growled against your skin as he pressed another heated kiss to your neck.

He reached down, his hand hooking under your thigh to lift your leg high, pinning it firmly against his hip to open you up completely to him. With his other hand, he freed cock from his sweatpants. He guided himself against your soaking cunt, running the head of his cock through your slick folds. You moaned softly, hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh.

"Tell me what you need," he demanded softly. He leaned in close, his fangs brushing against your jawline. "Say it. Who do you need?"

"You." You gasped out, your voice completely broken as your hips tilted up, practically begging for him. "I need you, Miguel. Please."

Miguel let out a low, guttural growl as he drove forward. He buried himself inside you in one deep thrust. His thick length filled you entirely, stretching your pussy around him. The desk groaned beneath your combined weight, but he didn’t care. He didn't give you any time to adjust. His hands locked onto your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he began a brutal, unrelenting pace.

"I want this off." You whimpered, tugging at his tank top. He didn't have to be asked twice. He didn't stop thrusting into you as he tore his tank top off over his head, tossing it to the side with your discarded clothing.

"God you're so tight, baby." Miguel groaned, his voice completely ruined. His head buried into the crook of your neck as he pounded into you, his thrusts powerful and rough. "So tight for me. Mierda, you're ruining me."

Since your leg still hooked high over his hip, it gave him full access to you, thrusting into you deeper, hitting your sweet spot with every brutal thrust. You tossed your head back, crying out his name as the pleasure began to tighten into something overwhelming.

He groaned when he felt you clench around him. His rhythm became faster, more frantic, his thrusts becoming sporadic as he ruthlessly chased his own release. He reached down, his hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, his thumb working in rough circles against you as he continued to slam inside you.

"Come for me, cariño," he growled against your skin, his voice a ragged, feral rasp as his thumb applied a merciless pressure to your clit. "Let me feel it. Give it to me, baby!"

The combination of his thick length slamming into you and his thumb ruthlessly toying with your clit pushed you over the edge. You shattered, your vision going white as a desperate, needy sob. Your pussy clamped down around him, milking him.

He let out a loud, animalistic groan, his body locking up as he climaxed. His hips slammed into yours with one more brutal thrust, holding you tightly against himself as he came. His hips bucked against you as he spilled his seed inside of you, filling you up as he groaned a string of breathless Spanish curses against your flesh.

The only sound filling the room was the sound of your mingled breathing as you both came down from your highs. Miguel’s forehead rested against your shoulder, his chest heaving as he pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. "Fuck, you're so perfect." He whispered.

Your thighs trembled as his palms gently ran up and down them, softly cooing in your ear, "you're such a good girl for me. Taking my cock so well like that. I love you so much." He kissed along your shoulder as he slowly pulled out of you, his cum dripping out of your now wrecked hole. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers gently combing through his damp curls.

He gathered you up into his arms, not bothering to get your discarded clothing. He just lifted you effortlessly against his bare chest, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you out of the his office.

Padding down the quiet hallway, he finally brought you back to the bedroom. He gently set you down onto the mattress, crawling in right after you, instantly pulling you back against his chest, tucking your head securely under his chin. Wrapped in his warmth, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, you finally closed your eyes, completely safe and loved in his hold.

❀ end note: i definitely don't regret chosing miguel as my first person to make a fic for in the marvel universe, i love him so much.

It was like he fell off the face of the earth.

“Miss?” A female officer was holding a secured door open.

You stood up and followed her to her desk.

“So, you’re here to file a missing persons report?”

You tapped your fingers along your leg nervously. “Yes, for my neighbor.”

“Ok let’s start with your neighbors name.”

“Miguel. Miguel O’Hara. I’m pretty sure he’s a doctor but I’m not positive.”

“Age?”

You furrowed your brow. “Not much older than me. 32? 34?”

She nodded, jotting down the notes in her pad. “How long have you been neighbors?”

“Only about three years. He watches my cats sometimes and I’ll water his plants. He’s a nice guy, but I don’t know much about him. He’s just been gone for…a really long time.”

“Can you tell me about how long?”

“3 months and 8 days.”

You saw a hint of surprise at your words. “Any family we can reach out to? Significant other?”

You shrugged. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know. I think he has a brother but I don’t know if he’s in town.”

You balked at the answers. You knew he liked black coffee. You knew that, despite never admitting it, he loved to play laser pointer with your cats. You knew he had a watering and fertilizing schedule for each of his plants.

“He’s a scientist. I don’t know if that helps.”

She jotted it down. “Anything is helpful, miss. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

“If he turns up, will you reach out?” The question came out before you could grapple with what it meant.

“Of course. You have a good day, miss.”

________________________________________________________________

The first time you met Miguel, you were baking cookies. Your apron was covered in flour, and you had been up to your elbows in butter and sugar all morning.

The knock startled you. You quickly rinsed your hands and darted over to the door. You were surprised to see your neighbor Miguel when you peered through the peephole. You two had waved to each other here and there, but you never paid him much mind.

You swung the door open. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Hey, sorry to bother you, but I’m going out of town for a couple of days, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind watering my plants? I can pay you.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s fine. You don’t need to pay me.”

“Are you sure? They’re high maintenance plants.”

The timer beeped, indicating your first batch of cookies were done baking. You looked over your shoulder.

“Can you come in for a sec? I don’t want them to burn.”

He shrugged and stepped inside. You sped back over to the oven and pulled them out. You set the baking sheet on top of your stove and turned back to him.

You laughed as you saw your two cats inspecting him curiously. He held his hand out to one of them, letting her sniff him.

“Sorry, they have no manners. Okay, what were you saying about your plants?”

“It would be easier if I showed you. Do you have time?”

You nodded and took off your apron. You did a double take to ensure the oven was off.

“Okay, let’s go.”

You both walked across the hallway into his apartment.

As soon as you stepped in, you noticed the light, fresh scent akin to a greenhouse. His kitchen was spartan, and his living room had large shelves in front of the floor to ceiling windows with rows and rows of plants. Cacti, monstera, bonsai trees, and other plants you didn’t have names for were organized in neat rows. A clipboard sat next to the monstera.

Books were scattered on end tables and shelves across the entire place. Some were worn, with cracked spines and frayed edges. Others were pristine, like they had never been opened.

He walked over to the bonsai and carefully inspected it. “This one is precocious. You can only give it 175 milliliters of water every other day or it loses its vibrance.”

You nodded as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

You listened for 30 minutes as he walked you through each plant’s individual needs. He made sure that you understood the need to document the quantity of water given every day, and that you would never touch the thermostat since he had a “delicate balance of humidity” in the apartment.

He even made sure that you understood how to find the meniscus for the water level in his graduated cylinder.

“Can you like…text me? Or write this down? I’m just a lowly cat owner. This is intense.”

“It’s the ideal way to care for them. But yes, I can create a packet.”

“Cool. Ok, you’re leaving tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Yes. I’ll be back on Saturday.”

________________________________________________________________

A few weeks later, it was your turn to go out of town. You knocked on his door. He opened it almost immediately.

“Hey, I’m going on vacation next week. Would you mind watching my cats? They’re super low maintenance.”

“Sure. Just write it down, and I’ll keep an eye on them.”

You saw behind him that he was repotting a plant on his counter.

Your eyes widened. “I didn’t kill one of your plants, did I?!”

He furrowed his brow and turned his head to see what you were looking at.

“What? Oh, no, I bought a new one and the soil it was in was dismal. It needed a new home immediately.”

“Are you a…botanist? A plant scientist?” It took you a moment to think of the word.

He shook his head. “No, I’m a geneticist. The plants are just a hobby.”

“Oh. Interesting. Anyway, I’ll leave a note about their quirks and their needs, and I’ll leave my key under your mat. And don’t let them con you into a second dinner. They’re very convincing.”

“Noted.”

You returned from your trip to find your key stowed under your mat. When you walked inside your apartment, everything was just as you’d left it.

You found a clipboard sitting on your kitchen island with meticulous notes and neat handwriting.

Day 1: grey cat and black cat engaged in play-fighting. Black cat was the aggressor, but grey cat pinned black cat to the ground which caused an immediate end to the fight.

Day 2: grey cat was amenable to tube treat. Black cat was disinterested.

Day 3: both cats engaged in enrichment activities with toys. Both became disinterested after about 5 minutes and resumed their rest in sunlit area.

The notes were at least three pages long. You smiled as you flipped through them. A box of new treats were sitting on your counter with a sticky note.

“Ingredients in the other treats are awful. Let me know if they like them.” -M

The next day, you knocked on his door again, clipboard in hand.

“You made observations on my cats?” You chuckled.

“They were fun to observe.”

At the sound of his voice, your cats meowed relentlessly from inside your apartment.

You gestured for him to follow you, and you opened the door. They both rubbed against his legs affectionately, purring loud enough to be heard by the entire building.

“Oh my gosh, they’re obsessed with you!” You laughed.

“They’re just demonstrating their survival instincts. I fed them for a week, nothing more.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

You corralled the cats and Miguel into your apartment and handed him a wrapped present.

He inspected it skeptically.

“Can you just open it?”

He finally ripped the paper off and flipped the book over to read the description.

“Sally Rooney?” He asked.

“I noticed you didn’t have any fiction.”

“Is she a good author?”

“I’m keeping my opinions to myself until you’re done reading it.”

9 days later, you opened your door to a particularly frustrated Miguel.

“Why did she go back to him?”

“You just finished it, didn’t you?”

“The miscommunication in this book was maddening. Why didn’t he leave his wife? Why did she call him back after she finally got over him?”

He was waving the book around in his hand like a dramatic English teacher.

“Whoa, take a deep breath. I’m surprised you got so invested!”

“I’m not invested.”

“You came to my apartment at 9 o clock on a Tuesday.”

“The ending was ridiculous. Unrealistic, even.”

You gestured to the barstool at your island. “Sit, and we can discuss. Do you eat ice cream?”

He took a seat and nodded. You pulled a carton out of your freezer and two bowls out of the cupboard.

“It doesn’t make any sense. Okay, she was involved with a married man, and then she realized the error of her ways and moved on. Why did she call him back?”

“Because she’s impulsive.”

“She could find someone her own age.”

You slid the bowl across the island to him. He inspected it.

“Cookie dough?”

“Tell me a better remedy for emotional frustration.”

“You know, this is statistically going to make it worse by raising my blood sugar. The best way to calm yourself is to do box breathing.”

“Do you want the ice cream or not?” You asked as you took a spoonful.

“Anyway, I’m genuinely confused. Their entire conflict could’ve been resolved if they communicated directly.”

“Is that not a summary of 85 percent of conflict across human history?”

He pondered your question. “Perhaps.”

“Okay, so did you like the book?”

“No! I became more and more irritated with every chapter.”

“Me too. I threw it across the room when I finished it.”

“And then you gifted it to me? That’s sick.”

“I didn’t hold a gun to your head and make you read it. Nor did I make you finish it.”

He shook his head. “No, no. I do not leave things unfinished.”

One of your cats jumped into his lap, and he began scratching her head absentmindedly.

“Whatever you say.”

________________________________________________________________

More time had passed. You woke up with a start to a fire alarm blaring and someone banging aggressively on your door.

You jumped out of bed and immediately thought of your cats. You stumbled to your closet where their carriers were.

You ripped them out of the closet. Whoever was banging on your door would not stop. You ran over and found Miguel on the other side.

“Where are the cats?” He asked.

You let him in and resumed your search. “I know one is in my room but I don’t know where the other is! Can you look in the bathroom?”

You split up and successfully wrangled your black cat into her carrier. You came back out into the living room to try to find your grey cat, and you found Miguel crouched next to your couch with an arm underneath.

“She’s inside it. We’re going to have to flip it.” You ran over to the other side.

You two worked in tandem to turn your couch on its back. You yanked her from between the wooden slats by her scruff. You made a note to yourself to make it up to her later with an extra treat.

Miguel grabbed the carrier and you shoved her inside and zipped it closed. You grabbed the other carrier and you both bolted down the stairs. The alarms were still blaring.

You pushed through the exit door and the cold air hit your face. Hundreds of other residents were outside with their animals, all wearing pajamas or sweats and looking exhausted and irritated all at once.

You found a spot on the curb and set down your carrier. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off. You looked down and thanked the universe that you decided to wear normal clothes to bed tonight. You hadn’t thought to slip on a pair of shoes in the moment, but you decided not to think about it.

Miguel was wearing a tight black long sleeve and grey sweats. He had the sense to throw on a pair of sensible men’s slippers before knocking on your door.

“How long was the alarm going off?”

“Only a couple of minutes. But I know you’re a heavy sleeper, so I wanted to make sure you guys got out okay.”

You furrowed your brow at him. “What? How would you possibly know that?”

“You snooze your alarm at least three times every morning. I can practically hear your negotiating with yourself for a few more minutes of sleep.”

Embarrassment flooded your system. You blushed deeply. “Oh my god. Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t know you could hear.”

He shrugged. “It’s a nonissue.”

“It’s absolutely an issue. Now I know you’ve been listening to me fail to wake up every day for the last year and a half.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but a firefighter caught your attention.

“False alarm everyone. Sorry for the late night interruption.”

You and Miguel looked at each other and each grabbed a carrier.

“Do you think we’re allowed to use the elevators, or should I mentally prepare for a workout?”

“They’re probably resetting the alarm system. So, yes, I’d prepare for a workout.”

“Awesome. You have to promise not to judge how quickly I get winded when walking up 3 flights of stairs.”

He reached over and grabbed the handle of the carrier you had in your hand. Both cats were meowing dramatically, and one was throwing herself against the mesh like she was in a jail cell.

You furrowed your brow at him. “What are you doing?”

“Helping. I do endurance training all the time. Again, nonissue.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s an issue.”

You walked back inside and headed up the stairs. Most of the other residents were waiting for the elevator, but all you could imagine was getting back into your comfortable bed and going back to sleep.

The first flight wasn’t too bad. Your heart was beating steady in your chest, and you were a little winded, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

He looked at you expectantly when you got to the first landing. “Want to take a break?”

“No, let’s keep going.”

You continued. It wasn’t until you got to the last landing that you asked to wait a few minutes. Perspiration dripped down your back and your face felt hot.

To your irritation, Miguel seemed just fine.

“I think I need to start working out.” You said as you leaned against the wall.

“You can come running with me. I go at 5 am on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and then I do strength training Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.”

“Yeah that is not happening. Okay let’s go.”

“Unusual” wasn’t a word you would’ve used to describe your life at all. At least not until about a year ago.

It was unusual to find a spider with such an odd color palette roaming your apartment since you were used to more dull-colored typical critters. It was also unusual that you didn’t panic enough to turn the apartment upside down to look for the thing before it bit you, but there was too much work to do, and a million notes from Dr. Connors to go over. It was equally unusual that you hadn’t rushed to the hospital the minute you noticed the tiny marks on your thigh.

“I mean, if it was really dangerous, it would have hurt more.” Was your reasoning to ignore it and keep scanning the pages before you. Nobody said pursuing a Ph.D. was without sacrifice. 

By the time you tried to stand up to make more coffee just to end up collapsing on your kitchen floor, it was much too late.

From then on, “unusual” was pretty much every day’s motto.

Having a nightmare that night about being suffocated and unable to escape just to wake up hanging upside down and wrapped in sticky shit was the first clue. Turns out you were actually able to produce said sticky shit at will in the shape of a thin thread, then you discovered the wall-climbing abilities, and before you knew it you were roaming the city at night trying to get comfortable threading between the tall buildings, running across rooftops and challenging yourself to climb this or that building as fast as you could. You felt indestructible, alive. It was wonderful.

You’d never forget the night of your first save either. For several reasons.

It was an ordinary night, right before returning to your apartment, when a violent shiver abruptly ran up your spine and every cell in your body commanded you to stop. When you did, a scuffle in a nearby alley caught your eye. A young girl was violently shoved against a wall by a man who pressed his hand against her mouth. The same second his hand came dangerously close to the zipper of her jacket, you practically tackled him from above and pinned him against the ground, having no clue of what to do besides throwing punches at his face until you knocked him out. A whimper coming from a dumpster behind made you realize you had an audience.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath, remembering your uncovered face, the only solution at hand is to wrap your scarf around your head to try and hide as much as possible, “Oh god this feels too much like cultural appropriation for my taste,” You kept nervously rambling to yourself as you slowly approached the dumpster.

“Um…hi,” You greeted, “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Being met with nothing but silence, you were about to leave when a soft voice replied.

“No. He didn’t. Thank you so much.”

“Is there…I don’t know; is there somebody you want me to call?”

“I want to call my mom.” She replied, her voice still shaking, “He took my phone.”

“Right. Phone. Okay.” You quickly made your way back to the unconscious man and pawed his clothes looking for it. He let out a groan in protest.

“Yeah it doesn’t feel right, does it asshole?” You muttered as you retrieved it from one of his pockets. Then you shoved him onto his stomach to tie his hands and legs behind his back before returning to the girl.

“Here. It still works,” You just held it over the dumpster, seeing nothing but her pale hand as it reached out to take it before you took a few steps back. 

“No, wait,” She immediately pleaded, “Please don’t leave me alone with him.”

“Like hell I am. I’m staying right here.”

So you waited with her until the police arrived. However, the minute you saw the flickering lights and heard the approaching siren, you retreated into the dark part of the alley and climbed onto the nearest building to escape through the rooftops.

It wasn’t until you were back in your apartment that you realized you’d been smiling all the way home. Carefully shutting the window behind you, you let yourself fall onto the couch and screamed joyfully, the pillow muffling the sound.

She was okay. A person was okay because you could intervene and do something about it.

However, a new wave of shivers flooded your veins so abruptly that you sat down immediately.

“Yeah, I know how that feels,” Came a feminine voice from the unlit kitchen, “Being able to help, I mean.”

You scrambled to your feet and started walking backward. However, the voice didn’t remain hidden for too long. A woman emerged from the shadows, dressed in red with a yellow hairband pushing her near-afro hair back. She greeted you with a soft smile.

“Your reflexes need polishing,”

“My…?” You repeated, dumbfounded.

“And you have to learn how to fight properly. Randomly throwing punches isn’t always going to cut it,”

“I’m sorry, who are you? Why are you in my apartment? Were you following me? Do you know about…?”

“Whoa, slow down, kid. I know you have questions, and I might be able to help you with that. But you’re going to have to come with me.”

“Alright, I’ll…let me just get my car keys,”

“Oh, sweetie,” The woman said in between laughs, not malicious but truly amused, “You have so much to learn,”

You were starting to wonder why she had elongated that “o” like that until, after pressing a few buttons on the device around her wrist, something that you would’ve described as a “black hole on LSD” erupted in the middle of your living room.

That night you learned that her name was Jessica Drews and that she was completely right about you having so much to learn. With a four-second-o.

Over the following months, you became capable of things you didn’t think possible. Walls that took you a minute to climb became easy obstacles that didn’t take up more than fifteen seconds of your time, your fighting skills had also improved exponentially under Jess’s tutelage, and of course, going from a life where you could count your friends with less than one hand to being constantly surrounded by amazing (no pun intended) Spider-People who not only understood the changes you were going through but warmly welcomed you into their circle was more than you could’ve asked for.

Well, perhaps some more willingly than others. And by others you meant him.

He, who seemed to be always around, silently watching but never intervening.

He, who despite being allegedly “always locked up in his lab” always seemed to personally oversee your training since day one.

Whom you’d tried to greet as gleefully as you did the others just to receive, if anything, a vague nod of acknowledgment. In your first three months, you had spoken maybe four times. Well, you had. He only hummed, nodded, or answered in monosyllables. You knew better than to waste your energy with people like that, but for some reason you were unwilling to just accept Miguel O’Hara didn’t like you and that was that.

“For some reason” being code for “I’m one second away from fainting every time he as much as looks in my direction,”

You weren’t a child, for crying out loud. You were aware that no matter how cold, distant, and seemingly indifferent the leader of your new team was, he was an insanely attractive man. Even with the fangs…no, especially with the fangs, for some reason. His whole aura that screamed “completely-inaccessible-frighteningly-powerful-twice-my-size-man” had you harboring a huge crush on him within two months of meeting him. So painfully unrequited that it was embarrassing.   Just the fact he could ignore your greetings and surely never think twice of it but you would spend the rest of the day wondering what you could’ve possibly said to make him at least say “hello” back made you want to scream into a pillow until your throat burned.

It was right up there with the time he’d muttered ‘much better’ when he saw you land a kick you’d been practicing and those three seconds kept playing on your head for the rest of the week.

The night of your first mission you decided you were going to prove your worth, not to your crush but to your team leader.

“I told him you’re ready,” Jess said with a proud smile, “He’s going to call you in sometime throughout the day to let you know where you’ll be going and with whom, probably me. How do you feel?”

“Excited, I guess,” You replied, pressing your lips together anxiously, “Also nervous. I don’t want to screw this up.”

“With me as your mentor? That’s unlikely,” Jess replied with a wink, giving you an encouraging pat on your shoulder as she walked away.

However, the day continued normally. You did some assigned tasks here and there, which mostly included helping Spider-Byte to keep everything running smoothly given your background in the tech field. You grabbed lunch, then thought it would be a good idea to train some more before going away.

You were beginning to lose all hope when, as you leaned down to fix some wiring, Lyla popped right beside your head and called your name so loudly you hit your head against the metal and hissed. One year and still you hadn’t used to the way she appeared out of nowhere.

“Oops, sorry,” She promptly apologized, “Well you’ll have to walk that off, Miguel wants to see you STAT.”

“How am I supposed to walk a head injury off, Lyla?” You joked, rubbing your forehead as you rushed across the halls with the holographical figure floating after you.

“Not in my code,” She replied using her usual excuse.

When you walked into his working space, Miguel’s back was turned to you as he used a digital pen to do some annotations on what looked like blueprints of new equipment. After he didn’t react to your presence for a few seconds, you hesitantly walked closer and cleared your throat.

“That looks nice. Is it a new suit?” You asked, as always, trying to start a conversation.

“I just received an alert about the…” He stopped and sighed as if saying the silly nickname was physically painful to him, “…the Go-Home-Machine. It said there was a small power overload since we sent back that Vulture from the 192-011 Universe.”

“Yeah, but Byte and I are already working on that and it should be fully functional by tomorrow morning,” You replied, a bit confused as to what that had to do with your mission.

“Good. Let me know as soon as it’s fixed.” Miguel hastily replied, not even turning to face you until a whole minute passed and he realized you were still standing there. Even then, he just barely turned his head.

“That’s all, (Y/N). Thank you.”

That’s all? What do you mean that’s all?

“Was there something else you wanted to do?” He asked. Shit. You’d said that out loud.

“I…Jessica told me that I’m ready to go on a mission and that today you…”

“I said I would think about it, and I have.”

He fell silent again. No matter how attractive he was, you were starting to truly get pissed at his stupid theatrical antics.

“And?”

“And the answer’s no. You’re not ready yet.”

That felt like all the disappointments in your entire life added up and multiplied by ten. Especially because of how easily he dismissed you despite being aware of how hard you’d worked, how many nights you decided to forgo hours of sleep just to train and polish every movement until it was as close to flawless as you could.

“Not ready yet?” You practically hissed in a voice you almost didn’t recognize. Hell, it was enough for him to put down the pen. “Not ready yet? That kid Pavitr has been here for what? A month? And he’s already going off on missions. Alone, I might add!”

Unsurprisingly, he did not answer.

“And he’s very, very good, I’m not saying he isn’t. But I’m just as good. And more experienced, both at being here and at being a Spider-Person. I have completed every training scenario you’ve thrown my way, worked my ass off to understand every bit of information regarding interdimensional traveling, and studied the protocol to control anomalies, what is it that you still need me to prove?”

He took a deep breath. So deep that his shoulders rose, flexing the muscles of his back in such a way that if you hadn’t been so angry, you would’ve been too distracted to keep arguing. Even with your blood boiling, you couldn’t help but stare and feel your stomach tense at the sight.

“Do you like being part of this team, (Y/N)? Do you like training in our headquarters, having access to all our information, and maintaining contact with the other members of this society?”

“Of course I do,” You replied immediately. Slowly, Miguel turned around to face you completely and walked towards you, descending the two small steps that separated you until he stood towering over you. Even if your knees were about to give in to this unexpected closeness, this wasn’t the time to fold. You held his glare defiantly and folded your arms in an attempt to mentally guard yourself against him.

“Then I suggest you get in line and do as you’re told,” He said in a low voice. But it wasn’t threatening, or condescending. It was an odd, flat tone. Tired, perhaps. Almost as if…as if he was reprimanding you against his will.

He was almost unbearably close. You could feel his breath hitting your face. If right then all logic flew out of the window and you stood on your tiptoes you could…

“I’ll do that when you’ve earned my respect, and I have a policy of reciprocity when it comes to respect, Miguel. I’ve been in line for a year, I’ve listened, learned, and improved so much that if you’re still looking down on me, then it’s your problem, not mine. And no self-righteous, big-headed…”

“Just get out,” He cut you off, once again turning his back to you and walking towards the blueprints again.

“Oh no, I’m not finished…” You insisted, trying to follow him. However, as soon as you gave one step forward he turned around so violently that you stumbled backward and stared at him with something you hadn’t felt towards him up until then: fear.

“Yes, you are,” Was his only reply. As dull as the others.

While you could only see his face for a moment before he walked past you and left the room, something about his expression stuck with you even hours later, when you laid on your bed at night and combed through the scene over and over. You thought he would be fuming, maybe even shocked that you’d dared to talk to him like that. The last thing you expected was for him to look…upset. Hurt, even. The mere thought of you being able to hurt Miguel O’Hara was as ridiculous as imagining a goldfish fighting back against a shark. Still, you realized that even if you thought he was in the wrong, you felt bad about how things went down back there. You would never understand what being the leader of hundreds of super-powered people was like. Commanding each and directing their particular abilities as best as he could all while maintaining a vigilant eye on endless strings of causes and effects because he knew firsthand the consequences of being careless with them.

Even if he had made a mistake with you and of course you still wanted to address it later, right then all you wanted was to apologize.

And so, not even an hour later you were roaming the halls of the HQ, your heart beating furiously as you got closer to his quarters, wondering what you could even begin to say.

When the automatic doors slid open, you stepped inside and turned back to look as the doors closed behind you. Well, no turning back now.

“Miguel?” You called, looking around the large room, pondering whether a first-name basis was okay. After everything that had happened, going back to Mr. O’Hara sounded terribly stupid. Then your eyes landed on the row of screens where he spent most of his time. An extremely ill-timed wave of curiosity filled your chest as you approached them, taking another look at the seemingly empty room before stepping onto the platform. Getting bolder, you reached out your hand and brushed your fingertips across one of the screens. It immediately came to life with a blue glow, startling you and making you curse under your breath. You were about to look for a button to switch it off when a video started playing automatically from where he had left off. He was in it, holding a young girl. Miguel wasn’t just smiling. He was laughing. His laugh was exactly as you’d pictured it. Not particularly loud, but hearty and low. He had the kind of laugh that made you unwittingly smile as well as a newfound sympathy filled your chest as tears filled your eyes when you pictured that being taken from him just like that. How could one have a family, and then one day be completely alone and keep going?

With a renewed disposition to make things better between you, your hand reached out for the switch that would turn the screen off until a third voice piqued your interest. It belonged to whoever was holding the camera.

“Would you please stop hoarding her? I deserve some mother-daughter time too! Here, hold this thing and give her to me,” The voice said between laughs. There was something about that voice that made an extremely cold shiver run down your spine.

“Fine, you’re right. Bueno pues, mijita, ve con mamá, ¿quieres ir con mamá?”

The picture became blurry as the camera switched places with a giggling Gabriella, who could be briefly seen stretching her arms toward the third figure.

“Alright,” Came Miguel’s voice again, “But when I turn the camera towards you I want both of you to blow Daddy a kiss, can you do that for me?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned the camera around.

And then you found yourself staring into your own eyes. They weren’t quite the same shade as yours, and “your” hair was styled differently. And “you” had freckles. But otherwise, it was like staring into an interdimensional mirror. Then, your voice spoke.

“Okay sweetie, let’s humor him, shall we? Blow Daddy a kiss. And another one from me because now I have to use both arms to hold you, my big girl!”

Miguel laughed again at the way his daughter’s face lit up at being called a “big girl”.

“¿Saben que las amo a las dos, verdad?”

“And Gabriella loves you too. I think you’re…nice enough.”

“(Y/N), I don’t think you marry somebody for ‘nice enough’, mi amor,”

“I love you too. Against my better judgment.”

With one last interrupted laugh, the video ended, and, in a cruel irony, the once again black screen showed your actual reflection.

Except this time, it wasn’t the only one. With a loud gasp, you turned around. After seeing him in that video, it became much more evident that the Miguel in it was nothing but a memory of the past. And in a matter of seconds, everything shifted into place like a gloomy puzzle. His expression was unreadable, though he wasn’t even looking at you. His eyes were fixed on the empty screen.

“I wasn’t supposed to ever see that, was I?” Was the only thing that came to your mind after a lengthy, tense silence.

“What good would it have done?” He replied, almost numbly.

“So that’s why you’ve always…stared?” You kept pushing. Against your better judgment, you thought.

“It was at first,” Came his only response. Like always, it seemed like you would have to tear the answers off him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked, turning your head to look for his eyes. Even then, something warm filled your chest. Something that made your heart beat so quickly you felt as if it would stop at any moment, and it spread all over you no matter how much you tried to fend it off. Hope.

Surprisingly, this time he caved in and looked at you. Still, the answer never came. For the first time in all the time you’d known him, Miguel O’Hara was at a loss for words. And that said more than anything he could’ve come up with.

“And you expect me to believe that, by sheer chance, you happened to catch feelings for somebody who is practically your wife’s interdimensional twin?”

“It sounds so much worse when you say it like that,” Was that a hint of a smile? An attempt at a joke? One year and the only time he’d bothered to be decent to you was when you were talking about how much you looked like her?

With an annoyed look, you moved away from him and started to make your way to the exit.

“Do you think I wanted this?” He spoke rather loudly, his whispers going out of the window as he started to follow you across the room.

Miguel O’Hara following you to keep you from leaving. Just hours before you would’ve died of happiness at the mere thought of this scenario. Right now, your brain was a flurry of thoughts and emotions that you didn’t know how to handle.

“I was doing an amazing job at keeping my distance. Watching you from afar, seeing you laugh, grow, win everybody over with that awfully big heart of yours, and still I reined myself in,” He continued, “Today’s the perfect example. You thought I didn’t respect you, for fuck’s sake! I respect you so much that every single day I have ignored you and pretended you are nothing but another face in the halls. Damn it, (Y/N), I couldn’t even look you in the eye when for months you’ve been all I’ve wanted. All because I didn’t know if I loved you or what was left of her. And I didn’t want you to get involved in shit that’s mine to figure out.”

Hearing him not only withdraw his previous statement of you not being capable of doing things and accepting the problem was his and not yours made you stop in your tracks.

Fine, the sudden (though odd) love declaration had something to do with it too.

“So you don’t think I’m not ready?” You asked, turning around and even taking some steps towards him.

“Are you serious? I’ve watched you closely all these months. You learn in days what others do in weeks. You push yourself way more than so many of our members and yet I’ve never, ever seen you become overconfident. Today you never said you knew everything. You said you knew enough.”

This time, it was you who remained silent. There was something else you wanted him to elaborate on, and from the look in his eyes, you realized he knew damn well what it was.

“You were right. The problem wasn’t yours. It was mine all along. I could manage to push you away and keep my feelings at bay. But knowing that you were eventually going to go out there and take so many risks...worst case scenario, you could get hurt or not come back at all. That was too much for me to handle, s’all.”

“Were you afraid of losing me…?” You started to ask just for him to interrupt you.

“Yes. Very much.” However, you lifted a hand to stop him. You weren’t finished.

“Were you afraid of losing me, or were you afraid of losing her again, Miguel?”

Three seconds later, when no answer came out of his mouth, you were about to turn around once again when he rushed and stood in front of you. For a second, you thought he was going to grab your shoulders to keep you in place. Not wanting to come off as if he was forcing you to stay, his hands just hovered on both sides of your shoulders without touching you.

“Listen, she wasn’t a picky eater like you are. But I swear that woman never drank enough water and every time I see you there’s either a bottle in your hand or laying around. And she was so, so messy. It took us at least ten minutes to find the keys every single time…and Spider-Byte said you sort your tools by size and color. Color. (Y/N), I don’t think even I…”

“Are you getting somewhere with this?”

“You’re not her, (Y/N). You have never been, and you never will, I know that. I want you to know that I wouldn’t want you to be any other way. I love you.”

After that, he moved out of the way and folded his arms.

“If you want to go back to your dimension and stay there for a while…or for good, I don’t know, I completely…”

“I love you too, you know?” You cut him off, pressing your lips together after blurting out the three words that’d been haunting you for the past months. Words that up until now you were sure would never leave your chest. When you turned to look at him, you saw in his eyes what minutes ago had filled yours. Hope.

God, his face was so hauntingly beautiful when his features softened.

“What do you want from me?” You finally asked him, your voice shaky from the effect you knew his answer would have regardless of what it was.

Miguel moved closer to you almost hesitantly, his eyes never leaving yours. When he was close enough, he reached out with both his hands and slid them up the back of your neck, his thumbs tucked in front of your ears as his warm palms engulfed the back of your head so he could hold you while he brought his face down to press his forehead against yours.

“Mi amor, I’d give you all I am and be happy with whatever you’re willing to give me for now,”  

“Bad kitty,” a familiar voice calls out from behind you. Calm. Controlled. “You really cannot go one night without stealing something?”

You smile to yourself before you turn around to look at him.

Spider-Man stands a few metres away, broad shoulders outlined against the neon skyline. 

Red and blue. Tall. Always watching you like he is trying to solve a puzzle that refuses to stay still.

“You wound me, I was just borrowing.”

He sighs, the sound heavy through the mask. 

“You took a prototype energy core.”

“And you look great tonight too,” you add, tilting your head. “Have you been working out, or is that just the suit?”

You move as he moves. A step closer. A step back. A dance you have done a hundred times before.

“You know I will catch you,” he says.

“You always do. You just never keep me.”

That earns you silence. Brief, but telling.

You bolt.

The chase is electric. 

You leap from building to building, heart pounding, laughter leaving your lips as his web snaps past your shoulder. He gains on you quickly. He always does. 

Stronger. Faster. Relentless.

You let him catch your wrist.

He slams you gently but firmly against a wall, one arm braced beside your head, the other gripping you tight. Too close. Always too close.

“This ends now,” he says. You could hear in his voice that he was trying to be annoyed.

You look up at him through your lashes. 

“You say that every time.”

Your free hand traces the spider emblem on his chest. You feel his breath hitch beneath the mask. It always does. He hates that you notice.

“Let go,” he orders, but his grip loosens just a bit.

You lean in, close enough that your lips nearly brush the fabric of his mask.

“Careful. You are going to start enjoying this.”

You twist, slipping from his grasp with practised ease. A flash of smoke. A soft laugh. A kiss blown over your shoulder.

“Same time next week?” you call.

By the time the smoke clears, you are gone.

Miguel O’Hara stands alone on the rooftop, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. 

He tells himself it is frustration. That you are reckless. Dangerous. A problem he has not solved yet.

He does not tell himself the truth.

That he looks for you on the skyline even when there are no alarms.

That his hand lingers where you touched him.

The city feels quieter when you disappear.

And somewhere across the rooftops, you slow your pace, chest heaving, heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the chase.

You press a hand to your ribs and glance back once, just once, hoping he is still there.

You always slip away.

But part of you wonders what it would feel like to stay.

The night that changes everything came weeks after.

You hear it before you see it. 

A deep, sickening groan that vibrates through concrete and bone alike. Sirens scream. People scream louder. Smoke coils upward between buildings.

This is not a heist. This is not a game.

You land on the edge of a cracked street and take in the damage in one sharp breath. 

A high-rise has partially collapsed, its lower floors crushed inward. Glass rains down like glittering shrapnel. 

People are trapped inside, shouting from windows, pounding on doors that will not open.

You do not hesitate.

You sprint forward, clawed gloves gripping shattered metal as you haul debris aside. You guide people out, one by one. An elderly man is clinging to your arm. A woman sobbed with her phone pressed to her chest. You keep your voice calm, steady, reassuring, even as your muscles burn.

“This way. Go. Do not look back.”

A web snaps overhead.

Spider-Man lands hard beside you, eyes sweeping the chaos. He turns toward you, surprise visible even through the mask.

“Black Cat. Get back. This area is unstable.”

You do not look at him. You are already lifting a fallen beam with a grunt of effort.

“People are still inside. You can lecture me later.”

For a moment, you expect him to argue.

Instead, he moves.

He webs fallen concrete, braces a wall with his own body, shouts instructions with authority that cuts through panic. You find yourself responding instinctively, moving when he moves, trusting his timing without thought.

You are good together. Better than either of you expected.

At one point, he glances at you, breathless. 

“You did not have to come back.”

You meet his gaze briefly. 

“Neither did you.”

A cry cuts through the noise.

A child. Terrified. Trapped underneath a collapsed stairwell inside the building.

You see him tense beside you.

“I will go,” Spider Man says immediately.

“No. You need to hold that support. I am smaller.”

He grabs your arm. 

“Do not.”

You smile at him, softer than you ever have. 

“Trust me.”

Before he can stop you, you slip inside.

The interior is dark, choking with dust. You follow the sound of crying until you find the child wedged under debris, eyes wide with fear. You talk to them gently as you work, easing broken concrete away inch by inch.

“It is okay. I have you.”

The building shudders.

Your instincts scream.

You scoop the child into your arms and turn toward the exit just as the ceiling gives way.

The impact is brutal.

Pain explodes through you as something heavy crashes down. Your vision blurs. The world becomes noise and darkness and then nothing at all.

When consciousness flickers back, you are cold.

And quiet.

The weight is gone, but your body feels wrong. Heavy. Distant. You try to move and fail.

“No. No, no, no. Stay with me.”

Spider-Man.

You want to answer him. To tease him. To tell him he caught you this time.

You cannot.

His hands are everywhere, frantic, careful, lifting debris, pulling you free. You feel yourself being cradled against his chest, the steady, terrified thud of his heart beneath the suit.

“You should have stayed,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You should have stayed.”

The last thing you feel is him holding you too tightly, like letting go might end you both.

When you wake, the world is too bright and too still.

You are lying on a narrow bed, still dressed in black leather, mask resting beside you. The air smells clean, sterile, but not like a hospital. Holographic screens glow softly along the walls, lines of code scrolling past in colours you do not recognise.

You are alone.

Your head throbs as memory rushes back. The building. The child. The collapse.

Spider-Man.

You push yourself upright slowly, wincing, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. 

They hold. Barely, but they hold.

You catch sight of yourself in a reflective panel.

Black Cat staring back. Smudged. Bruised. Alive.

Your breath catches.

“He saved me,” you whisper.

It could only be him.

You remove the mask with trembling hands. The air against your face feels strange, vulnerable. You change into simple clothes folded neatly nearby.

You do not belong here. Wherever here is.

You step out into the lab, following the soft hum of machinery.

Around a corner, you see him.

Spider-Man stands with his back to you, shoulders tense, hands braced against a console. A hologram flickers in front of him, projecting damage reports, probability models, and outcomes he clearly does not like.

He is mumbling to himself.

You take a step forward.

The floor barely makes a sound.

He still hears you.

He stills completely.

Before he can turn, you speak, voice quiet but steady.

“Thank you for saving me.”

He turns slowly, like he is afraid of what he will see.

And for the first time, there is no distance between you at all.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Spider-Man stands frozen in the middle of the lab, the hologram behind him glitching softly, forgotten. The red lenses of his mask fix on you, sharp and searching, like he is afraid you might disappear if he looks away.

“You should not be standing,” he says finally. His voice is low. Strained. “You took a serious hit.”

You manage a small smile. 

“You would not let me die. I figured I could at least walk.”

That earns a sharp inhale. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, stopping just short of touching you, like he is afraid to cross some invisible line.

“You scared me,” he admits.

The words seem to cost him something. You have never heard them from him before. Not during the chases. Not during the taunts. Not during the games you played so carefully.

“I scared myself, I have never… stayed that long.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. 

“Why did you go back in?”

“There was a child, and because you would have.”

That breaks something in him.

He turns away, dragging a hand over his mask, shoulders rising and falling as he struggles for control. When he speaks again, his voice is rough.

“I thought I lost you.”

You step closer, ignoring the ache in your head. 

“You did not.”

“I almost did, and I do not think I could survive that.”

Silence settles between you, heavy and intimate.

You take a breath.

“I know I have never made this easy. I flirt. I run. I steal. I turn everything into a game so I never have to stop and feel anything real.”

He looks at you again, slowly.

“But I always came back. I wanted you to catch me. I just did not know what would happen if you did.”

His voice softens. 

“You think I did not notice?”

You blink. 

“You did?”

“Every time. I told myself you were reckless. That you were a distraction. But I waited for you. Night after night.”

You laugh quietly, a little breathless. 

“We are terrible at honesty.”

“Yes, we are.”

You swallow, heart pounding.

“I am a thief. A kleptomaniac. I break the law for the thrill of it. And somehow, I fell in love with the biggest hero in the city.”

He steps closer. Close enough that you can feel his warmth.

“And I fell in love with the woman who kept saving herself from me, and then proved she could save others too.”

You hesitate only a moment before reaching up.

Your fingers brush the edge of his mask.

“You do not have to be Spider-Man right now,” you whisper.

He exhales slowly, then lifts his hands and removes the mask himself.

Miguel O’Hara looks at you like you are something precious and terrifying all at once. His eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted, impossibly soft.

“I am not good at this, at wanting someone. At needing them.”

You step into him, forehead resting against his chest. 

“Neither am I. But I am tired of running.”

His arms come around you, careful at first, then firmer, like he is finally allowing himself to hold you.

“I do not care what you steal, I care that you come back alive.”

You smile against him. 

“That sounds dangerously close to a rule.”

He huffs a soft, almost laugh. 

“Do not push your luck.”

You tilt your head up. He meets you halfway, the kiss slow and unhurried, all heat and relief and truth. 

No masks. No games. 

Just two people who almost lost each other and decided not to anymore.

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You can stay, if you want to.”

“I think I already am.”

Outside, the city keeps moving. Sirens fade. 

The night stretches on.

And for the first time, neither of you feels the need to run.

~Masterlist~

You knew Simon didn’t notice it. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. But you noticed. God, you noticed.

Especially at the pub near base.

You worked there most evenings, weaving through crowded tables with cheap trays balanced on one hand, apron dusted with flour from the kitchen because the cook kept dragging you back there to help plate when things got busy. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t important.

You were just… you. A waitress.

And Simon Riley was him.

Lieutenant. Decorated soldier. Feared. Respected. The kind of man people whispered about before he even entered a room.

The kind of man who looked absurd sitting in your tiny apartment kitchen at two in the morning drinking tea from a chipped mug while your socks slid across the floor.

You still didn’t understand why he stayed.

“You’re staring again.” Simon muttered one night from your couch.

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “Sorry.”

He watched you from beneath heavy lashes. “What’s goin’ on in that head?”

“Nothin’.”

A lie. Simon always knew when you lied.

He sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees. “C’mere.”

You obeyed automatically, crossing the small apartment until he tugged you between his legs. His hands settled on your hips, warm and heavy even through your clothes.

“You’ve been distant all week..” he said quietly. “Talk.”

You tried to shrug it off. “I’m tired.”

“Try again.”

Your chest tightened.

You hated this part. Hated saying things out loud because they sounded even stupider once they existed in the air.

Simon waited patiently.

That made it worse.

“I just…” You laughed weakly, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“This.”

One of his brows twitched.

“You.” Your voice got quieter. “Us.”

Simon stared at you like he genuinely didn’t understand the question.

Which was insane.

“You could have anyone.” you murmured. “Anyone, Simon.”

His grip on your hips tightened slightly.

“And you’re with…” You gestured vaguely to yourself with a self-conscious smile that hurt more than it should’ve. “Me.”

Silence.

Not angry silence.

Not cold silence.

The dangerous kind — the kind where Simon got very, very still.

“You think I’m too good for you?” he asked finally.

Your face heated immediately. “When you say it like that it sounds—”

“Answer me.”

You swallowed.

“A little.”

Simon leaned back against the couch slowly, eyes never leaving yours. There was something awful in them suddenly. Something wounded.

Like you’d hurt him.

“You think I come here because I settled?”

“No—”

“You think I look at you and see someone lesser than me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you think it.”

You looked away.

That was answer enough.

Simon exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tightening beneath faint stubble.

“Christ.”

Your stomach dropped. “I’m sorry.”

That made his head snap up instantly.

“There you go again.”

“What?”

“Apologizin’ for existing.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Simon’s hands slid from your hips up to your arms, gentler this time.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head.

“I see someone good.”

You almost laughed at that.

But Simon continued before you could.

“I see someone who remembers how I take my tea. Someone who works ten-hour shifts and still manages to smile at strangers.” His thumbs brushed absentmindedly against your sleeves. “Someone who treats people kindly even when they don’t deserve it.”

His eyes softened.

“You look at me and see the rank. The size. The scary reputation.” A humorless huff escaped him. “You don’t see what I see.”

“And what’s that?”

“A soldier.”

You frowned immediately. “Simon, I’m literally a waitress.”

“Aye.” He nodded once. “And every day you deal with rude customers, drunk men, shitty management, sore feet, exhaustion, bills…” His gaze locked onto yours. “And you keep goin’.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“You think strength only looks like violence,” Simon murmured. “Like guns and combat and knowin’ how to kill.”

One hand came up to cradle your jaw carefully.

“But I’ve seen men in the military weaker than you.”

Your eyes burned.

“Simon…”

“I mean it.” His voice dropped lower now, rough around the edges. “You walk through life soft. Do you understand how bloody difficult that is?”

That finally broke you a little.

Because Simon said it like softness was something sacred.

Something rare.

You looked down quickly, embarrassed by the sudden sting behind your eyes.

“I’m not special.”

Simon’s expression twisted like the sentence physically hurt him.

He stood abruptly, forcing you to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Big hands framed your face completely.

“Don’t do that.” he said sharply.

You startled.

“Don’t tear yourself apart in front of me.” His voice cracked slightly around the edges now. “Not when I love every part.”

The room went silent.

Simon wasn’t good at saying things like that. He showed love easier than he spoke it. Through quiet touches. Waiting outside your work after late shifts. Fixing things around your apartment without being asked. Standing between you and the world like a wall.

But this?

This was raw… and terrifyingly honest.

His forehead pressed against yours.

“I don’t need someone impressive.” he whispered. “I need you.”

Your chest ached so badly it almost hurt to breathe.

“You make my life quiet.”

One of his hands slid into your hair carefully.

“You make me feel human again.”

Your eyes finally spilled over.

Simon caught the tears immediately with his thumb, looking almost angry at them.

“Don’t cry.”

“You’re being too nice.” you whispered shakily.

A small, disbelieving laugh left him.

“Too nice..” he repeated. “That’s what did it?”

You laughed weakly through tears.

Simon stared at you for a long moment before pulling you against his chest so suddenly you nearly stumbled.

His arms wrapped around you tight. Protective. Certain. Like there had never been a question.

“You are not lucky to have me.” he murmured into your hair.

His grip tightened.

“We’re lucky to have each other.”

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