#Anyway enough of a rumble have y'all a good day

[grinfodoro-reblogs-corral]

Okay the hell why are some of my mutuals/people I follow's posts spread between the "for you" and personal feed pages like I keep missing a ton of stuff that is also rather important for me I already struggle keeping up with things why I now have to check for two tabs

[hopefulromances]

Long Time Coming I Chapter 17 I It's Been A Long Time Coming

Summary: Being hired as the first female assistant coach in the league was a challenge of it itself. Being a football prodigy and University Football Legend was easy enough. Coaching Jamie Tartt was a challenge all on its own.

Chapter Summary: The final chapter. Read the end note for more.

Word Count: 5.3K

Warning: The most canon divergent I get (roykeeley endgame forever), a little more self-indulgent than usual, some more heated content but nothing smutty, I'm just sad y'all

Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve 13 14 15 16

Change was in the air. A lot of things were changing. There was a lot of good change. Nate was back! He was just working with Will right now, but I could already tell he was different from how he left. He apologized to me for all the nasty things he had said and done. I was a little wary at first, but Jamie reminded me that I’d given him a second chance and Nate deserved one too.

Another good change was that Roy and Keeley had officially gotten back together. Much to the relief of everyone else in the club who couldn’t bear to see them apart. It was nice to have another couple around our age to go out with. We already had a double date set up for the week after the last game.

Then, of course, there was some not so good change. When Ted told Roy and I that he and Beard would be leaving at the end of the season, I almost passed out. My personal plans aside, I’d never done this without him, and I didn’t know if I wanted to.  But Ted assured both of us that the club was in good hands with the two of us.  Many tears were shed and that was before we told the team.

Roy and I went out alone that night. I told Jamie that we had some stuff to plan but really, the two of us just needed to be with each other.

            “What was Ted going on about?” Roy asked, taking a long sip of his beer. “About not letting his decision get in the way of any plans we might have?”

I shrugged, playing with my cocktail, trying to be inconspicuous. But, as usual, Roy could see right through me.

            “I haven’t figured out all the details,” I said, finally. “But… yeah… something’s planned, a bit.”

I expected him to be cross with me for leaving him to deal with the changes alone, but he wasn’t. He just lifted his glass towards me.

            “To big fucking changes,” he offered.

I smiled, feeling a warmth in my chest. “To big fucking changes.”

            “And you know,” he stopped me before I could take a sip. “We’re always here for you. Not just me, the whole fucking team would die for you.” It was very sweet. Roy being vulnerable with me for a second. “Don’t go getting all… fucking… emotional on me, (Y/N).”

            “You know what this means, Roy.”

            “We are not fucking, hugging.”

            “Oh, yes we are.”

I when I got home that night, Jamie was there waiting for me. We always ended up at each other’s houses somehow or another though we promised we wouldn’t move in together until after the end of the season. But there he was waiting for me anyways, washing dishes in the kitchen.

            “Hey, babe, how was grandad?” he asked, finishing up the plate he was washing.

I smiled at it, at the domestic nature of the act, at the thought of walking home to Jamie every day for the rest of my life. I walked up and wrapped my arms around his waist, resting my head on his back.

            “Was good,” I answered, rubbing my head on his skin.

            “Now who’s acting like a cat?” He rumbled, smirking as he looked back at you.

I hummed a giggle, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade before letting go again. I leaned against the island and waited for him to finished up. He threw the dish towel over his shoulder as he turned to look at me.

            “What?” Jamie questioned, smirking.

            “What?” I returned.

            “You got a funny look on your face,” he told me, reaching out to pinch my cheek. “Look all spacey.”

I batted his hand away, shaking my head. “No… it’s just,” I rubbed at my chin. “There’s a lot of change happening right now… isn’t there.” Jamie cocked his head at me, motioning for me to continue. “Well… Ted and Beard are leaving, Nate’s back, Roy and Keeley are back together – which is great – but… it’s just a lot.”

Jamie nodded. “Yeah… it is. Was there anything else… that was changing… that you might want to tell me?”

Jamie had come to know me very well. Too well for my comfort sometimes. He could tell there was something going on in my head, something I wasn’t telling him. But that was something I still didn’t want to share quite yet, wasn’t ready to share.

            “No, I’m just same old me,” I grinned, stepping forward to slot myself between his legs. His mouth dropped into that lazy smile that drove me mad. I took a shaky breath and nodded at him.  “And we… we’re not changing? Yeah?”

            “I don’t plan on changing a thing,” He quipped, wrapping his arms low around my hips. “That is… unless we’re changing the amount of clothes you’re wearing.” He tugged at my pants slightly, drawing a laugh from me. Safe to say, no matter what else changed, we would be okay.

The final day of training came and went. The boys put on their show for Ted and Beard, who loved it, of course. There was so much movement happening all around the locker room. I sat in the crook of Jamie’s leg that he kept propped up on the bench as we chatted with Cockburn and Dixon when Keeley walked in with her usual cheerful greeting.

I took a moment to look around the room. At the team, and the coaches, and the people, walking in and out. It felt so different. So different from the locker room I’d seen three years ago. It felt much more alive and warmer, inviting people to come join the family. I felt a pang of nostalgia for it already, and there I was, sitting in the moment.

It felt like the end of something. It was the end of the season sure, but it was more than that. With Ted leaving and the future so unsure, it was really the end of an era at Richmond. The Lasso era was ending. And I missed it already.

Jamie and Roy went out that night for a drink. Jamie was practically bouncing, excited that Roy had invited him out and was going to allow him to drink a single beer. So, I took the opportunity to go to Keeley’s to discuss my plans with her.

I arrived at Keeley’s doorstep that night. If anyone would be able to help me figure out the logistics of this, it’d be her. I hadn’t told anyone else about this idea, just Ted and the very vague conversation I’d had with Jamie.

            “(Y/N)!” Keeley squeal when she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

            “Hi Keeley,” I greeted, smiling. “I had something I wanted to talk to you about.”

It didn’t take long, only about an hour of chatting for us to figure out how to go about the plan. Keeley had been so excited, jumping on board immediately, grabbing her notebook to jot down some notes and start sketching some logo ideas.

            “Do you think Rebecca will go for it?” I asked, nervously.

            “Go for it? She’ll love it!” Keeley enthused. She sipped on her wine. “Is this why you’ve been so weird at training and such. Cause it’s not just Ted and Beard leaving?”

            “Acting weird?” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Is that way Roy said?”

Keeley smirked. “Said you were plotting something.”

            “Yeah, his death for starters,” I laughed, grinning. Keeley let out a cackle that only she could make. Our laughter was interrupted by a knock on the door. I looked at the clock, it was late, later than a random passerby. “Did you order food?”

            “No, I thought you did,” Keeley shrugged, scooting her chair back.

At the door was Roy and Jamie, and from the looks of it, they’d been in some sort of scuffle.

            “My word, what’s happen to you two?” I cried as Keeley opened the door.

Jamie’s nose was bleeding, his head tilted back slightly as he pinched the bridge and Roy’s shirt had been nearly torn off. They had other bumps and bruises across their bodies, and I honestly couldn’t believe it.  We finally sat them down at Keeley’s table, Keeley and I sat next to each other facing Roy and Jamie.

            “All right, are you gonna tell us what happened?” Keeley asked, handing Roy an ice pack. I handed Jamie a fresh tissue, wiping his face with my thumb, even as he tried to duck away from me.

            “Better be a cool story, or else this is just sad,” I echoed, pulling back from Jamie finally.

Jamie looked over at Roy who shrugged, gesturing for Jamie to start.

            “We got in a fight,” Jamie started.

            “About the two of you,” Roy finished.

Keeley and I looked at each other a bit incredulous before replying in unison. “Why!?”

            “Well, we was just talking about the trip to Brazil coming up that the four of us are going on, and I was saying how great Keeley was at her job,” Roy explained, smiling at Keeley.

            “And I was saying how you’re fantastic at your job, too, (Y/N),” Jamie followed up quickly. “How you had improved the team so much this season, the lads really respect you.”

Roy shook his head and turned to look at Jamie. “And I was saying how, of course, I thought you were good at your job, but Keeley runs her own PR firm, she’s fucking next level.”

Jamie growled and turned to face Roy. “But (Y/N) is the first female coach in the whole premier league, and she’s the only Captain from the Imperial girls’ team to win three straight championships.”

Roy leaned forward to get in Jamie’s face. “But Keeley is who makes (Y/N) look good. Keeley makes all of us look good.:

Jamie matches him immediately. “But (Y/N) makes sure there is good stuff to make look good.”

            “Oh my GOD!” I shout out, slamming my hands on the table. Roy and Jamie flinch away from each other. “Did you really get in a fist fight to try and prove which one of us was better?” I pointed between Keeley and myself.

The boys shrugged, answering me without saying a word.

            “Are you joking?” Keeley reared. “Like are you seriously joking?”

She and I looked at each other. Without another word, we kicked the boys out and returned to our wine night.

I returned home later that night to find Jamie on the couch, munching on a chicken kebab, his nose stuffed with tissues. I shook my head as I came down to sit next to him.

            “You are ridiculous, you know that?” I chuckled, taking the kebab from him. He let out a grunt of protest but didn’t stop me from taking a bite.

            “Oi, I had to wrestle Roy for that one,” he settled me into his side, his arm wrapping around me.

            “Oh, I didn’t know it was WrestleMania tonight,” I gaped shaking my head. I brought a hand up and mussed his hair. “What were you thinking? Getting in a fight with Roy.”

            “I was defending your honor,” He defended, grabbing my hand to pull it away from his head. “Don’t see the harm in it, just guys being dudes.”

I almost choked on my kebab. “Guys being dudes? You really have lots it.”

He smiled and pulled me into him, turning the TV on. I leaned back against his shoulder, staring at the screen, chewing on the latter half of his kebab. Now was the time.

            “Jamie, I’m quitting coaching.”

            “What?” He flew up from his seat, knocking me to the side. “What’re you doing that for? Is it Nate? Did he say something? Or Roy? I’ll kill them both!”

“No! No, Jamie listen.” I grabbed his hands, coaxing him to sit back down. “It’s not anyone else… it’s me. It’s what I’ve been… planning.”

Jamie frowned, his eyes looking into mine for answers. “You’re not gonna coach me anymore?”

I felt my heart break just a little at his pitiful tone. I brought my hand up to his face, holding his neck in my grasp. 

            “No, Jamie… I’m not. I’m not going to coach anyone,” I started to explain. “See, what I realized, the part of coaching I’m good at is the playing bit. Understanding the players and how they think. It helped Ted a lot but… I’m not a coach. I’m a player.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “You want to play? You’re gonna join a women’s team?”

            “Yeah?” I worried my bottom lip as he processed. Why was I afraid? Was he going to disapprove, god was this like with Matt all over again? “Is that okay?”

            “Okay?” His eyes lit up so bright. “That’s amazing.”

He lifted me up, spinning me around in his arms. I held on tightly, afraid to fall, even though Jamie would never let me fall. He placed me down in front of him, gripping my waist.

            “How fucking amazing is it that we’ll be the two best players in our leagues,” He mused, grinning widely. “Who you going to play for? I ‘spose Arsenal’s the closest for the women’s or Reading but you can do better than Reading.”

            “You’re assuming I’ll get to pick!” I laughed.

He made a pursed his lips and shrugged. “Obviously, they’ll all be after you, won’t they.”

            “Well, uh, the thing is, actually,” I looked down, playing with the hem of his shirt to distract myself. “That’s what I was talking to Keely about. I’m gonna convince Rebecca to start a women’s team at Richmond.”

Again, Jamie processed. Then he lifted me up again, twirling me around, cackling like mad.

            “You’re brilliant, you are, you know that?” He kisses me then, passionately in a way I’d never felt before. My breath gets pushed out of me as my hands flail to hold on to him. He kisses me again, slowly, before pulling back. “I love you.”

I look at him, wide-eyed, panting. “I love you, too.”

He smiled at me smugly, knowing exactly the effect he was having on me. He reached down and lifted me up over his shoulder, carrying me off towards the bedroom.

            “Jamie!” I cried happily, banging on his back. “Put me down!”

            “Oh, I’ll put you down,” he sneered, plopping me down onto the mattress. He crawled over my body, anticipation growing with in me as I propped myself up onto my elbows. He took his time reaching me, his lips ghosting over my skin. Up my chest, my neck, until they hovered over my lips, just out of reach of mine. “My girl…”

He kissed my cheek, nose nudging mine like he liked to do. I tried to press up and kiss him, but he pulled back, what a tease.

            “Jamie,” I frowned, whining. I pulled on his shirt, trying to pull him closer to me.

            “Hold on, sweetheart,” he murmured, pushing me down so I was flat on the bed. “I just wanna look at ya.” His hand travelled down my body before coming back up to rest on my cheek, stroking my skin with his thumb. “You’re amazing.”

I felt so soft under his praise, under his touch as he admired me. But it wasn’t just my body he was admiring it, it was me. All of me. And when he finally kissed me, it felt like the sun was filling my body with its warmth.

The day of the final game came, West Ham, again.  This time under George Cartwick, the bastard. But I didn’t feel more normal anxiety about such an important game. Yeah, this game could solidify our ranking within the league, but I didn’t feel too worried. Win or lose, we’d shown the whole country exactly what we could do.

I carried the box from Zava in my grasp, using my legs to readjust my grip as I waved to Laughing Liam.

            “Hello, lads,” I greeted as I walked into the locker room. The room erupted in a choral of hellos and greetings.

            “What’ve you got there?” Colin asked, coming over to help me set the box down.

I dusted my hands off, starting to open it up. “It’s a care package from, Zava.”

The locker room groaned, and I smirked, sneaking a glance at Jamie who seemed quite pleased with the response.

            No,” Dani spoke up from behind me, quite firm. “Thank you, but no. I will not let him hurt me again.”

            “Ooh, it’s t-shirts!” Will smiled, reaching across me to get one.

            “Can I have two, please?” Dani decided.

I shook my head, moving away from the box to reach out for Jamie. He pulled me towards him, chuckling at the antics, wrapping his arms around me to pull my back against his chest, my hands crossing in front of my body as I held onto him.

            “Oh, oh!” Colin exclaimed. “There’s a card.” He reached in and grabbed a card out of it. “’My brothers.’” The boys laughed. “’Good luck against West Ham. Please enjoy the T-shirts and this avocado from my farm. Never forget, I am always inside you, Zava.’”

            “What, he sent us one avocado?” Jamie questioned, his lips right by my ear.

Bumbercatch lifted the avocado from box and held it up so we could all see it. It was giant. I felt Jamie freeze in surprise.

            “Holeh guacamoleh,” he shuttered out. “Show me that, bro.”

He let go of me to grab the avocado, staring at it in awe. I laughed, shaking my head.

The beginning of the game was a little rocky, probably due to the video that Beard had made, sending the whole team into a sobbing frenzy. The first half quarter was a stalemate, but Jamie was keeping them on their toes, controlling the field with his excellent strategic passes. Nevertheless, Westham managed to score, twice before the half.

The boys were buzzing during the half, talking and strategizing with one another. It was a stark difference from the team I started with. That team would be silent, brooding, angry about what was going wrong. But this team still had hope, they still had believe.

Ted emerged from his den to address the team.

            “Well, fellas, we got our work cut out for us in the second half. But you know, I’ll get to all that in a minute.” I went over to my spot next to Roy, crossing my arms as I looked over the group.

“No, uh, right now, all I wanna do is let you gentlemen know what an absolute honor it's been to be your coach. Getting to work with y'all these last three years has truly been one of the greatest experiences of my life. I've loved getting to know each and every single one of you. Learning all about the men you were and getting a front-row seat to see the men… and women you all have become “

He looked over at me and I nodded, swallowing a thick ball of sadness in my throat.

“A-And I wanna thank you for your patience with me. You know, when I showed up here, I didn't know one thing about soccer. But now... Well, now I know at least one thing about football.”

We let out a chuckle, though it was well watery I could tell. He continued.

“I'm just so gosh damn proud to be a part of this team. You know? And I love you guys. I'm gonna miss y'all." My heart swelled. I didn't want to say goodbye. I swiped at a tear that had escaped my eyes.

"Now, regarding this second half... Yeah, I don't know what's gonna happen. You know what I mean? No one does. Sports would be a lot less fun if we did. You know? And you all would probably make a lot less money, so... You know?  We don't wanna know the future. No, no, we wanna be here right now. And look, I-I know we're down a couple goals. But I'm telling you, man, if y'all play hard, play smart, play together and just, you know... Just do what y'all do, and we'll go out with the peace of mind knowing we did our best. That we tried. Yeah?”

            “Yes, coach.”

            “Hm. All right. Anybody else have something to say?”

            “Coach.” Sam spoke up.

            “Yeah, Sam, what you got?”

Sam stood up and grabbed something from his locker, pulling out a small piece of yellow paper. Then Jamie stood up, pulling out a book from his locker that had a similar yellow piece of paper sticking out of it. Soon the whole team was grabbing things from their lockers and pulling out their own yellow pieces.

I sighed and reached into my pocket and found my wallet. I had a polaroid of Jamie and I, sitting at Sam’s restaurant, and taped on the back was my own piece of yellow paper. I held it up and walked over to where the boys were placing their pieces.

Soon there was a clutter of pieces all mixed up. The boys stared at it a second, wondering what was wrong with it. Then they moved into action, putting it back together like a puzzle. I smiled at Roy who shook his head and chuckled.

Finally, the sign was back together. The torn up believe sign put back together by the team that made it a reality. I’d missed the sign. Missed it more than I knew.

            “And there it is,” Ted mused, smiling at it. “Number four. Yeah?”

The fourth rule of total football. Believe. Believing in this team and the people in it. Believing in change and love and friendship. Believing in the fact that victory was within our grasp. Believe was filling this room. Starting from when Ted first stepped foot in the locker, infecting the place with his positivity. Now the room, and the whole stadium was filled with it, so even when he was gone, we’d keep it going. Believe.

            “Alright, let’s bring it in.”

We walked in together, Jamie standing right behind me so he could keep one hand on my hip while the other went in for the huddle.

            “I know they folks like to say, ‘there’s no place like home,’” Ted looked around the circle, at our team. “That’s true. You know. But man, there ain’t a whole lot of places like AFC Richmond either.” I let out a shaky laugh, the team following in suit. He addressed Isaac. “Richmond on three. One, two, three…”

            “RICHMOND.”

The second half feels more electric than before. More shots on the goal, with only one getting in from Jamie. The stadium erupted in cheers as Jamie scored, giving the crowd a shred of hope for Richmond’s chances.

Jamie gets in again losing his mark and heading for a second goal when he’s tackled. It’s a weak tackle and Jamie certainly played it up but it got us our penalty.

            “That’s it,” I muttered, nodding at Ted.

It took a second, Jamie passing the ball over to Dani who then passed it to… Isaac.

            “Oh, what the fuck,” I grunted, rolling my eyes. I loved Isaac, I really did, but I was certain he’d never even made a penalty before.

Isaac went for the shot, and it flew into the stands, causing a groan to go across the field. It wasn’t the end of the world but equalizing certainly would have been helpful. But then the referee went back to look at the net before turning around and signaling a goal.

I laughed and let out a cheer, patting Roy’s shoulder.

            “Who fucking knew,” I gaped.

            “Apparently, Dani,” Roy answered.

This wasn’t the end; we still had another goal to get but victory was just in reach. The game came to a halt as the grounds crew came out to fix the goal. Jamie jogged over to me, an excited look on his face.

            “How mint was that, eh, babe?” He asked, excitedly.

I shook my head handing him a water bottle.  “You could have made that easily.”

            “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” He grinned, downing the water.

As he did, I noticed Rupert on the field. Yes, Rupert Manion, as in the owner of West Ham, walking on the field like a villain from a Bond movie.

            “What the hell is he doing here?” Jamie snorted, watching the man.

            “Don’t know…” I murmured back. “But I’m going to find out, cover for me?”

Jamie nodded at me, turning back to the coaches, as I tried to wander over inconspicuously I made it seem like I was going to fill up my water bottle, trying to get within ear shot of whatever conversation they were having.

            “Tartt is out there doing whatever he fucking wants.” Rupert growled.

Oh. I see.

            “Yeah, but I’ve got two players on him already,” Cartwick responded. He looked terrified, and Rupert pressed further.

            “Take him out.” I stiffened, looking that way, as subtly as possible. No way he was implying what I thought he was.

            “Are you joking?” Cartwick retorted.

I looked back towards Jamie. If anyone got near him, I would kill them. I’d kill them with my bare hands.

            “Get rid of him.”

I was gripping the water bottle in my hand so tight I thought it would break. Water started overflowing, getting my arm wet but I couldn’t move. I thought that if I did I would go over and punch Rupert right across his stupid face.

            “I’m not playing the game like that,” George finally being a good person for once in his useless life.

            “You do what I say, or you are done,” Rupert threatened.

George started to reply when there was a thump that sounded, and I looked over finally. Rupert had pushed George to the ground, sending him flying and, unfortunately, revealing both of his testicles.

I flinched away, finally walking back over to our side. Jamie collected me, pulling me away from Rupert, even though we were already far enough.

            “What a fucking wanker,” he grumbled.

The crowd seemed to agree as Rupert started to walk off the field, shouting it at him over and over. Part of me felt bad for him- oh wait no it didn’t. He’d threatened Jamie Tartt. The love of my life, and I thought he deserved a lot worse than a bad name.

            “Everything alright?” Jamie seemed to notice my tense mood.

I looked back over at him, shaking my head. “Yeah, fine, just go out and smash it, yeah? Watch your left kick, you’re holding back.”

            “Heard,” he nodded, agreeing. “Anything else?”

            “Oh, yeah,” I imitated thinking. “I love you, and when you win, we’re gonna have banger sex tonight.”

He grinned wickedly at me. “Now that sounds like a plan?”

I could tell he wanted to kiss me, but we weren’t exactly public yet. Keeley said it would probably be a bad idea, might look bad for a coach to be dating their player. We weren’t a secret exactly either, but just private.

            “Go,” I pressed, pushing him away from me. He nodded, sending me a look that I could read. I love you, you’re amazing, thank you. I chewed my lip and nodded at him as well. I love you, too, go smash it.

The Hammers got control of the ball quickly and it seemed like they’d scored a pull-ahead goal but, as Ted pointed out, they had been offsides. That had been close, too close. We needed something. Jamie was trying to keep up his role as engineer, but he had been completely boxed in.

            “Okay. Come on. Talk to me, geese,” Ted brought is in.

We needed something they wouldn’t expect right now. Beard and Roy rattled off some plays, but I closed my eyes trying to picture the field, what I would be looking for. Jamie was who everyone was expecting to make a play, so we had to use him somehow, maybe as… as a fucking decoy.

 I opened my eyes and saw Ted looking at me. I could tell he’d just made the same connection I had.

            “Do you think it’ll work?” He asked me, cocking his head.

            “Definitely,” I stated, nodding firmly.

            “Alright, hold on,” he called over to Nate, getting him to come over to us before calling out to the boys. “Here hold this.” He mimed handing something to Nate, who took the invisible object. “IT’S AN OSCAR!” He shouted to the boys, giving Nate some instruction on how to hold it. “OR THE ESPY”

That seemed to resonate with the boys as they nodded finally, discussing amongst themselves.  They started off, Sam passing the ball to Dixon. Jamie sprinted into the box shouting wildly.

            “YEAH, YEAH! PASS ME THE BALL! ME, ME, ME! I WANT THE PALL! PASS ME THE BALL, PLEASE!”

I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. He really was selling it and it seemed to be working. There must have been four guys marking him. But Sam was left open and Dixon took his chance, passing him the ball. Then it happened, Sam took the shot.

            “Barbecue sauce.”

The ball soared into the goal, and we’d done it. The game ended shortly after. We’d won. Everything moved in slow motion, the cheer of the crowd, the jumping and celebrations, the ground shaking with excitement.

But I was just looking of one person. Jamie. I needed Jamie. And we locked eyes. His grey eyes stormy with excitement. I felt myself moving towards him, rushing onto the field to get to get to him as quick as I could. I jumped and he caught my in his arms, spinning me around, my legs flying behind me.

I took his face and kissed him. Right there. In front of everyone. I didn’t care anymore, I wasn’t his coach, I wasn’t anyone’s coach. And right now, Jamie Tartt needed a kissing. He stood there on the pitch, practically eating each other’s faces off until I remembered where we were and pulled away. He followed me, letting out a whine.

            “Not now,” I muttered to him, giggling. “Now we celebrate with them. But later…” I walked my fingers down his chest.

He grabbed my hand, tsking his tongue. “Don’t do that, love. Or I might just have to take you away right now.”

I shivered, tempted to let him do so. But then I looked over and saw Colin kissing his boyfriend, I saw Isaac and Sam hugging, I saw Ted starting to gain a crowd, probably ramping up to do something cheesy.

            “Let’s go celebrate, babe,” I said, taking his hand in mine.

We ran over to the group to watch Ted do his victory dance. We celebrated. We were on top of the world. That’s how I like to remember that time. The whole team together. All of us. I could see into the future. I could see Ted leaving, and that would be sad.

But I could also see Keeley and I giving Rebecca the plans for the AFC Richmond Women’s team. I could see Jamie and I going to Brazil together and Keeley and Roy joining us after the shoot was done. I could see Jamie reconnecting with his father, showing him exactly the man he’d become without him. I could see Roy and Nate running the team together brilliantly. I could see us, months from now, having dinner at Higgin’s house. The whole team, kids running in the yard, chatting with Roy and Keeley, laughing with Colin and Michael.

I could see happiness. A happiness that I didn’t have three years ago that I had now. A happiness that had been…

A Long Time Coming.

Taglist: @heletsmelovehim @higherthanheroes @ajax-petropolus-wife @oxxolovemelikeyoudooxxo @optimisticsandwichgladiator @kno-way-home @sleepy-time @wigglegiggle @skewedcherries @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog @snubug @rana030 @ems-alexandra @jaymum @imfalling-inlove @littleesilvia @eugene-emt-roe

END NOTE: If you've made it this far, thank you. When Ted Lasso ended, I wasn't ready to say goodbye. I still had the characters and stories rattling around in my head. So I decided to write this, just to get it out of my head, as an OFC Fic on AO3 (That's being updated as well if you're interested in meeting my OC).

Coming to Tumblr was inspired by a number of writers. Specifically three people who I now am mutuals with and even would call my friends. @illiterateaffairs @its-time-to-write, @alwritey-aphrodite, and @sokkigarden. Each of them inspired my in their beautiful understanding of Jamie's character, their individual styles and personalities, all of them inspired me and encouraged me to continue my writing. They are truly such talents, and I respect them each individually very greatly.

Finally, I have to thank every single person who has liked, commented, reblogged, or even just scrolled through a chapter. every comment, I read, every reblog, I read. They all mean the world to me, and I know I say that a lot but I really mean it. I didn't expect this series to get any traction much less get me nearly 400 followers. You guys kept me going.

Thank you for reading. From me and Jamie <3

[alwaysbethewest]

Kingsman 2 fic: Stay Close to Me

Happy @pedrostories Secret Santa day, y'all 💃 I was thrilled when I received my assignment and saw that I'd be writing for my sweet friend @iamskyereads 😁 Skye, I hope you have a merry Christmas and I hope this little story helps make it bright. (Okay a quick note: generally speaking I don't believe in apologizing for your writing, but I do feel like a small apology is merited here. Halfway through writing this fic I started to panic because I felt like I wasn't really meeting the brief of your prompt 😬 I started wondering if I should start over from scratch but I was already too far into it. I accidentally wrote you... a case fic???? With a smidgen of romance sprinkled in. I'm sorry! Despite my stress over that realization I did have a lot of fun writing this and I hope you will enjoy it anyway!)

Title: Stay Close to Me Pairing: Agent Whiskey (Jack Daniels)/f!Reader Rating: Teen Word Count: 5.3k Content/warnings: Fake/undercover marriage! Statesman casefic! A little romance, kissing, coarse language, very mild peril and hurt/comfort, and a splash of alcohol. Reader is a junior agent and has some muscle but otherwise no physical/age descriptions. As with any good Kingsman fic, my first step was to disregard half of canon, so this is either pre-movie or an AU. Unbetaed but thanks as ever to @fleetwoodmactshirt and @mourningbirds1 for their hand-holding ❤️ Please let me know if you spot any typos/mistakes.

The Statesman offices are housed in a sleek highrise in Midtown, a 40-minute commute from your tiny apartment. To anyone who asks, you work in the marketing department, and you’ve learned enough by now to drone on about synergistic strategies for diversifying market shares to bore anyone listening, but to those in the know, behind passcode-guarded doors, you’re Agent Violette, junior analyst for the private intelligence agency hidden behind the national whiskey brand.

For a secret spy job, your work is actually fairly routine. Most of your time is spent doing research and compiling intel for agents working out in the field. Occasionally your boss sends you into the field yourself—little baby excursions to get your feet wet—and you won’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed the thrill. But your desk job is comfortable, and satisfying, and you’ve got no complaints.

It’s Wednesday, and the only sign something out of the ordinary may be taking place is the note you find on your desk when you clock in. It takes only a little of your codebreaking expertise to interpret:

9:15 AM—mtg w/ Agt. C rm 806

Room 806 is a teleconference room furnished with a small table and a handful of chairs. One seat is occupied when you get there.

Agent Whiskey raises an eyebrow at you from under his cowboy hat. The accessory is so out of place in the urban streets of New York City that when you’d first met him you’d wondered if it was an affectation—a marketing ploy to signal the authenticity of the Kentucky bourbon your company sells on the side. But while you haven’t worked closely with him, you’d quickly learned it seems he’s just… like that.

He slides a folder towards you and you accept it as you take a seat and don your glasses.

“Any idea what this is about?” he asks.

You shake your head. Just as you open your mouth to speak, the comms switch on and Agent Champagne appears across the table before you, via the technological wonder that is your projection spectacles. More high-tech and more secure than Zoom, they’re one of the many things that sets Statesman apart from lesser spy agencies.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Whiskey straighten up slightly in his chair.

“Jack!” Agent Champagne greets him. “How was Munich?”

“All good, sir,” he drawls. “You’ll have the full report this afternoon.”

“Very good,” the older man rumbles. He turns his attention to you. “And Agent, uh—” His eyes shift down to the notes on his desk. “Agent Violette. Good to have you on board.”

You’ve worked at Statesman for three years, but you’re still too low on the org chart to have landed on the director’s radar before this. He says your code name like vie-oh-let instead of the French pronunciation you prefer, but there’s an affability to him that makes it go over easier.

“Thank you, sir.”

“So, California,” he says, diving into the brief. Whiskey opens his file folder and you follow suit. The top page features a short itinerary and a character profile that you quickly learn is a new undercover alias. Violet Davenport. You like the name. She sounds high society. Glancing over to Whiskey’s file, you spot his alias and your brows raise involuntarily.

Johnny Davenport.

Hm.

“Vineyard owner out there is concerned about a potential theft. He’s received some threats and needs a couple of bodies on the ground to sniff out the trouble,” Agent Champagne states.

“Theft of what, exactly?” Agent Whiskey asks.

“Wine. Money. The usual. He’s got his personal wine collection stored on the premises. You know the business—some of those bottles are worth a pretty penny. Mr. Peterson—that’s the client—says he has a list of suspects for you to look at.” Champ waves a hand, looking vaguely unimpressed. “Obviously you’ll have to use your own judgment on whether any of his theories check out.”

“Sir, I don’t understand why I’m being sent on such a simple assignment,” Whiskey says. “No disrespect,” he adds belatedly, glancing at you. You give him your politest go-along-to-get-along smile.

Champ looks like he’s torn between amusement or annoyance at Agent Whiskey’s attitude.

“Same reason for anything, Jack. Politics. This client has close connections in the state government over there. If we can solve this simple problem for him, it may just lead to more prestigious cases. Ones you’ll feel are worthy of your valuable time.”

Jack should look chastened, but he doesn’t. He does stop arguing, though.

“I need a senior agent on the case. And Violet’s supervisor assures me she’s got the research and fieldwork skills to step up on this one. Your cover is a married couple on an anniversary trip, so I’m basically sending you on a paid vacation, here. There’s more information in the files you’ve got.”

Whiskey flips through the pages half-heartedly and gives a curt nod.

“Well!” Agent Champagne slaps his hands on the table decisively. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mazel tov!” With that he ends the transmission.

And that’s how you find yourself at the airport Friday morning with a diamond ring on your left hand and a disgruntled cowboy by your side.

The flight lands in San Francisco without incident, and Jack shifts into doting husband mode as you head to pick up the rental car the agency has reserved. He reaches for your suitcase to load it into the trunk.

“Let me get that for you, sweetheart.”

You give him a saccharine-sweet smile. “I’ve got it, hon.”

You lift the heavy bag with ease and watch his mouth purse for a second before he smiles back.

“I guess my baby’s stronger than she looks.”

The bored-looking attendant sees you off and Jack has you punch in the GPS destination while he eases into the busy freeway traffic. He’s a confident, slightly impatient driver, but you see him relax once you’re over the bridge and sailing smoothly north on Interstate 80.

“So what’s our game plan?” he asks as highway signs for Napa begin to appear, and you reach for your notebook and flip it open.

There’s only one bed.

You probably should have done the math on this as soon as Agent Champagne declared you a married couple, but in the whirlwind of arranging to leave town and the anxiety of stepping into your biggest field operation to date, it hadn’t occurred to you to worry about the precise nature of your accommodations.

Jack sets his bags down and flops onto the bed, letting the soles of his cowboy boots dangle off the end. It’s an exaggerated display of exhaustion, but you’re tired too after a seven-hour flight and another two hours in the car. His lanky body takes up the whole length of the bed and you try not to let your eyes linger as you contemplate the sleeping arrangements.

He picks up on your hesitation.

“This is where I’m supposed to do the gentlemanly thing and let you have the bed all to yourself, huh? Sorry, sister, not gonna happen.” His tone softens. “But I promise I don’t bite. There’s no reason we can’t share.”

The only couch in the room is a small, overstuffed loveseat that you can tell at a glance neither of you would enjoy reclining on for long. So you do the mature thing and agree to sleep with him.

Not like that.

Bill Peterson, the agency’s client, is one of those people who claim to be easygoing while in reality they exude nonstop nervous energy.

“I know exactly who it is,” he tells you in a hushed voice. You and Jack are in his office, under the guise of a private tour of the winery. Peterson has been going over what you already know from the file: that he has a high-value collection of wine held on the estate, as well as a hard drive storing what he’ll only describe as “sensitive” material; that he’s received several vague threats recently; and that with the hustle and bustle of harvest season upon them, he’s concerned his regular security won’t be sufficient to stop the would-be thieves.

“Oh?” you say. “Well, that will be very helpful, Mr. Peterson.”

“Okay,” he amends. “Maybe not exactly, but I can give you a list. Of suspects.”

“We’ve seen the list,” Jack tells him. “But what is it that makes you suspect these folks in particular?”

“They’re mostly other winery owners,” Peterson says. “Everyone on that list was present at a party I attended a few months ago where I—let slip some details about my collection. It was only after that the letters started.”

You and Jack exchange a glance. You’re both wondering if “let slip” isn’t code for “bragged loudly.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t gone to the police?” you ask. His eyes narrow.

“I value discretion,” he says tightly. “Anyway—I’m not sure they’d consider the threats actionable.”

“Can we see them?” Jack asks.

“Of course.” He retrieves a small stack from his desk drawer. You and Whiskey put your heads together to pore over them.

They’re all written by one person, in slanted, blocky handwriting.

YOU WILL PAY.

YOU WILL LOSE EVERYTHING.

YOUR EMPIRE WILL CRUMBLE.

WE WILL CRUSH YOU.

“Is there another one?” you check. “There are five envelopes but only four notes.”

Peterson hesitates, then shrugs and shakes his head. He’s lying, but you don’t push it.

“There is one other thing,” he says. “I keep seeing this blue truck—but it’s like he doesn’t want to be spotted. I see it slow down like he’s scoping out the place, but then he speeds off as soon as he sees I’ve noticed. I tried to get the license plate but it was covered in mud.” He scoffs. “We haven’t had any rain in months.”

Jack has him describe the vehicle and where he’s seen it, while you take notes.

“Alright, Mr. Peterson. We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.”

“Thank you. Oh—here.” He hands you a pair of vouchers for a free wine tasting. “They come with the tour. One thing you should know about Napa—you’ll only really blend in if you’ve got a glass of wine in your hand.”

Jack’s code name is Whiskey for a reason. He’s a spirits man through and through and he doesn’t give the tasting room a second look, ushering you out to get back to your room to regroup. Admittedly, it’s only 10 AM, but you would have enjoyed a few sips of merlot. You’re craning your neck a little to look at the wine list posted by the door—just out of curiosity—when he startles you by taking your hand in his. You look at him. He’s staring ahead, holding your hand like it’s nothing as you walk side by side. Finally, your brain catches up and your nine credits of college acting classes kick in and you plaster a loving smile onto your face, leaning closer.

In the privacy of your little rented cottage, you pull out your notes again to review.

“Peterson is lying about something,” you start. Jack nods distractedly.

“Yeah—listen, before we get into that, I need to ask you. You jumped when I held your hand back there,” he observes.

You feel your face heat with embarrassment. He’s calling you out on your inexperience, the rookie agent who can’t even play-act for a simple assignment. You can do it, you know. Being undercover in the field is just still new to you. He could help you instead of being critical.

“Sorry—”

“It’s my opinion,” he says, with a slight frown, “that a man who doesn’t treat his wife a certain way is no man at all.”

You’re lost, suddenly. “Sorry?”

“What I’m askin’ is, do I have your permission to touch you like you’re my wife when other people are around?”

Oh.

Something about the way he’s worded it makes your stomach do a little flip.

“Oh. Yes. Touch me like…?” You swallow. “Like how, exactly?”

He gives you a steady look.

“Intimately.”

That’s fine. You’re fine with that.

“Right. That’s—” you nod, maybe a little too emphatically. “That’s okay.”

You look down, fingering the pages of your notebook again, trying to refocus on the more analytical side of the job, when another thought occurs to you.

“Are you going to kiss me?” you blurt.

“Shit, Violet, that’s part and parcel of it.”

“It’s Violette,” you tell him with a frown.

“Sorry.”

“Do you even know my real name?”

“Of course I do,” he says. You don’t push it but you also don’t know whether to believe him. He’s shown little interest in working with you this entire week.

Jack takes a step towards you.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says. “So you don’t jump like a rabbit when I do it in public.”

You take a breath. Suck your bottom lip between your teeth involuntarily.

“Okay,” you tell him.

Your eyes fall shut as he leans in. You feel his fingers steadying your chin, tilting your face to meet his, and then his lips touching your mouth, light, tentative—teasing, your mind prompts, and the thought makes you feel flushed again. When you don’t shy away he presses closer and you’re not sure which of you is to blame when your lips part and his tongue brushes yours.

You were expecting it, so you don’t jump, but you feel a little trembly when he pulls away. He doesn’t step back right away—instead, his lips hover over your skin, mustache coarse against your soft cheek, as he tucks his mouth by your ear and quietly, intimately, says your name.

“So you think Peterson is lying,” he says, picking up the thread from before.

“Um,” you say, forcing your brain to switch back to work mode. Your whole body feels warm. “Yes. Don’t you think he seemed shady?”

Jack shrugs. “Call me jaded, I think most people are shady. But I agree with you. He lied about the missing letter. I fuckin’ hate when clients do that. What do you think about the blue truck he saw?”

“I think that could be something.”

You open your laptop and with a few keystrokes you’ve used a Statesman backdoor into the DMV system, where you enter the make, model, and color of the vehicle Peterson had described. There are no matching hits within Napa County, so you expand the search. It’s an unpopular color, so there are only a few dozen matches in the state. None of the owners’ names are on the list of suspects you’ve been given.

“He said he hasn’t seen it around town, only driving by his property. And we don’t know who owns it. So how do we find the car?” you wonder.

Jack is silent for a minute. You watch as a slow smile spreads across his face.

“I have an idea.”

This case originated at Statesman’s Kentucky headquarters, so Agent Ginger Ale is your tech liaison. It’s clear from their dynamic that she and Agent Whiskey have worked together before. Having her voice in your ear is a source of comfort as you carry out Jack’s great idea—which you’re not 100% sure you’re on board with.

“Don’t you need some kind of license to operate this?” you ask tentatively.

“Technically, on paper, he has one,” Ginger offers. “Well, Johnny Davenport does, anyway. As of twenty minutes ago.”

“It’s a balloon and a basket, how complicated could it be,” Jack grouses. This doesn’t exactly raise your confidence.

“Just don’t crash this one, Jack,” she pleads.

“This one?!”

He shakes his head. “You have one helicopter fail on you and they never let you live it down. Don’t listen to Ginger.”

To his credit, Jack pilots the hot air balloon much more smoothly than you’d expected, and after some time you feel yourself relaxing and enjoying the view. It’s early October and the landscape is a mix of green and brown from the last of the summer heat. Tidy rows of grape vines are bordered by houses and larger wineries, copses of trees, and fields dotted with grazing cows. Tiny workers move methodically among the vines, busy harvesting fruit to be pressed and fermented. Through it all, highways and winding roads run alongside the properties, and this is where you refocus your attention.

Ginger has programmed your binoculars to register any vehicles matching the description of the blue truck you’re seeking. You train the lenses on the backroads and driveways, looking for private hiding places it could be stashed.

The whole endeavor feels like a long shot, and you’re just on the verge of suggesting you give up and head back to base when the binocs let out a high-pitched beep of recognition, zooming in on your target.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “I can’t believe this worked.”

“I told you it would,” Jack says, looking smug. “What is that place?”

Ginger has looked up the coordinates before you have a chance to do it yourself.

“It’s a winery… Double Loop Vineyards. Do you guys know that name?”

You recognize it immediately. The owner is one of the names on Bill Peterson’s list of suspects.

You and Jack exchange a look.

“Guess we’re goin’ wine tasting at Double Loop,” he says, and he turns to start your descent.

The tasting room at Double Loop Vineyards is a large, tastefully decorated space that looks like it was converted from an old barn. It’s all dark wood and ceiling beams, and a bar runs along the back and right side walls. When you and Jack step inside, you’re greeted by a tall young woman with a pixie haircut and striking cheekbones. She’s wearing a name tag that reads Eva.

You settle in front of her at the bar and she pulls out a pair of glasses and pours a splash of white into each to get you started. You take a sip and peruse the small menu on the bartop.

“She’ll have the red flight,” Jack says, “And I’ll just have a glass. Can you recommend me something… full-bodied?”

As he says it he palms your hip suggestively, pulling you to him a little closer. You laugh, mortified but amused despite yourself, and he shoots you a wink.

Eva takes it in stride. “I can offer you a cabernet sauvignon that’s got legs for days.”

“That’ll do me just fine, thank you.”

You’re the only visitors in the tasting room for the moment so you have her undivided attention. She’s skilled at making small talk to keep you charmed and at ease; eventually she asks something more personal.

“So I’m planning to propose to my girlfriend soon,” she tells you. “And I’m trying to figure out how to do it. I’m like crowdsourcing ideas. You two are such a cute couple—can I ask how you got engaged?”

You and Jack exchange a glance and you give him a sweet smile. “You tell it, honey.”

“Well,” he says, keeping his eyes on you for a long moment before he finally looks away to face Eva, “I knew I wanted to marry her, and I had this whole plan in mind. I wanted something special for my Violet so I was going to take her on a trip—my buddy has this little cabin on the most beautiful lake you’ve ever seen—and make her favorite dinner, and sit down with a glass of something nice. And then I was going to present her with this beautiful piece of hand-carved wood that spelled out, Will. You. Marry. Me.”

He pauses to take a sip of his cab while Eva says, “Aww,” and looks at you like, what a sweet partner you have.

“Now the thing is,” he continues, warming up to the story, “as Violet can tell you herself, I have never carved a single thing in my life. And somehow, like a dumbass, I was convinced I could make this plaque and do it perfectly. But it looked just awful. And it was taking me so long trying to get it right I could tell she was starting to wonder if I was stringing her along.”

You shake your head in protest and he laughs. “You were! You’d look at me like, why has this fool not married me yet.”

Eva laughs, too. “So what happened?”

Jack lets out an aggrieved sigh. “What happened was, I caught the flu. Just the most dog-sick, pathetic man, all sweaty with fever and miserable to boot. And Violet never hesitated, she bundled me up and cooked me soup and tolerated my whining and she’d read me to sleep when my eyes couldn’t even focus on the TV. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I thought, I need to hold on to this woman forever, and I asked her right then and there.”

His voice cracks a little on the last sentence and you’re shocked to realize your own eyes are damp with tears. You’re not sure which part, or how much, but something in that story sounded true and it’s left you with a strange sense of heartache. You lift his hand to your mouth and press a kiss across his knuckles, watching his face soften.

“Okay,” Eva says. “So I guess I’ll add ‘get the flu’ to my list of ideas.”

“I don’t recommend it,” Jack tells her, “but I don’t not recommend it.”

As you finish your flight and Eva rings up a couple of bottles you’ve chosen to purchase—you’re not sure if these classify as company expenses, but you enjoyed them enough you’ll pay out of pocket if you must—she asks where else in the wine country you’ve been to so far.

“We spent some time at the winery right next to the place we’re staying—actually, we got to meet the owner there, what was his name, baby?”

You keep your tone casual, but you watch her face as you reply. “Bill Peterson, I think it was?”

Eva’s expression falters, just for a moment, before she recovers and plasters on a polite smile. “They’ve got a great pinot noir over there.”

“Not as good as these,” you tell her, just to see her smile turn genuine.

A tour group walks in just then so you take your leave and step outside into the late afternoon sunshine. When Jack takes your hand this time you let him, and you don’t mind it.

The blue truck is parked out back. You walk along the side of the building, just a pair of happy tourists slightly buzzed on red wine out to take in the view, until you get close enough to make note of the license plate. Back in your own car, you run a search on it and identify the owner: a young man named Lucas Trent. The address on the registration is in Paso Robles, a town 250 miles south of here, but you do some digging and find he’s a vineyard worker at Double Loop.

“So what’s the connection to Peterson?” Jack wonders.

“Look at this.” You point at the screen and he squints. “He’s only been at Double Loop for six months. Before that—”

“He worked for Peterson,” Jack finishes. “So he’s mad about getting fired and wants to get back at his old boss.”

“Maybe,” you say, frowning. “We don’t really know yet. But it’s a theory.”

“It’s a good theory,” he insists.

The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, mulling it over.

“Tell me this, rookie,” he says. “You ever been on a stakeout?”

On your first ever stakeout that evening, you quickly learn a few things:

Stakeouts are cold. Stakeouts are boring. And rental cars are not designed to accommodate them.

You shift uncomfortably for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

“How do we even know he’ll show up tonight?” you ask. In the quiet of the night you keep your voice hushed.

“Call it intuition,” Jack says. You can tell he hates sitting still this long, too, but he’s clearly built up a tolerance for it over the years, because he’s not wriggling around nearly as much as you.

“Can I ask you something?”

He grunts an assent.

“That story about how you proposed—how did you come up with that?”

He pauses.

“I just—made it up,” he says.

“I thought it seemed…” you start. He gives you a sidelong glance. “Never mind. You’re a good improviser.”

After a minute, he says, “I was engaged once. A long time ago.”

“Oh.” You bite your cheek, holding back your questions.

“She died,” he adds. Your heart drops.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course,” you say, helplessly.

Never in your life have you been more grateful to see a criminal approaching than when you see the familiar shape of Lucas Trent’s blue truck appear down the road.

“Ha,” Jack says, looking a little less glum. “What’d I tell you. Intuition never fails me.”

You take deep, silent breaths, trying to control your fast-beating heart as you creep behind Jack to follow Lucas inside the building. He’s got a key to Peterson’s winery; he must have stolen it before he left the job, you think. He heads down the hall, past Peterson’s office, and disappears behind a door.

Jack motions for you to wait a moment, listening intently outside the door. You hear nothing but the quiet thump of Lucas’s footsteps, growing fainter until there’s only silence, and finally Jack eases open the door. You’re faced with a short flight of stairs heading down into a cellar. The two of you tiptoe down the stairs.

You nearly bump into Jack at the bottom when he stops dead in his tracks, still hidden in the shadows. Peering around him, you see that Lucas isn’t alone in the room. Bill Peterson is here, too, standing next to a small wooden desk.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bill demands. Lucas stares at him sullenly. “You came here to steal from me, didn’t you? You didn’t think I’d be down here.”

“I just want what’s mine,” the young man growls. “You’re the thief, not me.”

Lucas steps further into the room, toward the back wall. The space is filled with racks of carefully preserved wine bottles—Peterson’s precious collection, you register—and a pile of empty wooden barrels, stacked two high.

“Those bottles are insured,” Peterson calls after him. “You’ll get caught if you try to sell them.”

Lucas says nothing, just continues walking until he reaches the wall. At the back of the cellar, he pushes aside a tapestry to reveal a combination safe embedded in the wall. He glances over his shoulder with a smirk, and punches in the code.

“How the fuck do you know that number?” Peterson roars, finally scared. He rushes past the racks of wine, suddenly worthless compared to whatever is on the flash drive Lucas has just retrieved from the safe. When they start to tussle over it, Jack finally steps in.

“Hey!” he yells, striding into the light. The men look over, startled, and then Peterson looks relieved. He lets go of Lucas, seemingly confident that his hired security will take care of the situation, and retreats to stand next to Jack.

“Get that back from him,” he tells him. Jack gives him a long, unimpressed look, and then turns his focus on Lucas, who’s starting to look slightly panicky now that he’s outnumbered.

“Listen, son. This will all go a lot easier if you just put that back where you found it and walk out of here with me.”

“You don’t understand,” Lucas protests. “He’s stealing from everyone. This is the proof.”

Peterson shifts on his feet, looking guilty. “Bullshit,” he says. “You resent me for being the boss, but I’ve worked for every penny I’ve got.”

Lucas lets out a humorless, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, you work real hard. You must break a sweat making copies of your accounts so you can lie about the numbers. I bet you have blisters on your hands from shortchanging your workers.”

Jack makes a mistake here—he takes his eyes off the suspect to look at Mr. Peterson in a new light, trying to gauge which of them is telling the truth. And in that split second, to your horror, Lucas hurtles forward and shoves the stacked wine barrels, hard, knocking both Jack and Peterson onto the ground.

You make a mistake, too, and he gets on your case about it afterwards. You let Lucas slip past you in your rush to reach Jack’s side. He looks dazed and angry and his legs are trapped under the hundred-pound barrel. Gathering your strength, you lift it off of him and set it upright, then fall to your knees to check him over.

“Jack! Are you alright?” You feel carefully along his legs, then gently at the back of his head, running your fingers over his scalp to check for bumps or bleeding.

“I’m okay,” he mutters. “I didn’t hit my head.” But he winces as you help him up, and he’s moving a little gingerly when he takes a step. “Might’ve tweaked my ankle,” he admits.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Peterson yells. “You let that little shit get away with my property.”

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Peterson,” Jack growls. “Was it true what he said, about the double accounts?”

“I don’t see how that matters,” he insists angrily. “I hired you to do a job, and I expected a lot better.”

“I’ll tell you why it matters,” Jack tells him. “I don’t work for people who lie to me. Consider the contract dissolved. You can get your ‘property’ back on your own.”

“Actually, you got lucky, Mr. Peterson,” you call back over your shoulder as you help Jack walk over to the stairs. “If we had gotten our hands on that drive, we would have been obligated to turn it over to the IRS. Statesman has connections in the government, too, you know.”

And with that, you leave him sputtering and pale, alone with his precious wine.

It’s 3 AM when you get back to the room. Jack’s ankle isn’t broken, just twisted. You’d made him wait in the car while you stopped at a 24-hour convenience store to get ice on the way, so now you get him tucked into bed with his foot elevated and a baggie of ice draped over his ankle. He’s clearly still peeved over how things went down with Peterson, but he also looks amused watching you play nursemaid for him.

“You know, I’ve been hurt a hell of a lot worse than this before,” he tells you. “I can take care of myself.”

You give him an unimpressed look. “Getting badly injured isn’t the brag you think it is,” you counter. “And… you shouldn’t have to take care of it alone. That’s what I’m here for. I know you think I’m just a rookie, but—for this job, we’re partners, right?”

He’s silent for a beat, but then he nods.

Jack is still awake and waiting for you when you return from the bathroom in your pajamas. As you climb into your side of the bed, he says, “I don’t think you’re just a rookie. You did a good job on this case.”

The room is dark but there’s moonlight streaming in through the window, casting a beam of light across his face on the pillow. He’s looking at you. You look back.

“Thank you,” you tell him finally.

“Thanks for the ice,” he returns. He lets out a sigh as his eyes drift shut, and as you follow suit you feel his hand reach out and intertwine with yours.

“G’night, Violet,” he murmurs.

“Goodnight, Johnny.”

He laughs, and you grin in the dark, and you hold on tight.

[mlobsters]

supernatural s5e13 the song remains the same (w. sera gamble, nancy weiner)

sometimes forget they banged in the impala, but then i'm like why is dean being so soft and familiar with her? oh right. anyway, kind of sweet this little interaction in dean's pg-13 stripper dream.

when he wakes up, there's a little chime that sounds just like a doorbell that's been muffled (in my house specifically to try to keep it from waking up a sleeping infant). anyway, the sound design on the original score is rarely very creative, kudos to them. startles the shit out of me every time, but good job on something interesting

ANNA Sam Winchester has to die.

this surely is going to end well for all parties involved.

there was a boy in my high school who had a fucking gorgeous late 70s black pontiac firebird trans am, god the rumble on its engine was delicious. i think i somehow got a ride somewhere with him at one point. he was a cute and smart boy but honestly the car was it.

DEAN So, what, you're like a Delorean without enough plutonium?

CASTIEL I don't understand that reference.

tell him, cas! i just complained about the number of references they use in this show a few episodes ago

cas sure folded like an ugly tan trench coat. "i should go alone" dean: "🥺" ok zap

SAM He's breathing. Sort of.

the line about buying microsoft stock reminds me when i was in middle school i think? there was a project where you had to "buy" a stock and then track its price in the newspaper over some number of days/weeks. imagine that. using the newspaper to check stock prices. ~it was the 90s~

all right so wasn't cas's point back when dean met mary to begin with that you can't change destiny? so isn't this all moot? when does #TeamFreeWill become a thing

JOHN Shut up, all of you! Look, not another word, or so help me, I will turn this car around!

DEAN Wow. Awkward family road trip.

SAM No kidding.

just like home, right, guys?

he reminds me of a combination teen wolf derek (tyler hoechlin) superman (henry cavill variant). one tv superman+one movie superman=young john winchester

SAM Pretty much forever. My dad raised me in it.

JOHN You're serious? Who the hell does that to a kid?

SAM Well, I mean, for the record, Mary's parents did.

JOHN I don't care. You know, what kind of irresponsible bastard lets a child anywhere near—you know, you could've been killed!

SAM I, uh...came kind of close.

JOHN The number it must've done on your head...your father was supposed to protect you.

laughing out loud. i'm sorry sera and nancy, i will always appreciate any and all john winchester shade, and especially unknowingly delivered by john winchester -- but i believe 0.00% late 70s generic straight white man has the emotional intelligence for this thought process / willingness to speak on it / willingness to talk shit about someone's father (a stranger no less) to their face

and i do not appreciate that it caused sam to come rushing to john's defense. gross child neglect, bro. y'all wrote this story and you gotta live with the consequences of how horrifyingly awful of a parent you made him be. just say no to the rehabilitation of john winchester

DEAN You have no other choice. There's a big difference between dying and never being born. And trust me, we're okay with it, I promise you that.

have they talked about this? they're both totally chill with never existing??

DEAN Team Free Will. One ex-blood junkie, one dropout with six bucks to his name, and Mr. Comatose over there. It's awesome.

oh, well. there you go

MARY Ohh...quite a kick there. Troublemaker already. It's okay, baby. It's all okay. Angels are watching over you.

so did michael scrub her brain but also leave some pro-angel bias in there? she said there's no such thing previously about angels. just how much did he scrub? i wonder how much is retcon and how much was actually planned. i imagine i could find the answer if i looked but i kind of like consuming this show in my little bubble the way i do. also, effort

[underragingwaves]

Rating: Teen & Up Audiences Word count: 1.4k Warnings: incest, mention of suicidal ideation Written for: day five of the @vikingsevents Vernal Equinox event, which featured the picture prompt that I used in the above banner. A bit later than planned due to a bit of a writer's block that has been resolved with the help of friends. (Y'all know who you are, merci. 💕) Also, this is a modern AU because reasons.

“Ow!”

“Don’t be such a baby!”

“I’m not,” says Hvitserk, pouting with hurt and cradling his stinging hand against his chest. “You’re being mean to me. Ubbe”– he demands in the next moment –“tell her she’s being mean!”

His older brother heaves a sigh. Stretches his legs out so far that he has to slide down in his seat just a bit. “You’re being mean,” says Ubbe, tapping Amma’s shin with his bare foot. His grin broadens far too much for Hvitserk’s liking. “Just so you know.”

Amma huffs. “Enabler.”

“Me?” Ubbe raises his hands as if surrendering. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Except what he tells you to,” snipes Amma, jerking her chin at Hvitserk, “and indulging that bratty behavior of his to boot while I’m standing here working my ass off – no, that is not an invitation to ogle my ass or touch it”– she snaps out, swatting Ubbe’s reaching hand away and dancing out of his reach too expertly –“and neither one of you has lifted so much as a finger to help me.”

“I wanted to help!”

“You nearly set yourself on fire!”

Hvitserk blinks rapidly. Glances down at the section of the table Amma just slapped him away from. Sure enough, there is a burning candle that he’s pretty sure wasn’t there a minute ago. Or, well, he’s sure that it might have been there but he definitely did not register it being there – let alone saw its flame – and so he heaves a sigh and fixes Amma with his best apologetic look.

“Stop it.”

“Are you…” Ubbe actually leans forward in his seat, looking perturbed and interested all at once. “Are you trying to give Amma your best puppy eyes?”

Hvitserk inhales. Nods vigorously in response.

He scowls when Ubbe’s initial chuckle of mirth erupts into a full-blown laugh. Gods help him, his brother actually snorts and grins broader than Hvitserk’s seen him do in at least four months.

“It’s not that funny,” says Hvitserk, pouting all the worse for it.

“Ha!” Ubbe’s nose wrinkles, amused, when he leans back in his seat again and gestures airily at Hvitserk. “No, really, keep going, I want to see her crack and do unspeakable violence to you.”

“She wouldn’t!”

“She would!”

“She definitely would,” says Ubbe with no small degree of relish as Amma’s snap lands an octave higher than her usual ire. “Keep going, brother, and she’s going to mix something else into that herbal tea…”

“Don’t be stupid, Ubbe, these herbs leave traces. And we’re making a compress, not a tea, because somebody here doesn’t know when to call it quits on the free parkour or whatever the fuck that was.” She shakes her head, multi-colored braids swinging to and fro as she emphasizes her discontent, and fixes Hvitserk with a stare that is eerily reminiscent of the looks his mother gives him when he’s shit outta luck and needs to start counting to ten. “What on earth were you thinking, climbing that tree and then attempting to jump to the other tree? Oh, let’s see all the ways I can kill myself today?”

“I wasn’t going to kill myself,” sulks Hvitserk, “not in front of the dog, anyway.” He bites his lip as Ubbe’s stare suddenly turns a good deal darker than usual. Hvitserk’s the first to look away, as he always is these days since… No. Not since anything. “I just… got the distance wrong. Like when I was out skating”– he explains –“and I flipped the wrong way on the pipe and boom. Happens.” He shrugs. Hisses as the movement sends a sharp, searing pain through his shoulder. “I’m not used to trees.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” rumbles his brother, in such a way that Hvitserk full well knows there is a more-or-less affectionate eyeroll attached to the words.

“City boy,” hums Amma good-naturedly as her hands deftly ground some of the herbs into a fine pulver. “However did you survive all these summers in Kattegat, hm?”

“Luck,” offers Hvitserk, though Ubbe’s “me!” rings out louder.

Amma’s smile dimples her cheeks. “Bit of both, maybe,” she concedes, heading off any sort of would-be argument with a well-practiced air. “Honestly, though, Ubbe, you picked a fight with a sheep only yesterday. Seems like you’ve got a thing or two…”

“Hey, that sheep is evil.”

“Mister Fluffers?” gasps Hvitserk, chancing a glance at Ubbe’s rather impassive face now. “You dare speak such things about the Supreme Lord of Woolgathering?”

“The fucking what now?” asks Ubbe, raising his voice over Amma’s wild cackle of laughter that makes Hvitserk grin too. “Hvitserk! You called it what?”

“Oi, Sigurd wanted to name it Patrocles,” says Hvitserk rather sourly, “and Ivar wanted to kill it and name it Mutton Chop retroactively. Because, you know, our gay brother and our psycho brother are totally normal people who can be trusted to name a sheep.”

“And you called it”– glares Ubbe –“Mister Fluffers, Supreme Lord of Woolgathering, instead?”

“King of the Silent Lambs, Master of Pufferjackets,” adds Hvitserk, rather unhelpfully, “First of his Name, Guardian of Feta Cheese. It had to be named something and you were… not here,” he finishes lamely, knowing exactly where Ubbe had been. “Someone had to…”

“Gods spare me.”

Hvitserk fidgets. “You don’t like it?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” interjects Amma, “we’re not doing this. Nope. I’m not listening to either one of you waffling on about what name was given to this sheep as if you’re picking the name of your firstborn child.” She tosses a bundle of herbs at Ubbe. “Pluck,” she instructs, “leaves and flowers off the stems. Please.”

“Don’t I get…”

“Here,” sighs Amma, moving around the table and pressing a mortar and pestle into Hvitserk’s hands before unceremoniously dropping flowers in his lap. “Crush them best you can, hm? You’ll likely smell like roses and arnica for a bit, though.”

“Arnica?”

“The yellow ones,” mouths Ubbe, already diligently plucking away at lavender and other herbs Hvitserk doesn’t know how to name. His brother’s frown is very apparent as he looks at Amma. “Are you sure this will help?”

“He’s already taken a painkiller,” says Amma, shrugging, “and Ingrid makes these herbal compresses all the time when she’s got a moment to spare. She made me help too many times. Seen it work just as many times, though. It’ll work for him.”

“I’m fine,” grounds Hvitserk out, though the act of slowly grinding the petals is sending fresh aches down his arm. “Just… need to…” His cheeks flush with warmth as Ubbe and Amma fix him with twin stares. “You’re creeping me out, doing that.”

Amma’s brow arches. “You’re in pain.”

Ubbe’s flinch is barely perceptible, but Hvitserk has grown too accustomed to registering his brother’s every move by now. There’s a bruise on his hip the size of Ubbe’s hand, give or take, and he isn’t entirely sure how Ubbe thinks they’re going to hide that detail from Amma when she finally sees the damage the tree and then the ground did to the rest of him. He can’t even ask Ubbe about how to talk around it, now, because she’s been right there since he climbed that damn tree to get away from… from…

“I’m fine,” he says again, swallowing the taste of his brother’s lips back down into the roiling pit of his belly. Hvitserk fidgets in his seat. “Let’s just.. get this done. And Ubbe can help me put it on, later.”

“Scared I’ll do unspeakable things to you when you’re shirtless, little waffle?” leers Amma, using the stupid childhood nickname she gave him years ago when they first visited the farm. She shakes her head. Wrinkles her nose for good measure. “You ain’t my type. Nor you,” she adds, nudging Ubbe’s foot with her own. “I’ve sworn off all men, you know.”

“Your greatest victory is our biggest tragedy,” grins Ubbe, handing her the separated flowers and leaves one by one. “How’s Thora faring these days, hm? Still bullying Ivar every chance she gets?”

“Someone has to,” snorts Amma. “That man is the very definition of play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Did I tell you about the time he had gotten it into his thick sku–”

Thanks, mouths Hvitserk wordlessly, meeting Ubbe’s eyes and maintaining that contact for the first time since this morning. His cheeks color an even deeper red by the feeling of heat that rushes through him at his brother’s patient, unwavering gaze. Were they alone…

Later, gestures Ubbe behind Amma’s back, smiling that soft smile that he somehow always manages to reserve only for Hvitserk while also tilting his head and humming along in all the right places with Amma’s long tale about Ivar, Thora, and a wild horse. Ubbe’s eyes never leave Hvitserk’s face. When it’s just us.

Hvitserk is the first to look away.

[the-yandere-cryptid]

Bloodhound with 3 caught my eye (to be fair, tho, most things with Bloodhound would interest me). PS hope you have a great day/week 👍✌️

ty ty, it's been pretty rough for me lately hence the inactivity but I'll be back up and running soon hopefully. Anyways have this and if y'all like it I might write more with them :>

Bloodhound: "How much of that did you hear?"

---

It was fairly common for Legends to decline the evac ship from time to time and tour the arena after matches. At least, in Olympus. World’s Edge, not so much. The oppressive climate, the abysmal terrain; it wasn’t exactly preferable over the assigned quarters, but you had a particular interest in Talos as a whole. Back when you worked as a planetary scout, you worked solely on unexplored objects. In over a dozen missions, you had hoped—and failed—to stumble upon some sort of alien presence, extinct or otherwise. Even though Talos was a human settlement, there was a certain melancholy charm to the crumbling buildings, lives abandoned in a single cyclonic blast. It was the fallen civilization you dreamed of stumbling upon, and outside of the heat of battle you had time to admire the sights of what once was.

You crested the hill into the Skyhook, footsteps trodding alongside the ones your team made earlier that day. Comfortable silence blanketed the empty city, enough so that you could hear the magma vents all the way on the other side. Strolling the streets with no real goal in mind, you were so zoned out that you dismissed the first strange noise as a figment of your imagination.

But then you heard it again. You slowed to a stop, looking back over your left shoulder. The building that caught your attention was one you had staked out in earlier that day, posted up on the top floor with Pathfinder to your left, Bloodhound to your right. And if you weren’t mistaken, you thought you were hearing shuffling coming around from inside.

You dropped to a crouch, creeping over to the door on full alert. You hadn’t noticed anybody else staying behind. Just when you were weighing whether or not you wanted to confront a Prowler, another noise echoed down the stairwell. A growl, but…fairly familiar. You had heard it earlier, out of the mouth of a teammate following a particularly brutal 3-on-3 match.

Bloodhound?

You took the stairs on all fours, ears perked. It made sense that they stayed behind, Talos being their home and all, but what were they doing here? Another rumble, clear as day, their voice orotund and unfiltered. The thought that their mask was off crossed your mind, but not soon enough to stop you from peeking around the doorway and catching sight of something wholly unexpected.

Their axe, gun, and their mask were all propped against the wall beside their supine form, their hands preoccupied with their own body. One wrapped around their cock, the other by their neck, pulling down the front of their armor to vent out the heat. Their face was turned away from you, a thick head of curly brown hair hiding the shape of their cheeks from view.

Bloodhound sighed again, rolling their hips upward to fuck their hand. You shut your hanging jaw and turned around, deciding your best course of action was to sneak away and pretend you never saw anything. Of course, it was just your luck you wouldn’t be able to get away with that, because your foot had barely brushed the top step before a bullet hit the wall you were just in front of.

“Who is there?” Bloodhound called out, obviously as disoriented as they were alarmed. You cursed silently and waved your hand in the doorway.

“It’s me!” you called. “Sorry, I heard noises and I thought it was an animal so I came to check and. Uh. Sorry!”

Bloodhound was fumbling the entire time you spoke, probably making themselves decent. You decided now was a good time to excuse yourself, but when you tried to descend a second time Bloodhound stepped into the stairwell, chest heaving and mask disheveled.

“How much of that did you hear?”

You froze, shoulders drawn tight as you tried very hard not to make eye contact with the friend you had just caught masturbating. "Just some...growling. I didn't realize you were, uh, having a private moment."

They sighed, leaning against the doorway and crossing their arms. From how it looked, they didn't really want to make eye contact either. "My apologies, the...heat of battle..."

"I get it," you appeased them, holding your hands up. Something about the thought of Bloodhound relieving themselves after getting fired up felt entirely understandable; an urge that sometimes hit you after a successful match. "Don't apologize, it's natural. I won't tell anyone either."

Those were the words that finally got them to relax, their posture loosening as you said it. "I appreciate that."

"Of course," you dismissed, finally making your way down the stairs. "Just don't miss the second evac ship!"

"...Right."

Hearing nothing else, you exited the building and left Skyhook the way you came, waiting until you were very far away to ruminate on how good Bloodhound sounded when they got off.

[yanderart]

He caught you when no one else did; defeated you when no one else could. Whether you liked to admit it or not, Eraserhead had clearly proven his worth.

So why didn't you prove yours, little villain?

Another portrait for my POV yandere series, this time of Aizawa. Got a few people requesting me to draw/write for him so hopefully y'all enjoy it 🖤

Below the cut, as customary for the series, is a longshot one-shot that delves further into the backstory (Aizawa x Villain Reader, nsfw, dark themes, 8k).

TWs: dub-con, graphic smut, Bad Bondage Etiquette, degradation/humiliation, brat (villain) taming, cumplay and slight bimbofication. Scumbag Aizawa is real.

— — —

   The day you met Eraserhead, looking back, saying your worries had been misplaced would be an understatement. With not being apprehended and losing street cred at the very top of your list, it was decidedly easy to skip over any of the other big red-lettered warnings.

   You first felt the tickle in your nape while you carried your acquisitions across downtown Musutafu, accompanied by the familiar presage of someone watching your every movement. The city around you was bustling, as was the norm, as loud and meandering in its complaints as a chronically diseased elder, yet the alleys you took as shortcuts grew quieter and quieter with each step. 

   It was eerie, alarming, and a platitude of other adjectives you shamefully chose to neglect. 

   “So this is the great V/N in the flesh,” the lazy cadence of someone calling out your alias froze you mid-step, the way his owner dragged each syllable telling you he hadn’t yet decided whether you were worth wasting his breath on. 

   Your body was responding before you even had a chance to properly process the threat, running on instinct and muscle memory as you twirled to face the mysterious man and prepared to...

   “Cute dress, kid.” Eraserhead in the flesh stood barely a few feet away, glowing scarlet orbs illuminating his preternaturally blank expression and transforming it instead into a visage of pure intimidation. “Didn’t pitch you for the frilly type.”

   The growing panic in your chest put a hitch in your breath as you stared back. Yet you couldn’t help but still try, fruitlessly hoping—hands clenched, nails puncturing your own flesh as you tried to force your dormant quirk awake. And all for naught, considering your efforts were only repaid by the hatchet of your sinking realization being buried even deeper. 

   Although, the Pro-Hero also appeared to notice your meager attempts, taking a few steps closer to your form with a condescending gleam in his otherwise somber features. 

   Before you were conscious of what you were looking at (and before you had half a mind to attempt a quirkless attack on the hero), you observed the weapon wrapped around his neck unfolding fluidly, the extensions of fabric reaching out to envelop you in a forceful embrace that left your arms tucked to your sides and your back uncomfortably straightened. 

   “Better to trap you before you get any wild ideas. It’s your fault you’re in this position in the first place anyways,” he was taunting you, prodding you and poking you as you found yourself completely at his mercy, uselessly struggling much in the same way many of your victims had surely felt in their last few moments at your hands. 

   "Eraserhead," his pseudonym resembled an insult on your tongue, your rage and resentment making for rather colorful enhancements. "Don’t you have anything better to do than trapping helpless girls with this weapon of yours? Didn't peg you for a pervert."

   Usually, you managed to reign in some of your nastier attitudes, channeling them into your quirk and the violence you could inflict with it…

   But tied up and under the influence of his own ability as you were? All you had was pettiness. 

   "You can dress up as a civ all you want. Won't be fooling me." He took several steps, closing the distance between you two with barely the hint of a smile morphing his stern expression.  

   You could see the faint stubble on his handsome face from this up close, blood-shot eyes that refused to blink as they studied you in ample detail. Could even see the scar carved onto one of his cheekbones, a textured promise of the fight he had survived and now wore as a medal. 

   Such was your luck, that the Pro to finally catch up with you had to be this rugged scumbag. 

   "I'm not even engaging in any criminal activities, Eraseridiot." Your insult was terrible, but you were never much of a verbal sparrer. Not when you could use your fists instead. "What are you gonna send me to the pigs for? I know my rights."

   And you did. So when the condescension on the lazy hero's face turned into a full-on expression of mockery as he approached your "bag of acquisitions," you audibly gulped. Goddamn stalker couldn't have been following you for that long? Could he? 

    If only you knew. 

   "Then," he held up the bag with an indolent brand of interest, the contents dangling tauntingly from his clutch. "How do you explain this over here? I reckon even dirt like you knows what stealing qualifies as." His other hand dived for the contents and before you could voice any protest, cheeks blushing furiously, a slow hint of a chuckle was bobbing his adam's apple. "It would be a fun thing to peg you down for, though."

   That damned weapon of his didn't give out an inch as you started to furiously struggle, becoming instead impossibly tighter with each futile attempt at freeing yourself.

   "You fucking psycho, is this your sick way of trying to pick me up or something?"

   But your quip did not deter him at all (if anything, it spurred him on). The hand inside the bag tensed for a moment before he was retrieving the sole object inside. To say mortification was written all over your face would be an understatement. 

   A dark pantyhose now hung from Eraserhead's nimble fingers, not a second being wasted by the Hero before he proceeded to bring it up to his face, carelessly stretching the garment until you could see every single one of his features through the sheer material. The way the moonlight caught in it, bouncing off and bathing his patronizing face, made for uncomfortably intimate imagery. 

   (Yet a part of you, one you would never admit existed if further questioned, also could not help but notice the striking attractiveness of it all, making you want to squirm for completely different reasons while the man continued to exert his quirk on you through the fabric of your fucking lingerie.)

   "Gotta say, didn't take you for a pantyhose kind of gal either. Girls like you…" He uttered the last part more like an afterthought, tossing the bag aside before his hands continued toying with the tights absentmindedly. "Are suited for something like fishnets much more."

   By that point, you were sure he was just playing with you. You were such a harmless joke, restrained and showcased like a prize for his viewing pleasure.

   "Reckon you must own quite a few pairs, uh?" He continued egging you on when you failed to give a timely enough answer. 

   (Perhaps the fact that he so easily guessed that detail should’ve been your first real warning, too.)

   Yet you couldn’t help how his condescension and the downright dirty way he stared at you sent dark shivers up your spine, the threat he represented turning strangely alluring under the dim street lights illuminating you both. 

   As a villain, you had robbed, murdered, set people ablaze, and even stolen a popsicle or two from some crying kids. So why were Eraserhead's words having such an effect on you? Why did, a part of you deep down, seemed enthused by the awful way in which he was speaking to you?

   "You don't have any proof I stole them. I just threw away the receipt after I bought them. Very environmentally unconscious of them, too, when electrical ones are a thing."

   Now you were just rambling. What an adorable sight. 

   "Hmm, never thought I'd hear "environmentally unconscious" being uttered by a two-bit criminal." He stopped stretching the lingerie for a moment, thoughtfully scratching at his incipient stubble with his free hand instead, "Are you really trying to sell me the good samaritan angle?"

   To his credit too, he seemed genuinely puzzled by your approach for an instant. Guess even an experienced pro like him still had room to be shocked. 

   "I'm not trying to sell you anything, imbecile." The snobbishly controlled tone of yours was back, the shaking of panic subsiding while you held onto your only hope of leaving this confrontation unscathed. "And my rights clearly state you need proof to apprehend me. Need causality to exert your quirk on me, too, or you would be the one breaking the law." 

   Now, Eraserhead wasn’t annoyed per se. You could tell from what little he had already spoken (and from the myriad of cautionary tales you had been told) that little could rattle the man at all, but your comment definitely appeared to intrigue him. It made you feel like an animal being studied, pinned down, and ready to be dissected for his own morbid curiosity.

   "Isn't this just rich?" His tone was almost lethargic, words dragging on with a faint rumble. "Are you going to run off to the police, then? Tell them how a Pro trapped you and tried turning you in for a very obvious act of theft?", his eyebrows were raised, eyes more awake despite his monotone voice carrying on. "Be my guest then."

   Because of course you were all bark, no bite and he was more than willing to call you out on your shit. So instead of continuing down that route, you decided to veer for a new approach, switching from your assortment of insolent tactics. 

   "Do you get off on this, then?" Your voice morphing into meekness while you adopted an expression of distress, bottom lip jutting out with the sparkle of thinly veiled sarcasm glimmering in your eyes. "Do you like thinking of yourself as the Big Bad Hero, maybe?" And you could tell by the way the incipient smile froze on his lips that your question had caught him off guard. Made you wanna press even harder, "Do you like the idea of taking a defenseless little girl into an alley and showing her just how bad you can be? Maybe planned on teaching me a lesson, is that it?"

   His frown mimicked yours now, no longer any hints of cruel enjoyment on his part. His eyes still glowed red, but he was now squinting ever so slightly, zeroing in on you not only due to the limits of his quirk but also due to the words rapidly continuing to escape your impudent mouth. 

   "Does Eraserhead like to fuck his lays into being law-abiding citizens? Is the power over someone else what really gets you off, perhaps?"

   It was like a spell was cast on the both of you. He couldn't drift his attention, his eyes couldn't stop scanning your face — quickly flickering from the hatred coloring your gaze to the slight quiver of frustration shaking your lips. The hand which he still used to grab your stockings was now a closed fist, knuckles growing pale from the poorly contained strength.

   "Bet you plotted this entire thing, you creep. Wanted to take me behind an alley and show me my place." Your taunts were becoming increasingly more risqué, the anger blurring your sense of preservation—and the hint of something else too, a secret excitement you were unwilling to recognize. "Wanted to have me all submissive and obedient under you, surely. Show me what a scary hero cock can do, is that it?"

   But instead of earning another entertaining grimace, you had a first-row seat to the rapidly darkening expression on his face. Eyes squinted at the same time that the bandages settled even tighter around you, cutting off your breath for a moment before relenting just enough not to suffocate you. 

    And that's when you first felt it for the first time, just when your jests died on your lips and you drank on his foreboding reaction. The grip of Eraserhead's quirk, more constricting than any ropes, wavering faintly around the prison he had constructed around you; the distinct buzzing in your hands returning for a mere instant before flickering out again.

   Now that was interesting.

   "Should watch what you're saying," the pro-hero sounded gruff, voice tinted by a new kind of intensity.

   Like a shark smelling the smallest whiff of blood, you couldn’t help your instincts urging you to dial down. 

   "Always knew you hero types had a hard-on for the power trips. Bet you were using all of this as a decoy. Is this when you strip me and hold me down? When you plow me into the floor of this alley and tell me to "behave or else"?" 

   You knew your jabs were going too far, getting too brazen… yet as much as you enjoyed making the Pro visibly uncomfortable, once he decided to close the distance between you two there was little you could do to stop yourself from flinching. A fire inhabited his expression, the vivid brightness emanating from his stare not only intimidating, but downright frightening too.

   "Are you trying to rile me up?" His hand gripped your face with force, bandages shifting until they were enveloping your neck, holding you up and forcing you to reciprocate his glare, "What do you think will you achieve by antagonizing me even more, V/N?"

   You just looked at him through your eyelashes, still somehow managing to play up the innocent act through the layers of fear settling in. And as expected, it only served to further his irritation, calloused fingers digging even deeper into your cheeks and coaxing the claws of terror to continue trailing their nails all around you. 

   "I’m just trying to understand you, Eraserhead." The way you smiled at him was defiance personified despite it all, your tongue wetting your lips while you caught his eyes following the movement. There was the slightest give of his quirk again, a fluctuation in his concentration informing you that you were finally on the right track. "And I think, given the fact that I haven’t been cuffed yet, that we can both still come to a mutual agreement."

   Fingers twitched around your jawline, muffling your words while your sides were squished together harshly. But even manhandling you, the Hero couldn’t hide the spark in his eyes, an interest you foolishly believed to be ignited by your former comments. 

   "So you are indeed trying to rile me up then." It was an assertion, not a hint of doubt in his leisure intonation. 

   Instead of replying this time, you just slowly blinked his way, observing your imitation of meekness reflected in a gaze that refused to abandon yours. It had been so long since you last tried to play coy, so long since you needed to depend on anything besides your own strength and ruthlessness. You couldn’t help the thrill you got from playing the role. 

   "Think you’ll get me distracted enough to break away, I bet." He was whispering directly against your skin after getting dangerously closer, the heat from his cushioned lips provoking an involuntary shiver. "Do you believe nobody else tried this approach before, little villain?"

   You gulped, feeling caught before you even had time to properly set the stage. 

   "I wasn’t..."

   "Weren’t what, trying to seduce me?" There was a sense of levity hidden somewhere under his timbre, stored between words that kept dragging on in a mantle of aloofness. "Or did you not mean any of your words?"

   When you didn’t reply, you could feel the cruel smile resurfacing against your earlobe. 

   "If I lift your dress right now, do you think I’ll have my answer?" His question sounded almost casual, as weightless as your alias had been when he first called you out. 

   Your heartbeat sang in your chest, an anxious hummingbird trapped inside your ribcage. Because you knew the answer, you both did. 

   When the hand still clutching your bunched hosiery came up to press the fabric against your thighs, you could not help the gasp that escaped you.

   "I bet all those things you were just saying…" His tone drifted off as the stockings were slowly guided up the vastness of your legs, fingers barely grazing you through the thin layer of the stolen undergarments. He was thoroughly teasing you, enjoying the manner in which your expression contorted in response. "You just want me to do them to you, don’t you?"

   Even if you would’ve wanted to object, the pressure of his nylon-covered digits finally reaching your dampened panties was enough to kill any possible refusal. He traced the outline of your slit, soft touches running across it with deceitful lightness, and your mind became positively staggered as you were rendered overwhelmed by his actions. 

   You didn’t have to worry about his next move for long, either, because barely a moment’s notice passed before his entire palm was eagerly covering your crotch. And the new way in which he groped you was demanding, the heel of his wrist putting just enough pressure to drag a shamefully loud mewl from you. 

   The douchebag even had the gall to laugh at your reaction, the sound of his mirth prompting you to writhe even harder as he continued to feel you up through your rapidly soaking underwear. 

   "Knew you’d be a slutty one." His breath was hoarse against the side of your face, the stubble on his jaw scratching against your skin in a way which made you wonder how it would feel pressing elsewhere. "So fucking wet, it must hurt being this eager."

   He didn’t specify what exact kind of pain he meant, whether your growing need for release or the insufferable blow all of this represented to your pride. Somehow, though, you had an inkling that he was referencing both. 

   "Wanna show me just how needy you are?" His words echoed with each laboured breath of his, one of the few signs you had that he was clearly very much into the whole affair despite his detached demeanor. "Maybe you could show me more of your adorable little cries." 

   As Eraserhead rutted his palm against you another time, you found your hips lowering down to chase the feeling much to your own chagrin, more moans making their way out of your panting mouth while he coaxed you to sing the notes of his preferred melody. 

   It was true that you hated his guts… but another fact was that you hadn’t had action in a long while either. Even with the threat of imprisonment hanging over you, you could not deny how desirable the idea to get to cum against that veiny hand of him was, to grip those muscular shoulders as you reached the perdition he was so tantalizingly offering. 

   Decidedly forgotten was your plan of you being the one distracting him. For fuck’s sake, you really were a needy whore. 

   "Why not show me how you cum for me in this alley, if you’re really that desperate?" His words kept getting cruder, his tongue tracing a languid stripe from your earlobe down to the side of your neck, a beautiful path of distractions threatening to dip your sanity even lower. "Be the dirty little villain that I know you are, doll."

   But just as soon as the stimulation was hitting you a second time, so it suddenly disappeared. One second fingers were flexing against your tender flesh, coated by your arousal through the layers of fabric separating you and fluttering with the promise of an impending release, and then the very next instant you were left to whimper (a villain like you, actually whimpering!) in the unbearable wake of their absence. 

   When your eyes searched for the Hero’s again, in his blown out pupils you could only dare interpret part of the enjoyment he was getting from watching you scram for his touch, beautifully bold handwriting spelling out arousal for all to read.  

   Watching you so easily betray your own ego after all of your lip service? More than simple music to his ears, it was an entire sonnet. 

   "But, now that I think of it, you were the one trying to walk away free from this. So why should you be the one getting pleasured?"

   Even in your precarious situation, you couldn’t help rolling your eyes. 

   "Are you fucking kidding me?" Apparently, your discomfort at being denied was enough to forego your better senses.

   The bindings contracted around you in quick response to your insolence, your neck being craned even further and your arms mishandled until they were behind your back instead of at your sides, a sharp pain blooming from your shoulders as you struggled to adjust.

   Treated like this, he really did make you feel like a helpless little doll. (Goddamn, that thought alone was enough to have your juices gushing again, the trails of your excitement starting to make a mess of your inner thighs.)

   "You don’t get it, do you?" He asked in a despondent voice, unblinking eyes still refusing to abandon your face as he elaborated, "you should already be on your way to some second-rate villain prison, cuffed and muzzled and someone else’s problem."

   At his reminder of what you believed to be your impending fate, the mocking pout on your face transformed into a retelling of real horror. Because your spotless reputation was the one trick in your book that had managed to give you a sliver of notoriety over the rest of the unremarkable criminals, much more significant than any quirk or grandiose crime. 

   So for someone like you to lose that? You might as well hang up the villain costume and retire, for all anyone would care. (And yes, you had been called an attention whore a lot throughout your life, but who could blame you when you couldn’t help but thrive on it?)

   Sensing your spiraling thoughts, the Pro raised his eyebrows in an almost pitiful stint, as if he was truly empathizing with the agonized look of your face. 

   "I know you don’t want that, doll." As his declaration dragged on, the grip that had been steadying your jaw was swapped instead for the peculiar feeling of damp fabric —your pantyhose being pushed against your cheek and spreading your own juices around, all while Eraserhead intently studied the new wave of disgust coloring your features. "So why not show me that even a villain slut like you can behave? Give me a reason to believe that and..." The slickered garment was now pressing to your closed lips, your eyes starting to water with the weight of the humiliation you were being made to endure. "Maybe then I’ll consider letting you go."

    You knew he was lying, had every right to doubt the sincerity of his promise and, in its place, conclude he just meant to take advantage of you in your desperate state and then leave you for the pigs to find anyway. 

    You knew all of that, and yet you still opened your mouth and allowed him to do as he pleased. When he worked the pair of soiled stockings inside, you had troubles recognizing the pathetic sight being reflected your way from the wild hue of his gaze. 

   For someone who had always prided herself in being a predator, you had never looked more like prey.

   "Fuck, that’s it, doll." He pushed the piece further with his fingers, forcing you to stretch your lips until your jaw started to hurt from the strain. His fingers swirled inside, pressing the soaked material against the flat of your tongue and instructing you to eagerly lick it.

   You had never felt as debased in your entire life, being forced to choose between savoring your own arousal while tied up in an alley or ruining a reputation you had fought so earnestly to maintain. 

   (And yet your thighs were pressing together now, attempting to create some meager friction to alleviate a yearning that did nothing but shift, demand, grow.)

   "Look at you cleaning up your own mess," he almost sounded proud of you as you kept dutifully sucking, his other hand brushing your hair away from your shoulders in a strangely consoling way. "Seeing you all obedient like this, one could be fooled into thinking there is yet hope for reform."

   By the time the Hero finally took his hand away, bunching up the stockings before fitting them into one of the hidden pockets of his dark costume, you thought you could discern a mocking smile through the clouds of tears.

   "But now, now, doll… are you gonna keep crying or do you wanna try and take proper care of me next?"

   Not finding it in yourself to raise your voice again, you instead opted to wet your lips hesitantly as you awaited for him to elaborate further. There was a question dying to be asked, struggling somewhere alongside the myriad of insolent retorts and insults you wished you could swing the Hero’s way without being harshly reprimanded. 

   "I wouldn’t call that proper exactly," a chuckle reverberated from the back of his throat, gravely and dark as he misrepresented your movements. Fingers still slick from your saliva caressed your bottom lip, massaging it in a way which played straight into the undermining tilt of his words. "Although I’m sure you must be dying to wrap your pretty lips around my cock. Would give you a good reason to stay quiet, uh?"

   You really had been intending not to fall for his obvious goading, not trying to give the Pro anymore reasons to be harsh with you (or even worse, give him an excuse to leave you alone and to a fate worse than his company ever would be). 

   Had tried so hard too, but the cocky villain in you could only take so much degradation before it snapped. 

   "Goddamn it, are you trying to fuck me or bore to death?" As for the slight quivering in your voice, you dearly hoped he wouldn’t pick up on it. 

   Predictably enough, that slip earned you another harsh tug from the capture weapon, your whole body pulled back until you thought you were about to be snapped. 

   "I was just about to praise you for being all sweet for me, V/N." The switch from his pet names to your alias felt like a bucket of ice being dumped on you, voice a slow drawl while he tugged once more from your bottom lip, but this time harsh enough to have you wincing. "I’m trying to teach you how to be a proper girl, so don’t make me regret it. Or would you prefer to go take a prolonged vacation in a holding cell?"

   He already knew your answer judging by the way his eyes coldly studied you, unearthing the secrets you uselessly attempted to hide with an ease that unnerved you (and, as much as you loathe to admit, fascinated you). 

   When he tugged at your mouth again, nails sinking just enough to be noticeable, you knew he was expecting a verbal answer. And a nice one, at that. 

   "Then fucking get on with it…" Words slurred at the end, caught up in the increasingly somber aura of your captor before you swallow thickly, quickly adding as an afterthought, "Please."

   At that, his scowl receded enough for some satisfaction to find its way back into his grimace.

   The more you struggled, the sweeter your surrender became.  

   "Not perfect, but better," he conceded with a thoughtful hum.

   If you had properly studied just who he was beyond his active Heroism, then you would’ve understood just how accustomed he was to insubordination. If anything, your act only served to make him feel more at home.

   You had barely any time to wonder about whatever he had planned next though, because in an instant that damned contraction of his was moving you around once more, twisting you until you were facing the brick wall of the alleyway with heaving breaths. 

   Your legs were now maneuvered until you were forced to keep them apart just a smidgen, the new inviting space between your thighs surely a most intoxicating promise for the sick man manhandling you. And your back experienced pain afterwards too, harshly pushed until you had no option but to allow yourself to be pressed against the dirty walls; As a result, you found yourself with your ass backed up and for the world to see, the frilly skirt of your dress caught somewhere between all the movements.

   Yet even being roughed up as you were, when a hand reached out to tug your ruined underwear away you couldn't help greedily rutting into it, too worried by the fire gathering in your lower belly to care about maintaining a semblance of the reluctance you would later claim to have experienced. 

   It was almost comical for the Hero to observe the pathetic image you were now serving up on an ornate platter —especially when compared to the list of deviant crimes and horrors your spreadsheet of accomplishments preached. For all intents and purposes, you really were a horrible, messed up individual…

   So it was a wonder why his mind had kept supplying him with the same descriptor ever since he first saw you, the same sweet little word that he thought might as well be written all over your skin for how accurate it described you.

   A cute little doll (soon to be his cute little doll). Despite believing himself to be a fairly responsable Hero, the man had never wanted to play with anything as much as he did with you.

   The sound of a zipper being lowered was alarmingly loud in the emptiness of your surroundings, as loud as a wail to your sensitive ears. When you squirmed below your restraints, nonetheless, you could no longer pinpoint whether it was from unadulterated fear or a sick sense of anticipation.

   How easy it had been to break you, even if you would never recognize it openly.

   "Knew you were into it, and now watch your ass trembling in excitement for me." He was chuckling again, not pretending like the cruelty coating his words had any other intention but to degrade you further. It had been just his luck, to find the one villain who just so happened to enjoy it. "I really hit the jackpot with you, didn’t I, doll?"

   When the lewd sound of one of his fists pumping his cock reached your ears, you didn’t even bother disguising the whines of complaint refusing to be contained any longer. 

   "Stop..." Words spilled from clenched teeth, growled out with an annoyance that no longer sought to defy, "Fucking..." but to demand instead, "Teasing."

   "Hmm, that’s cute. Why don’t you try begging me though?" His cadence was growing as bated as his breath, littered by intermittent curses as his eyes dined on the sight of your glistening core, held up and offered up for him to do as he pleased. "Beg for me to use you, and if you put on a good enough show I might just let you off."

   Another shiver rampaging it's way through your body, an exhilaration that could not be entirely pinpointed. 

   "Please…" You started, rough intonation dripping with venom —But Eraserhead didn't seem to mind the sardonic nature of your pleading though, not as you heard the litany of damnations being spilled from his lips. Your shameful excitement, your bitterness, your hatred… he would feast on it all and do it gladly. "Get on with it, bastard. Didn't anyone tell you never to toy with your food?"

   A low murmur was your only response at first, followed by the lewd sound of his pre-cum covered cock being harshly jerked.

   "Hmmm, aren't you being a bit too demanding…" His steps echoed again behind you, his unoccupied hand coming up to massage your ass with a rather firm grip. "Even with the begging, I don't think you've learned your place yet."

    When he planted a slap in the same place he had been eagerly caressing before, sharp and flaring up your nerves with the sting of pain and humiliation, you couldn't stop your scream from turning into a wanton little moan halfway through. 

   Even if he was hitting you, it still meant he was touching you, and so enticingly close to the place you actually needed tended to.

   "Do it…" your breathing was too heavy to speak in full fluid sentences, body flushed and mind filled with the buzzing of desire. "Do it again, fuck."

   You were still not begging him like he asked, but it seemed like your choice of words still greatly pleased him. Another slap rained on your ass, his big warm palm massaging the same reddening spot right after.

   And he kept going, the spanking echoing through your body and sending both pain and pleasured shivers up your spine—lewd sounds mixing in with the increasing pace of his other fist pumping his cock. Even without directly touching you, your pussy clenched and weeped with each firm hit. 

   "Damn, it's my first time meeting such a masochistic whore." Punctuated by his most painful slap yet, the globes of your ass left trembling and a furious shade of crimson to match his lust-filled eyes. "I can see why you've managed to stay free for so long, little villain." The debasement, paired with the pain of his firm strikes, had you moaning even louder. You couldn't even recognize your own sounds, nor the thrills you felt at this entire fucked up ordeal. "Wonder how many other Pros you showed this beautiful sight to."

   Even through the fog of sensations impeding you from being wholly coherent, though, you still couldn't help but want to set the record straight. 

   "None, fuck…" Words merging into another expectant whine when you felt his hand gripping your flesh again, only this time he was kneading you in an oddly tender way —Urging you on, fingers creeping closer to your needy hole. "I'm not… usually in the business of fucking Heroes. Shit, I hate this…" 

   But you didn’t, and when you were surprised by the warmth of his naked erection barely grazing the sensitive outer lips of your cunt, you couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped you. 

   "Goddamn, V/N, even while you're an ill-mannered brat you still manage to know just what to say." 

   And then the older man was sliding his cock in the juncture of your thighs, teasing your core by pressing against it while grunts began to escape him. You thought you could cry from having him so close yet still not where you wanted him, but then his shallow thrusts against your legs proved to be much more stimulating than you first expected. 

   The fat head of his cock even managed to somewhat stimulate your puffy clit with its movements, pushing in its direction as your essence continued to leak out and cover you both. And It was so absolutely debauched, to think a Hero was using your thighs like a fucktoy while you were tied down and unable to stop it....

   But it felt so good. Even without him actually in you, you had never been this turned on before. 

   "More… ughhh," you were now screaming with the side of your face pressed flush against the disgusting brick walls, needy sounds filling the night and making it privy to your descent into madness.

   Another thrust, this time angled just precisely enough not to caress your pleasurable areas. Punishment, you feverishly thought while you attempted to wiggle your ass, eager to force more of that delicious friction you were quickly becoming hypnotized by. 

   "Now, V/N," his gruff voice had adopted a mocking tone of reprimand as he continued to rut against the soft skin of your thighs. "Haven't I taught you anything, yet? If you want something…" The hand returned to your heated skin, digits underneath you both spreading your pussy enough for the chilly night air to send shivers straight to your core. "You gotta say please."

   And say please you did. Screamed it even, so eager for more and already far beyond feeling any embarrassment. 

   He didn't fuck you, not like you really wanted, but suddenly his thick shaft was sliding between your lips as his capture weapon aided him in angling your body just right, pulsing against your hole while he found a new rythimn. When both of his hands returned, one of them held you back to make the process even easier while the other swiftly joined his cock in tending to your eager pussy.

   So lost were you in the new raw excitement seizing you, in the knowledge of just how messed up you both were for engaging in such debauchery —so distracted that you didn't even notice the faint buzzing returning to your arms, the vibrancy of an old frequency being reactivated and allowed to encapsulate you again.

   (You didn’t notice, but fuck if it didn’t made your orgasm all the sweeter.) 

   You were cumming like that, your moans resembling squeaks, your body feeling closer to a used fucktoy than a human being. The hero kept rutting against you, the joint efforts of his cock and hand mercilessly continuing to abuse your spasming cunt while your cries filled the space with their decadence. 

   You felt dirty, guilty, maybe even a little ashamed as the orgasm briefly gave you a clarity of mind your arousal had clouded.

   And yet, despite it all, it had been the best you felt in years, possibly ever. As the Pro now tugged your hair, forcing you to wrench your neck just enough to look at him over your shoulder, you couldn't help licking your lips in expectation of what he had in store next.

   "You're gonna show me your face next time you come, little villain." He gave you just enough time to nod, eyebrows drawn as your pleasure got impossibly dragged out by the stimulation he still bathed you with. "And you're gonna keep begging me, keep showing me why you deserve to stay free, okay?"

   It was commendable, how collected he managed to sound while thrusting into your thighs like that, the sounds of skin slapping against skin driving each of his words home. 

   "Yes, fuck, whatever you want…" Despite your senses shortly coming back earlier, you were still too far gone to rethink your poor choices. You just knew you wanted more, and so you asked for it. "Just give me more, please."

   So fucking obedient. If your parents could see you know, their failure of a villain daughter being all proper and learning to beg for what she wanted? Well, perhaps saying they'd be proud was a stretch, considering you were also the one getting fucked in the middle of a filthy alley. 

   What you hadn’t expected, however, was just how well your begging would work. 

   Because the next thrust of his shaft was not between your legs, but aimed to finally breach your needy cunt instead, easily filling you up in one go with how utterly soaked in both of your juices you already were. The girth of him had you already clenching with renewed vigor, his hand stopping his assault on your clit just to give you enough time to truly savor the new intoxicating sensation.

   And when your eyes found his again, so drunk on the waves of pleasure you were that you also failed to notice the lack of scarlet coloring the orbs boring into yours, now inescapable voids of dark desire and a type of intense fixation you thought hadn't been there moments ago. 

   (Or maybe it was always there, and you had been too busy with your own turmoil to notice the clues being left by your so-called enemy).

   "Want me to stuff you properly?" His guttural question hit you at the same time as his sharp movements found your tender spot with experienced ease, walls tightening around him while your entire body struggled to continue holding yourself upright, relying more and more on the capture weapon to keep you from toppling over. 

   The binds still hurt from how tightly they wrapped around you, bruises sure to be left on their wake, but by that point you weren't so sure anymore the sting was an entirely bad thing. If anything, it just made the pleasure all the sweeter by comparison.  

   "Want me to fill you with so much cum that you reek of hero cock for the rest of the week?" He laughed while he regurgitated some of your words from earlier, the hand pressing against your lower stomach caressing you with a distinct sense of ownership as he elicited another loud moan with a sharp movement of his hips. 

   Noticing you reacting not only to his actions but to his quips, you could practically hear the self congratulatory smirk as he spoke next.

   "Bet the other villains would love knowing how much of a cockhungry whore you turned into too, doll. Talk about fraternizing with the enemy."

   And he was right, in a way. Because what would your fellow villains think, seeing you being wrecked by one of the most infamous Pros in the business, lowering yourself to pleading and screaming as he rearranged your insides. 

   Would you get called a disloyal whore or just a plain traitor? Not only would your spotless reputation and the myth you had fought to build collapse, but from its ashes your eternal shame could be erected. 

   A shame that would tower over you, looming around you while the eyes of your peers followed you everywhere. You could even picture the jests veered your way, the looks of utter disgust and ridicule...

   Somehow, the idea of anyone finding out only made your screams grow louder, impossibly more fervent. 

   "Fucking… get on with it."

   However, his rhythm was rapidly interrupted after your jab, his cock pulling out almost entirely as your core convulsed with the sudden staggering emptiness it was left to grapple with. More whimpers, struggling against the set of eternally unforgiving ties encasing your body. 

   "But you're making me do all the work, little one" Another slap shook your entire frame as it landed heavily on your still pained cheeks. You were so sore, both from the previous set of hits and from the sheer exhaustion starting to set in, muscles tight and resentful from the awkward positions your body had been manhandled into. "If you really want to continue this, how about you start doing some of the heavy lifting, uh?" Just like before, his palm started massaging the tender spot he had just smacked, fingers digging into your supple flesh being as close to comforting as the Pro seemed capable of. "Show me just how good you can be."

   And you could've argued, truly, could've even attempted to hold onto the last vestiges of your pride…

   You could’ve done a lot of things, but the truth was that when his weapon relented its hold at last, retreating from the underside of your knees and giving in just a smidge for the first time since you had been captured, you didn't waste any seconds before you were chasing after your high with renewed vigor.

   Greedily sinking into him with an obscene sigh, you audibly marveled at the curve of his member being deliciously imprinted in your insides. While you copied the cadence the Hero had previously employed, his grip on your lower belly fluttered, almost like he couldn't decide whether to take control back or allow you to humiliate yourself further with your own zealousness. 

   It seemed like the later prospect won him over in the end though, because he remained almost impassively still as you did all the work needed to bring you both deliriously close to your peaks. 

   The sight must've been spectacular, watching you, renown villain V/N, so thoroughly broken and willing to heed his every command. Impaling yourself on his cock, moaning and continuing to beg him for something you were already taking for yourself. 

   If he died right then and there, he doubted Heaven wouldn't have as much appeal as the scene still unfolding before his eyes. (But again, considering his actions, Heaven wouldn't really be the right place for either of you.)

   You were just about to reach your second orgasm, toes curling inside your shoes, fists clenched and a face that spelt poetic extasis. Angling the way you took his cock, every single movement driving him painstakingly deeper, slamming against a spot that made you imagine the stars falling from the sky all around you, their light being the one bathing you instead of the malfunctioning street lamps. 

   So goddamn close…

   Only to have him pull out again, this time completely. You were clenching against nothing, all stimulation stolen from you, and the bitterness of a ruined orgasm promptly dragged curses and complaints out of you before you could even think to stop them. 

   Eyes searched his, urgently seeking an explanation for his withdrawal only to find his glare fixated instead on that same dirty pair of stockings that had started it all. 

   Eraserhead must have taken the garment out of his pocket sometime while he fucked you, unfolding it from its scrunched up state until the crotch was visibly presented for both of you to admire, dark sheer fabric still stained from a mix of your arousal and spit. 

   When the Pro looked at you again, a beautifully dark smile topped his attractive face. He looked painfully content, the way he studied your own mortified expression reminding you of an artist studying his masterwork. 

   "Only the truly obedient ones get their cunts filled." You noticed then how his other hand was jerking him off again, erection rubbing against the nylon undergarments in a most obscene depiction. Too bad you were too frustrated to appreciate any of it. "I don't think you've… hell, you haven't earned it yet, V/N."

    You didn't even notice you were tearing up from the annoyance until it was too late. And maybe that was what finally did it, seeing you actually crying at his refusal to breed you like the slut you both knew you were, writhing in exaggerated despair as you found yourself feeling jealous of a stupid pair of tights, because not long after your pathetic reaction the man was letting out a pained groan of his own and spilling himself all over the damned garment. 

   But instead of rubbing your wailing in your face after he came down from his own delicious high, last few spurts of cum slowing down to a halt, you were surprised instead by the weapon that had been binding you for the longest time finally retreating.

   As expected, you unceremoniously collapsed to the floor, feet now unprepared for supporting your weight and your entire being wholly exhausted after enduring the roughest fuck you had ever experienced. It hurt all over, although you weren't sure whether your still present longing wasn't what pained you the most. 

   When you looked up to the Pro again, trying to find an answer to the new freedom you were experiencing, you were surprised by having the cum-dripped stockings thrown in your face. 

   And quite literally so, the still wet seed dribbling down your cheek and into your trembling lips, all before you collected enough wits to grab the offending item and pull it down with an expression of unadulterated disgust. 

   "Sorry, doll, but you were pouting so irresistibly," The Eraser user actually laughed, this time the sound coming with an untroubled merriment you did not think he was capable of.

   He actually looked worn out while he tucked himself back into his costume, accommodating the pieces of clothing until all hints from your ravenous affair disappeared. The bandages were wrapping themselves around his neck once more, looking more like an extravagant scarf than the most precise set of inmovilazing gear you had ever endured. 

   However, something about his attitude had you forgetting all about his newest slight, much too worried by a new cause of worry. 

   "Hold on..."

   Eraserhead looked down at you from his place after you raised your voice, urging you to continue as he finished getting himself presentable. The air of nonchalance around him was almost more intimidating than any of the actual threats or vulgar comments he had voiced prior. Almost.

   "Are you…" you swallowed the sudden lump in your throat, voice still raspy and hoarse after what had just transpired. "Are you really letting me go?"

   The man just raised one of his eyebrows at that, eyes crinkling for the first time and looking strangely amused. 

   "Doll, I stopped exerting my quirk on you while I was still teasing you good and proper," he declared bluntly. When his orbs glimmered again, you now felt like an imbecile as you finally realized they had completely lost the reddish hue to them. "So you know what? I thought you deserved to get an out of jail free card for behaving yourself… even if you still need to work some more on your manners."

   To call your shocked expression dumbfounded would be a disservice. 

   When his now bottomless eyes bore into yours for one final time, all you could do was stare back in dazzled shock. Your quirk was back, the Pro himself had just confirmed it, and yet you were still nailed to the spot, still anticipating his next words without even thinking of attacking him in the meantime.

   One little tumble and you were already his brightest pupil yet. He was now so glad to have waited that long, it only made the outcome all the more fulfilling. 

   "You don’t need to be so surprised, Y/N, we'll be seeing each other soon,” He kneeled in front of you for an instant, both hands reaching out to hold up your face in a gesture more resembling a lover than… well, whatever the hell you two were. So entranced you were then, that the use of your real name barely even registered. “It’s been difficult to keep you away from trouble thus far,” his acknowledgment reverberated in the alley, its meaning something else lost to you as you couldn’t help but become entranced by the new peculiar softness he addressed you with, “but getting you like this now, seeing you break so easily… fuck, I’ll mold you right back up, doll, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about anything else.”

   And just then, for the first time you realized, the Hero’s lips were brushing against yours gently, uncharacteristically careful as he kissed you slowly. Even his hands were tender while they guided you, treating you as if you truly were a doll that could just be snapped with a mere wrong movement. As if he hadn’t just been treating you like a dirty hole for him to use and abuse just short instants ago. 

   But at least he did not seem to care about the mess that was your face at the moment, about the cum stains or the still damp trails of tears. And, for whatever reason, you found yourself returning the gesture in kind, melting into the oddly affectionate touch of a man you were still halfway sure you loathed. 

   Even after he left you, alone and a mess still toppled over on the floor with the shadow of humiliation cloaking your shoulders, your fingers couldn’t help but touch your lips with a bizarre mixture of bewilderment and horror.

   He told me I would see him soon, your mind supplied as you found yourself irreparably fixating your stare on the pair of now completely ruined tights you were still holding onto. The fact that you felt any type of excitement about the notion did not fail to mortify you. 

   God, even for villain standards you were fucked. 

But it was okay, because misery loved company and, with time at his disposal and the right amount of coaching, Shouta was sure he could teach you to properly crave his soon enough.

— — — 

And, 8k of foul smut later, if y’all read through that whole thing... drop by my ask to recieve your congratulatory gold stars! ⭐ (jk but I do appreciate hearing y’alls thoughts, it’s what keeps me halfway productive 🖤)

Last but not least, very special thanks to my best pals @reinawritesbnha​, @snappysnapo​ and @drxwsyni​ (who actually proof read this and helped me out immensely with her Big Brain Feedback. A TALENTED ANGEL). 

[kitkat1003]

When the Tide pulls away and the Earth Sharpens to Steel

Chapter 2: But He Burns All the Same

HUGE Warning for this chapter -Temporary Suicide -Graphic Depictions of Violence -Blood and Gore Nothing too crazy imo, but still enough cause for an alarm I imagine.  Just want y'all to know what you're getting into. Enjoy!

AO3 Link

In the end, very little changes.  Tang still continues through the days, as winter turns to spring turns to summer turns to fall.  Almost lazily, Bajie and him fall into a routine just a little different, where they no longer have to dance around their feelings.  Lingering touches can mean something, can lead to something.  Tang can blush and get teased and not be terrified of being found out, of ruining anything.

The days are very much a routine.  He goes out to meditate, and comes back to help Bajie cook.  He’s not actually much help, considering that of the two, Bajie has far more experience in cooking, but he certainly does try.

Bajie seems to enjoy teaching Tang, regardless of Tang’s missteps.  Tang thinks Bajie likes feeling like the smart one for once.  Likes seeing Tang fumble around awkwardly.

Bastard.

The other monks notice Tang’s chipper mood, but no one was ever that interested in anything Tang has done or been, unless it’s to admonish his misconduct.  So, they leave well enough alone.

All save for one.

Tang is coming back from meditation to see what wonderful concoction Bajie is cooking up for dinner when a hand grabs him by the shoulder.  He whips around, startled, and comes face to face with

“Bao,” he grinds out.  “Have you taken up stalking?”

“You’ve been a ghost in the monastery for months,” Bao argues.  “I just wanted to see what you were up to.” 

He steps around Tang and towards the doorway.  “Collecting occult objects?  Sneaking in meat?”

Tang runs so that he’s back in front of Bao, trying to stop the monk’s advance.  His face is bright red, a mix of rage and embarrassment.  If Bao finds out about Bajie-well, the whole monastery will.  The one thing that brings Tang joy will be thrown into scrutiny, until he can’t enjoy it anymore.

“I wanted some privacy.” It’s not exactly a lie.  “And besides, no one liked living near me anyway!  Shouldn’t you be happy I’ve found a space far away from the rest of you?”

“Why hide it then?” Bao argues, smiling when Tang cringes away from him.  “Clearly, you’re doing something you know is wrong.”

“That-that isn’t-why won’t you leave it?” Tang clenches his fists, voice quieting as he speaks, as if the thoughts turn everything to a hiss.  “If you know I’m doing bad things, then why do you care?  Everyone already thinks I’m a bad person!  What, you just want to satisfy your curiosity?”

His voice has more hurt in it than anger, because he’s spent his entire life knowing his life’s features were segmented into categories. There was the place he lived, the people who lived there, and him.  He could never be part of that whole.  He’s the outlier, always has been, and he’s learned to live with that.

It still hurt, when he thought about it.

But Bao was a reminder.  Bao pushed.  Tang could take the neglect, the snide looks, but Bao would talk.  Would intrude into the space Tang carved out for himself and himself alone, and prod at Tang’s sore spots until he snapped.  And Tang was so tired of that, nowadays, because he finally had someone that made him believe he might not deserve it.

A shadow falls over them and anything Bao was going to say doesn’t come out, silencing into a squeak.  Tang watches Bao’s gaze rise up, up, up, before locking onto something.

Bao’s eyes quickly fill with fear.

A very familiar hand rests on Tang’s shoulder, though Tang is surprised to feel Bajie’s grip tighten.  The claws dig just a little into the fabric of his shirt, though Bajie’s grip is always careful not to damage Tang or his clothing.

A growl comes from Bajie’s throat, too.  When Tang looks up, he’s surprised to see Bajie’s eyes glowing, his teeth bared.

“Tang is my mortal.” Bajie’s voice is cold.  Rage is painted in his posture, as he leans down so he’s eye level with Bao.  He huffs a breath through his nose, one that ruffles Bao’s hair.  “Mine.”

Bao flinches.

“You stay away, or I’ll find you.  You say a word about this, and I’ll find you.  Got it?” Bajie pokes a claw into Bao’s chest every time to punctuate each ‘You,’ eyes narrowed to dark slits.Bao nods, very quickly.  His head is a blur.

Bajie leans in even closer, so that his snout is touching Bao’s nose.

“Now, start fucking running.”

Bao stumbles back, trembling.  He turns on his heel and sprints down the hall, disappearing behind the corner.

Tang blinks and looks up at Bajie.  Bajie continues to stay in a battle stance, free hand splayed out with claws bared, fingers twitching.  Likely for his rake, Tang surmises.

“Bajie,” Tang reaches up and places a palm flat against the side of Bajie’s face, gentle.  As much as it is charming to have a strong demon as his protector, Tang much prefers his Bajie when he’s off the battlefield.  Bajie responds best to touch, regardless.  Sometimes words don’t reach him. 

 “Dinner will run late if we stand out here all night.”

Bajie blinks a few times and shakes himself off, lifting his hand from Tang’s shoulder carefully.  His shoulders slump down as he relaxes, a little weary after being so tense.  He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and smiles, a little strained.

“Right.  Uh, sorry.”

He ducks beneath the doorframe and heads back into their room.  Tang follows.

They make dinner in relative silence.  Tang has gotten rather proficient with a knife, and he chops up the vegetables as Bajie sets up the broth.  Bajie’s started making the noodles himself.  Apparently it’s far cheaper if you do, even if it takes longer to complete.

When they’re done, and when Bajie pours out their servings so they can eat, Tang speaks up.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.  “I could have handled it.”

Bajie sets his bowl down with a heavy sigh, hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“He shouldn’t talk to you like that,” Bajie says slowly.  “No one should.”

“Bajie,” Tang starts, a sad smile of acceptance already on his face.  “Plenty of people here are like that.  I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be!” Bajie explodes.  “You shouldn’t have to deal with all that, it’s none of any of their business what you do!  People shouldn’t expect the worst from you!”

Bajie stares down at him with a plea in his gaze, like he’s begging for Tang to understand, but Tang looks away.  Something about what Bajie is saying, some part of Bajie’s expression, makes his chest twist something painful.  Maybe Tang has always known, deep down, that being treated the way he is is wrong, maybe he just buried that part down so it wouldn’t hurt so much.  The earnest look in Bajie’s expression, the desperation-that digs that part back up, and Tang struggles to bury it again.

“It doesn’t matter.  People think what they will of me.  I just don’t want their opinion to be any worse,” he sighs.  “I can handle what they throw at me.  I can prove that I’m better than they are.”

Bajie’s reaches over, tilting Tang’s head up and forcing Tang to look at him again.

“You don’t have to hold yourself to such a high standard, you know.  You’re allowed to be angry.  I get mad enough, and you never tell me not to be.  Why can’t you get upset?  Why do you gotta handle it all?”

Tang blinks, and his vision blurs.  When had anyone, before now, told him that he was enough?  Just as is, without need for a perfect posture, unbreakable composure.  When he was young there were times where he could almost say he was liked, but soon the other children pulled away and Tang was forced to climb his way up to somehow reach their level again.

But here Bajie is, on the same level as him, telling him the view is just fine right here.

Bajie pulls him forward, and Tang holds Bajie as tight as he can, hiding his tears in Bajie’s chest.

When he finally lifts his head up, Bajie is smiling down at him.

“See?  Nothing wrong with gettin’ upset.  Better to go through it and come out better for it than to let it sit and grow.”

“You’re just saying that because you liked going ‘protective demon’ on Bao,” Tang mutters, grinning despite himself.

“Hey—well, maybe, but that’s not the point!”

Tang presses his face into Bajie’s chest to muffle his chuckles.  Soon enough, Bajie is laughing too.

At night, when they lay together, Bajie likes to pull Tang close.  Tang will pepper Bajie’s jaw with kisses and lean his head against the demon’s chest, listening to the rumbling purr of delight Bajie is unable to stifle, along with Bajie’s heartbeat.

Being in love is something Tang finds unexpectedly warm and comfortable.  Like slipping into a slipper fitted perfectly, he stands taller and walks with far better purpose than he had before.  Even the whispers of how he isn’t a proper monk do little to stifle the swell of elation sitting in his heart, each breath making his ribs creak with strain, as if his heart couldn’t fit it all.

It’s a good type of pain, to be in love.

One night, though, Bajie presses Tang so tightly against him that Tang startles.  He’s about to ask when his lips are stolen in a kiss, and, well, he doesn’t mind that at all.  He leans into the heat, making his cheeks blush.

But a hand creeps up his thigh, beneath his clothes.

Tang is suddenly consumed by panic.

He pushes away, quickly, wide eyed and trembling.  Glancing at Bajie’s eyes show no anger, more confusion and hurt.  They’re both breathless, but Tang has to take an extra minute to get his lungs to cooperate, to be able to breathe at all.

He knew this would happen.  This was the whole point of the challenge, was it not?  He just...he hadn’t thought of it, between the shock of Bajie actually loving him and the fluttery feelings he had for the demon as well.

“I-I’m sorry,” he sputters, embarrassed.  Ashamed, even.  

He’d known that women were expected to perform for their husbands, and while Tang wouldn’t call himself a wife, he knew that there was always the expectation to perform if he began this sort of relationship.  To be unable to...it’s shameful.

Bajie looks very much like he wants to reach for him, but he keeps his hands pressed against his chest, away from Tang.  Worried.  Nervous.

“I-it’s okay.  I’m not-I want you to be comfortable.  Did I do something wrong?” Bajie assures.  Soothing.  The lack of anger makes Tang relax a little. 

“No-no, you didn’t, I just…,” Tang doesn’t know how to explain.  “I-do we have to?”

Bajie blinks a few times, confused, and he rubs the top of his head in thought, looking around before his gaze settles back on Tang.

“I thought…,” Bajie starts, haltingly.  So very careful.  “I thought that this is what mortals do.  Anyone does.  You know?  Is this about the monk thing?”

“No,” Tang replies again, firm.  “It’s hard to explain, I just…,” He takes a breath.  Shuffles a little closer.  

Bajie’s hand settles on the bedroll.  Tang places his own on top of it, like an olive branch.  He feels Bajie relax, a little.

“What do you like about me?” Tang asks. 

Bajie tilts his head to the side, at the question.  It’s an odd one, but Tang has heard time and time again that consummation equals the truest love.  And yet, if that were true, why love any other part of your partner?  Why think of anything besides this moment?

Tang has a plethora of things he loves about Bajie.  He hopes that Bajie is the same.

“I mean it literally,” Tang clarifies.  “Why are you in love with me?”

Bajie shifts, laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.  His hand does not move from where it is, in Tang’s, so he rubs a circle into the back of it with his index finger.  He turns it into a spiral.  Bajie’s hand is big enough for it, after all.

Bajie’s voice starts soft. “I like the way your hair looks.  It’s windswept, almost.

“I like how your face looks.  It’s very soft, and comes to a nice point, you know?  I like your eyes, because they’re a brown red I haven’t seen before, and I like your smile, because it’s kind of cheeky but mostly just kind, and I like that look you get on your face when you read, or when I make you something to eat, and I like that your hands are soft, and—”

Bajie stops, for a moment.  His eyes are wide, face  flushed, like the more he talked, the more affection burned him.

Tang thinks he’s nearly a cherry tomato himself, with how much he can feel his face steaming.

Bajie shifts to face him again.

“I love that you can talk to me about things like this.,” Something warmer enters Bajie’s voice, right then.  “Most people either tell me to go or don’t tell me anything.  You stand your ground, but you don’t just shove me away.  You tell me why the things I do upset you, so I can fix it.  Most people are too scared to bother.”

“I am scared of you, sometimes,” Tang whispers.  He’d kept that fact a secret, afraid of the look it would put on Bajie’s face, to know that Tang, even with all his love, fears Bajie even a little.

“But you still try and stop me if I push too far.  That’s trust.  That’s bravery,” Bajie rebuffs, steadfast even with the hard truth laying between them.  “I love that about you.  You’re brave.  You trust me.”

The way he says that takes Tang’s breath away.  It takes Tang a few moments to even collect himself, and when he does he still feels like he’s going to melt into a puddle.

“Right,” he starts, and Bajie chuckles before he continues.  “And what does that, any of that, have to do with,” He gestures vaguely to the whole concept they’re avoiding.  “Sex?”

Bajie opens his mouth, and then closes it.  Tang watches the thoughts bounce around Bajie’s brain with a fond smile, until Bajie finally looks back at him.

“I guess it doesn’t,” Bajie mutters, and then laughs, incredulous.  “You’re so smart, you know that?  Sometimes I wonder if you’re wasted, here.” 

He reaches over and brushes a hair back behind Tang’s ear.  Tang chuckles, both at the sentiment and at the motion. Perhaps laughing will help the butterflies out of his stomach.

“This place is my home,” he says, and he shrugs.  “I belong here.”

Bajie’s smile flattens into a straight line for a moment, but he doesn’t argue.  Silence falls upon them, as Tang’s fingers trace shapes into Bajie’s hand and arm, until Bajie speaks up again.

“I uh-I thought for a second it might be because of, uh, this,” Bajie gestures vaguely at his person, and Tang raises a brow.

“You just gestured to all of yourself,” He says.

Bajie flushes, embarrassed, before huffing out, “The biggest hurdle most mortals have to get over is that I’m not exactly conventionally attractive, by mortal standards.” 

Bajie doesn’t look him in the eye.  It’s said matter of factly, and there’s an undercurrent of hurt that has Tang’s brow furrowing.  Tang doesn’t know about the partners Bajie’s had before, but he does know Bajie has been chased out of many towns.  He wonders how much of it was because of Bajie’s attitude and how much of it was his appearance.

“That’s true.  You’re not,” Tang replies bluntly.

Bajie seems surprised, before Tang continues.

“You’re not mortal.  You’re not human.  It would be ridiculous to use those standards to classify you as attractive or not.  By my standards….”

He trails off for a moment, and when he continues, his smile is coy.  “Well, you’re quite outstanding.”

“Tang,” Bajie starts, and it comes out choked out, the blush moving from embarrassment back to attraction.

Tang scoots closer, and reaches up to Bajie’s face.

“You have lovely ears.  Perfect for hearing anyone who would dare attack you.  They blush like your cheeks, did you know?  I always love that about them.  Gorgeous blue eyes.  Two different shades, even.  Most mortals are stuck with one, but I suppose this was a treat from the gods for me,” Tang fiddles with the ears for a moment, before his hands trail down. 

Bajie doesn’t seem to know how to handle this much affection.  His eyes are locked on Tang’s, and his lips are slightly parted in shock.

“You have such strong tusks.  Very imposing,” Tang wraps his fingers around them, grips them for a moment.  “Perfect for biting through most anything.  A strong jaw.” 

He trails the shape of it with his finger.  “To show you mean business.  Powerful vocal cords.”

Tang smooths a hand down Bajie’s neck.  Bajie shivers.  “To shout at anyone who would challenge you.  Broad shoulders so that you loom.   Sharp claws to cut through any obstacle.  Strong arms to lift that rake of yours.”

“Burly legs so you can move faster than any mortal would dare, and,” Tang has to laugh. “An adorable tail that you can’t stop from wagging when you’re happy.”

Bajie just stares, as if no one has ever said something like that to him in all his years of life.  The tragic thing, to Tang, is that it’s likely that that’s the case.  He pulls himself up, so that he and Bajie are eye to eye.

“I almost forgot your lovely snout,” he leans forward and places a kiss there.  “Perfect for kisses.  All of it makes you the most beautiful demon I’ve ever seen.  My Demon.  My Bajie.  My Pigsy.”

Each phrase is punctuated by another peck.  The last title snaps Bajie out of his haze, and he grins, lopsided and gorgeous.

“Pigsy?” he asks.

Tang flushes a little.  “Do you not like it?” 

Bajie lifts Tang up and shifts so he’s on his back, placing Tang on top of him.

“I love it,” he murmurs.

Tang smiles and curls on top of Bajie like he’s always belonged there.

They lay there for a moment, until Bajie opens his mouth.

“Did I still win the challenge?”

Tang laughs so hard  he cries, tickled by the memory of a conversation what feels like a lifetime ago finally coming to its close, leaning down until his forehead is resting against Pigsy’s.

“Of course you did.  You got me, didn’t you?”

They have arguments.  Disagreements, really.  Arguments imply real hatred and they never have that, not for each other, but they do disagree.

Bajie wants Tang to come with him, to leave the monastery and go out into the world.  But Tang can’t.  Not when everyone here already expects him to fail, to be the worst of them, to fall away from the religion and be the lesser monk they think him to be.  What would they say, if he disappeared into the night, never to be seen again?

“I don’t understand why that matters,” Bajie stresses, during one such disagreement.  “You know they’re never gonna be satisfied.  And what about when they find out about me, huh?  How are you gonna swing that?”

“I know!” Tang cries, head in his hands from the frustration.  “I know, I know that, but what can I do, Bajie?  I can’t just leave, they’re my family, this is my home.  What don’t you understand?”

Family is difficult to handle, and Tang knows his isn’t perfect, isn’t terribly kind, but it’s his.  It’s so hard to imagine disappearing.  Could he even come back?  Obviously not, they already dislike him, so there’s no way he could leave.  How could he keep in contact?  The mail moves so slow, and how would they write him back when he’s moving around so much?  Would they even write to him?

Bajie doesn’t get it.  Bajie doesn’t have a family like Tang does.  Hecan just salt the earth and leave and lose nothing.  Tang could lose everything.  He needs his foundation.  He needs something to go back to.

“Tang,” Bajie starts, soft and gentle, but unrelenting.

Tang raises a hand to silence him.

“Stop asking,” He says firmly.

His voice takes on a more desperate edge as he adds a quieter “Please.”

He needs to figure this out for himself, and if he’s constantly being pressured one way over the other, how can he make an informed decision?  He just needs a little more time.

Bajie’s brow furrows, eyes going dark for a split second before his expression empties, like everything has been poured out of him.  Tang stiffens, because the lack of reaction is frightening, somehow, like he’s been pushed to the edge of a cliff, and isn’t sure how long the precipice can hold him.

But then Bajie leans down, and presses a kiss to his forehead, soft.

“Alright,” Bajie whispers.  “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too,” Tang whispers, promises, hopes.

Bajie starts leaving.  At first, it’s only for a few days.  Then, the trips become longer.  A week.  Two.  

He’s never gone longer than a month, and he always tells Tang the night before that he’ll be gone in the morning.  Tang will wake up to the feeling of a soft kiss to his forehead and he will watch Bajie trudge out of their room as sunlight peeks over the horizon.

Tang hates every second that Bajie is gone.  Hates that the monotony of his normal life is no longer satisfactory.  He had forced himself to be satisfied with the mundane, the normal, the expected.  Then Bajie had come in and smashed all his expectations and made Tang yearn for more again.

At the very least, Bao is no longer a problem.  Tang feels a sense of satisfaction that when he enters a room, Bao is quick to leave it.

“I wish you wouldn’t leave so much,” he says, during a night when Bajie is here, and close, and Tang can lay with him.  “You never seemed bothered before.  You never went anywhere for this long.”

“I had a goal, then,” Bajie rumbles, voice soft.  “You’d be surprised by how easy it is to forget about other stuff when you have a task.  But I’m a demon, with a nine toothed rake that isn’t for tilling land.  I’m not made for domestic life.  Not when I’m just getting started.”

The explanation feels almost like a farewell, and something in Tang’s chest squeezes tight in a panic.  Tang isn’t a demon, he isn’t a fighter.  He’s the definition of domestic, isn’t he?  If Bajie isn’t made for domestic life, maybe Tang isn’t made for him.

“Can’t you stay?” Tang whispers, interlocking his fingers with Bajie’s.  His hand is dwarfed by Bajie’s large palm.  “Just for a little while.  Just—am I not enough?”

“Can’t you come with me?” Bajie rebuffs, voice almost too pointed.  “Aren’t I enough?”

And, well, there’s no winning the argument there.  Unstoppable force meets immovable object, and Tang’s afraid of the crash.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.  “It’s never because you aren’t enough.” 

He needs Bajie to know that, to know that Tang isn’t doing this because Bajie failed, in some way.  Tang wishes he could feel secure enough to jump ship, to leave everything behind like Bajie wants.

But, regardless of what Bajie thinks, Tang has never been brave.

Bajie says nothing.  Tang wonders what the silence means.

As Tang wrestles with himself, his wants, his life, he finally comes to his conclusion.  He rethinks life, his own, from beginning to present, and like any good story he wants a happy ending.  Who doesn’t?

And he realizes, at the center of it all, that a happy ending isn’t possible if Bajie isn’t there.  That in every path Tang’s life leads him down, Bajie has to be there if it's to end with a smile.

And if Bajie needs Tang to leave, then Tang will swallow his terror and take the leap.  He has to at least try.  If it doesn’t work, if Tang fails, then...then he’ll only have himself to blame, won’t he?

He has to try.

There’s preparations to be had.  He researches.  While Bajie is out on trips to who knows where, Tang learns about the marriage methods of demons.  Apparently, when a demon takes a mortal’s hand in marriage, they kidnap the mortal, steal them away.  There’s an exchange of courting jewelry.  A physical claim.

He doesn’t have the money for jewelry, but he thinks he could do something else.  So he buys some paper, some leather, some twine, and carefully, he constructs a book.  A journal.  Something that they can write in for years to come, something they can share.  Maybe it’s unorthodox, maybe it isn’t good enough, but Tang wants to be able to look back.  He wants to see Bajie’s scrawled sentences, words written comically large next to Tang’s smaller, tighter script.

Maybe it isn’t the right way, but it’s Tang, in every sense of the word.  If Bajie rebuffs that, then there’s nothing to be done.

He writes out a script.  The next time Bajie leaves, Tang works on his speech, writes and rewrites.  He memorizes until every line is burned into his head, and then goes over it again, because he knows that when he says it he’ll stumble.

He plans, and strategizes, and hopes.

 This time, when Bajie returns, Tang can tell something is off. Bajie is….distracted.  He spends more time off to himself, staring out the window, than he does interacting with Tang.

It makes Tang anxious.  It feels like the moment before an explosion.  He wants to broach the subject, but he’s afraid of being caught in the blast zone of whatever Bajie is hiding.

So he sets the plans aside and focuses on lifting the terrible fog that makes Bajie stare at him like Tang is already gone.  Like Tang is some far away place that Bajie cannot reach.

It seems to work.  Tang complains uproariously about different texts he’s been reading in the interim of Bajie’s stay, and he gets Bajie to laugh.  He helps make dinner and remarks on how invaluable he is to Bajie’s cooking process.  Bajie rewards him with a few stories of some customer service issues he had to resolve when he worked as a cook.

“She had to get thrown out by the owner, she was screaming so loud,” Bajie laughs.  “It’s a good thing he settled things with her and not me.  I woulda given her the what-for, if she’d screamed at me.”

“I have no doubt,” Tang giggles.

It settles, as they become comfortable with each other again.  Every time Bajie leaves and comes back, it’s like they have to slowly get back in sync with each other.  Sometimes it takes longer than Tang likes.  Like now, where it feels like it takes weeks.

Bajie stays for an entire month and it takes most of that to get back to that comfortable place their relationship should always be in. A month full of Tang making excuses to wait to propose, making excuses to be patient, to give it a little more time.

But, after a month, things seem comfortable.  Tang swallows his fears.  Bajie called him brave once and Tang has to live up to that, right?

Except, after a week of things seeming okay, Bajie suddenly closes himself off again.  Goes quiet, empty.  Pensive and secretive in the worst way.

“Don’t shut me out,” Tang whispers, a hand against Bajie’ cheek.

Bajie’s sitting down, staring out the window, and Tang is standing, as he slowly turns Bajie’s face toward him.  “Is something wrong?  Tell me, please.  You’ve been...different.”

Bajie still stares at Tang as if Tang were the world, except now it’s as if the world is crumbling in front of him.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Tang promises.

He leans in, so his forehead rests against Bajie’s.  Bajie leans into the touch, eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” Bajie’s voice is soft.  “I—nothing’s wrong.  I’m just...I’ve been thinking too much.”

“That’s a first,” Tang smiles, trying to joke.  

Bajie’s lips twitch upward, but he doesn’t smile.

Tang glances back, towards the book hidden, and thinks of the speech burned into his brain.  He could let everything out, right now.

But Bajie looks like he needs more time.  Looks as if Tang were to push, he’d crumble.  And Tang is terrified to see Bajie break, so he decides to wait a little longer.  To stall, a little longer.

It takes far too long to coax Bajie to lay down that night, pulling his gaze away from the starry sky and back to the ground, back to Tang’s eyes.  Tang searches for something familiar in Bajie’s, but the picture is too blurred to be recognizable.

“You look tired,” he hears himself say.  “You should get some rest.”

Bajie doesn’t reply, but he does lay down, and Tang curls up against him, like he always has.  Like he always should.

“I love you,” he whispers, promises, hopes.

Bajie must say it after Tang is already asleep.  He must.

That’s the only reason Tang wouldn’t hear it said back to him.

Tang does not see Bajie sit up in the night, knees pulled to his chest.  He does not see Bajie turn to look at him, eyes watery.  He does not see Bajie run a hand over his head, shaking, glancing between the door and Tang over and over.  He does not see Bajie reach a shaking hand over Tang, a breath away from touching down, from shaking Tang awake.  He does not see Bajie pull away with a choked breath so quiet it’s almost unheard even by Bajie’s ears.  He does not see Bajie cry into his knees for far too long, and he does not see Bajie wipe his eyes, look over, and press a feathersoft, gentle kiss to the top of Tang’s head.  He does not see Bajie stand, slowly, and walk out the door, never to return.

Tang sees none of this.  He wakes up the next morning to see Bajie gone, with nothing but the indentation he left in the bedroll to indicate he was ever there.

It’s odd, because typically Bajie says something before he goes, but Tang chalks it up to the odd mood Bajie was in.  He must have simply forgotten.  The alternative is of course laughable.  Impossible.

So Tang moves on, continues with his life, and waits for Bajie to return.  

Because he has to.

Right?

It takes three months for Tang to start doubting.  

It takes six for it to start to hurt.

A year passes.

Tang feels the shelter he’d given his heart cave in as he buckles under the weight of heartbreak.   

The cliff has crumbled beneath him.  He’s fallen over the precipice, and the worst part is that no one, absolutely no one, would ever think to reach and catch him.  

Heartbreak feels like grief.  Tang has felt grief before, when his beloved masters would eventually fall to time.  Loss of a person and loss of love are equally painful, because once something is gone it can never be reclaimed.

He goes through the motions.  Moves slow, but moves regardless, like every step is through mud. He gets up, gets breakfast, gets some new scrolls.  Meditates, waits.

He just keeps on waiting.  He refuses to get rid of the fire pit Bajie made, nor the kitchen utensils, nor the pot.  He cleans them, scrubbing them all until they shine in the sunlight, polished and pristine, and then he places them back in their spots with a reverence reserved for the gods.

When Bajie gets back, he’ll want them to look nice.

Another few months pass, before logic kicks in.  Of course Bajie would leave.  Why stay with a nobody, why stay with a mortal, a monk?  There are far too many cons against the few, if any, pros.  Tang should have known that this was an eventuality.  

Sure, he’d dreamed of them growing old together, or spending eternity together, or any number of things.  But those are all that those thoughts will ever be, dreams.

Tang is a fool, to dream.

The utensils collect dust.  Tang does not read books. He doesn’t do much of anything.  He meditates, more to give himself an excuse to sit, with his eyes closed, and forget existence.

He settles again.  He must.  Logic holds him together like cheap glue, and while his cracks drop pieces as he forces himself to continue to move on, move forward, it holds enough.  Enough that he can breathe.

“Have you heard?” 

Tang is eating lunch in the common area, idly chewing on rice, and he only hears the conversation because he’s not focusing on anything else.

“The monk Triptaka is going on a journey!”

“Isn’t his name Tang Sanzang?”

“Yeah, but he goes by Triptaka.  Maybe wants to get away from a name shared by…”

Tang ignores the glances thrown his way.  He’s dealt with them plenty.

“Anyway, he’s going on a journey to get holy scriptures.  I’ve heard Bodhisattva Guanyin is even overseeing the journey herself!  She amassed a group of demons to protect him.”

“Wow, who?”

“Sun Wukong-she had to release him from under a mountain.  She also got, um, I think a dragon prince to be his steed, a demon named Sha Wujing, and one named Zhu Bajie!”

Tang freezes.  Logic starts cracking.

“What?” he finds himself saying, turning to the group.  They seem startled by his intrusion into their conversation.

“Uhhh,” one of them goes, cringing away from Tang in confusion.

“Who is on the journey?  The last name you said.” The words keep coming out of him, and Tang doesn’t have the time to figure out where they’re coming from.

“Zhu Bajie?” The name falls out of the other’s lips, and Tang recoils.

No.  No, it must be a mistake.  It couldn’t be.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

The thought is acid in his brain.  It burns, and he feels his hands shake.  The bowl drops to the floor, and shatters against stone.  Rice is wasted at his feet.

“Tang?” someone says.

It doesn’t matter that this is the first time in months that anyone has spared him a drop of concern, because Tang is running, running to their room, running to the room he’s been waiting in for months and then was grieving in for longer as the pieces of his broken heart started trying to slide back together.

Everything is shattered again, and Tang doesn’t know if he can put himself back together.

He gets to their room and falls to his knees in the center, the thud muffled by a bedroll he hasn’t had the energy in months to fold or move because that would require realizing that one half of the space would never be filled again.  He covers his mouth with his hands.  He can’t stop shaking.

He can’t.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

He thought it was because he was a mortal.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

He thought it was because he was a monk

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

Gods, he didn’t think it was because of his name, but even that avenue is gone.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

Tang sobs.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

In the end, when you strip away his mortality, you strip away his monk status, when you strip away his name, all that’s left is his character.  His personality.  Himself.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

And that’s what Bajie ran from, wasn’t it?  That’s what he abandoned.  He didn’t abandon a mortal monk named Tang, he left Tang.  The person he is at his core.  Bajie looked, was given Tang’s heart, and decided that wasn’t what he wanted.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

Tang laughs.

It’s funny, he thinks, after hours curled into a ball, heaving sobs and crackling laughs.  It’s so terribly funny, so terribly cruel, so terribly poetic.  He knew from a young age that he wasn’t enough, that he wasn’t a good monk, wasn’t a good person, but he’d tried.  He’d tried so hard. 

And then Bajie had come along.

And Tang had hoped.  Selfishly, he’d slacked on improvements, believed that he was enough as is.  Bajie never seemed to want more from him, never expected anything special, and Tang had grown lax, grown complacent.

No wonder Bajie had left him.  Tang was never good enough for anyone.

But maybe he can try to be.

He can’t change who he is.  Clearly, his 25 years of failure have shown him that.  He can’t change who he is at his core, but if he fixes everything else, maybe that will be enough.

Just maybe, then, he will be enough.

Step one.  Get rid of his mortality.

Bajie and him can’t share eternity if he’s dead a hundred years into it.  If he’s to reinvent himself into something worthy, into someone worthy, he needs time.  Mortality cuts that short.

He is a ghost in the monastery in the sense that he appears in rare bursts and his continued existence leads to whispers and rumors.  He leaves and does research in the library.  The stares of disapproval no longer stab through what once was pride, because that space in his chest has been torn open.  The knives pass right through the hole left in its wake.

He’s fervent.  Doesn’t sleep.  Doesn’t eat.  There is no point in maintaining a body doomed to die, regardless of his efforts.  He can care about himself when he’s worthy, when someone tells him he matters.

And no one has told him that.  Bajie can’t count anymore.  Not until Tang gets him back.

A year of research leads to nothing. 

Tang lives in the barest of senses, half dead on his feet as he works.  He has to figure it out, he has to.  The books he find tell him little.  But, then, he remembers the town.  The townspeople.  

People know plenty, when you know how to get it out of them.

He is a ghost in the town in the sense that he hides in its darkest, coldest corners and listens.  Travelers come in and out, always with stories.  Slowly, Tang learns how to use a stiff drink and a kind smile to pull the stories out.  Slowly, Tang learns how to twist until the people he talks to think that it was their idea, to say what he wants them to.

Tang does this all quietly.  He’s always had a way with words, always too afraid to use that power.  After all, a true monk wouldn’t be so manipulative, wouldn’t want the knowledge of anything beyond the buddhist texts, much less the ravings of wordly travelers.

Bajie is worldly.

Tang wants.

He has heard, from a million different whispers, of how Monkey King is able to live forever.

Folktales fall from slippery lips and Tang listens.  Tang learns and relearns, drags the specifics out with carefully placed drinks and sugary sweet honeyed words that coax out more information.  This is important.

Monkey King’s spirit was dragged down to Yama’s realm, he hears.  Monkey King blotted out his name from the ledger, so he may never die again.

Die again, he thinks, and realizes you have to die once for such a thing to be true.

He considers the stares aimed toward him.  He considers the lingering whispers of how he doesn’t belong, how he isn’t true to his practice.  He considers the years of him asking what else?  What else is there to learn?  He considers cold, disapproving eyes that followed him from youth to adulthood.

He considers blue, beautiful ocean blue ones that looked at him as if he’d hung the stars and he considers blue eyes gone in the night without a word.

Considers dying.  

Considers.

Acquiring poison isn’t difficult.  He buys it in the market (He used to go with Bajie where’d they’d pick out the vegetables and noodles for the ramen that night and make fun of weird shaped vegetables and laugh) with some coins Bajie left behind (left behind with him, like him, left left left abandoned because Tang made Bajie wait made Bajie lose love Tang ruined everything—) and stuffs it in his pocket.  He eats dinner (Bajie made it better he was always the better cook and Tang is nothing isn’t anything just the worst monk in the world—) and carefully pours himself some tea, mixes in the poison, and breathes.

It barely changes the taste.  There’s something bitter on the edge of it, but Tang drains the cup and sighs.  

He sets up his bedroll and lays down, eyes staring up at the ceiling.  He can feel a slight pain in his chest.  Likely due to the poison.  It’s not a very painful one, slow but not cruel.

Like this, he can practically feel Bajie next to him, a hand over his heart.  That must be where the weight on his chest comes from.  Must be.  Bajie has to be here, beside him, at the end of it all.  Where else would his love be?

They were having a conversation.  One hard to navigate, but Bajie was trying, so Tang would too.

“Why are you in love with me?” he tries to say, but the black edges take over his vision.

Dying isn’t so bad, he thinks, when it’s like this.

He comes to with little difficulty, laying down on stone.  The sky is a dark purple, with blue clouds.

He feels empty.  Weightless.

He stands and is immediately shuffled into a line of a million people, all spirits heading in one direction.  The dead are the dead, and he is placed with the typical mortals, those without plans.

Some are far older than him, some far younger.

The land of the dead is a palace.  He can see the entry gate, a speck in the distance.  The dead whisper amongst themselves, but he says nothing, stepping out of line.

He heads down the path away from the gate, off to the right.  Occasionally, he ducks out of the way of guards, which only proves that he’s going in the right direction.

Being dead doesn’t change much.  If anything, he feels a little lighter, without a physical body to hold him down.

He finds the room he’s looking for after about an hour, a large, seemingly endlessly long book sitting on a table, open on a table.  Tang walks over and when he looks down on it, he can see thousands of names.  Every second, another changes status.  Black for alive, white for dead.

White is a mourning color, after all.

He quickly begins searching for his own name, flipping through page after page with utter abandon and scanning, because time is of the essence.  He is fairly certain that there’s a reason only the Monkey King was known to have pulled this off, because it isn’t as though anyone besides King Yama and his attendants are meant to touch said book.

Not that Tang much cares who is and isn’t supposed to be doing this.  If he’d cared at this point, then, well, he wouldn’t have bought poison for himself.

He’s finally making headway, recognizing a few names from those who once lived in his town, when he hears footsteps coming toward his direction.

Well, not footsteps.  Hoofsteps.  The sound of cloven feet on tile.

Tang schools his expression, and continues to flip through the book, even as the steps come closer.

“Hey!” He hears.

He looks up.

Ox head and Horse face were mentioned in the stories detailing Monkey King’s escapade through the land of the dead.  They were the ones to drag the Great Sage’s spirit down, after all.  Ox head has dark eyes and a shining golden nose ring that accents the gold on his arm and leg bracers.  Horse face has golden earrings to match, and his outfit is much the same.  They both wear a leather-esque set of armor, ornate in its stitching, but scuffed with dirt from sparring matches or nonsense fights.

Tang looks them up and down, and decides immediately that they do not compare to how Bajie intimidates.

“Hello,” he greets, keeping his voice even and uninterested as he glances back down to the names on the page.

Ox head and Horse face stare, clearly taken aback by Tang’s cavalier attitude.  Tang is simply glad they can’t see his knees wobble behind the desk.  Sweat trails down the back of his neck.  He cannot fail.

He won’t.

“Mortals aren’t supposed to touch that,” Ox head growls out.

Tang looks up again, face the perfect picture of confusion, before he smiles.

“Oh,” He laughs a little.  “Clearly there’s been a communication error here.  King Yama sent me to fix a clerical mistake with this book.  I’m just looking for it now.”

He looks back down, and bites his lip to stop himself from smirking.  Time is of the essence.  If he finds his name before they catch onto the ruse, far better for it, right?  He just needs to find his name.  He can tell he’s close.

“Nobody told us about this.  And we’ve never seen you before,” Horse face interjects.

“Yeah, we’re in charge here.  Someone would’ve said something to us,” Ox head agrees.

“If you say so,” Tang replies.  “I’m simply following orders.  King Yama is a very busy man, and he wanted this completed quickly.  If you want to waste his time by dragging me to him just to get the same answer I’ve told you, be my guest.  

“But,” Tang shrugs and smiles. “I don’t believe King Yama is very forgiving, when someone is wasting his time.” 

He continues to flip through the book, ever patient.  When he glances up, for a split second, he can see Ox head and Horse face share a look.

“...You know what, I think I remember being told about, the, uh, clerical thing,” Horse face finally says.

“Yeah,” Ox head agrees, awkwardly.

“Don’t, uh, don’t tell King Yama about this, alright?” Horse face tries for a smile.

“We’ll just keep this between us,” Ox head fidgets with his arm bracers.

Tang smiles, and he doesn’t know what he looks like, but the two demons freeze.

“Of course,” hHe replies.

The pair leaves, rather quickly.

It takes Tang a few more minutes to find his name, written in white on the yellowed pages.  There are pens near the book, so clerical changes must be a plausibility.  He takes one of the small pens and dips it into the inkwell.  He carefully drags the ink across his name, blacking it out.

With a harsh yank, his soul is pulled away from tangibility, and he drops the pen with a clatter as he is rocketed back up, up, up—slammed into his body with utter abandon, weightlessness and emptiness replaced with the heavy feeling of embodiment.

He wakes up with a gasp, and when he breathes he coughs, as if his lungs collected dust in the time he wasn’t using them.  He moves his limbs experimentally, and everything moves fine.  His senses are a little duller, he thinks.  His vision was always poor, but now it’s even moreso.  He doesn’t smell much of anything.  He can barely taste his own saliva.  There’s a ringing in his ears that doesn’t go away, but eventually he gets used to the sound.

He sits up, glancing around. Everything in his room is untouched.  He is unsure of how long he was dead.

To the left, he hears the shuffling of footsteps.  He turns his head.

Bao is scrambling back, half fallen over, hand gripping the doorframe.  His eyes are wide, his breaths are coming out as gasps.

“You—” Bao breathes.  “You were dead.  I-I checked—you were dead.”

Tang stares.

Bao.  Terrible, awful, disgusting Bao.  A nuisance that plagued Tang’s life for years, a person who took great joy in Tang’s upset.  A person who, at one point, was someone Tang desired the respect of.

Terrible, awful, disgusting Bao, trembling at the sight of him.

Tang smiles, slow, letting his lips curl up to show a flash of teeth, and finally learns the joy that comes from being feared.  He winks.

“Only technically,” He says, almost hisses, and he finds a perverse sense of utter satisfaction as Bao pales, turns on his heel, and runs, as fast as he can.

Away from him.

Tang laughs to the disappearing sound of footsteps, and breathes in new air.  He thinks Bajie would be proud of him, as he stands and brushes himself off.  He’s finally stopped caring.  

Immortality achieved.  But there’s still more to do.  If he’s to be worthy, he needs power.

Which means he needs to learn how to acquire it.

He takes what will be useful, settles it into a pack, and leaves his home of a quarter of a century behind without much thought.  So silly of him, to be attached to it.  If only he’d left sooner.  If only he’d stopped caring sooner, maybe this all could have been avoided.

He leaves the utensils.  Leaves his books, the dictionary, and keeps the memories safe in the space where his heart once resided, heading off to the next town.

He becomes a vagabond of sorts, coasting from town to town.  He will devour the town library’s collection, searching for something, anything, and perhaps partake in town gossip.  People have so much to say, after all.  Finding the pearls of wisdom and knowledge beneath the swine tales, so to speak, is something he becomes rather shrewd at.  

Some of the people he talks to apparently find him attractive.

“Has anyone told you that you have beautiful eyes?” A woman he met in a small restaurant asks him.

 I like your eyes, because they’re a brown red I haven’t seen before.

“No,” Tang replies.  “But it’s kind of you to say.”

He’s drawn to a town over whispers of mystic artifacts and knowledge being held there.  It’s a rather unassuming town, no different from the others, but the library is a bit bigger than most.  He pours over texts, though in the week he spends searching for something of use he comes up short.

Frustration has him nearly tearing the pages, and he lets out a harsh breath through his nose and forces himself to be patient.  He has eternity, after all.  As does Bajie.  The execution of his plan needs to be perfect or it won’t work.

A tap on his shoulder.  Tang turns his head to glance up at the librarian, previously absent or seemingly oblivious to his existence.  She stares at him with sharp, knowing eyes.

“You seek something?” she asks.

“Knowledge,” Tang finds himself replying.  “Power.”

She smiles at him.  It’s a wicked type of smile, but nothing cruel towards him.

“Come. I have something for you to see.” She turns, and gestures for him to follow. 

Tang nearly trips over himself rushing to her side.

She leads him to a room behind the library desk, a small office with more bookshelves filled with large, old scrolls and books.  He watches her trace her fingers across the different scripts, searching, before she slides a book out from the shelf and turns, handing it to him.

“If you want power, this is how you will take it,” she says.

She opens the book in his hands, flipping it to a specific page and pointing at the picture there.

“A gem,” she explains.  “You fill it with life, and it grants you power.”

Tang reads over the text.  You take a gemstone, one typically one clear in color for better results, and then use the life force of others to power it.  After a certain amount of power is added to the gem, you fuse it with your being.

“I’ll have to kill humans?” he asks, glancing up at her.

She chuckles.  “If you want, but it would take a lot.  Demons are far more...potent.”

Tang nods.

Demons.  That may take some work.  Demons are a breed far more powerful than humans, and even as an immortal being, Tang is fragile.

And, before even that, there’s the matter of acquiring a gemstone.  Those are often expensive.

He snaps the book shut.

“Thank you.” He bows his head in thanks.  “I’ll be taking this.”

It’s not a request.  He leaves with the book in hand and starts his search for a jewel.

He finds it three towns over.  There’s a jeweler there with an assortment of gemstones.  All definitely out of Tang’s price range, but now he’s located them. 

He thinks of stealing, but that’s a fool’s errand.  Taking something that can be bought with hard work is something an idiot would do.  Tang wants to be able to move between towns as he pleases, and gaining a reputation of a criminal makes it far less likely that people will speak to him, will tell him the things he needs to know.

So, he gets a job at a restaurant.  Bajie did it once and so shall he.

The work gives him something to do.  Being immortal means sleep and nourishment are no longer a requirement, and without those time killers the days and nights stretch on longer and longer, Tang made painfully aware of every passing hour, minute, second.  His purpose, his goal, remains the same, but with his job now there’s something else to occupy his time as he plans.

Plus, it helps that he learns how to use a knife effectively.  Bajie taught him the basics, but when it’s the lunch rush you learn far more how to cut, dice, chop, and slice efficiently.  If he’s to kill demons, he needs to be able to fight.  

His coworkers do try to start conversations with him, but he is far too focused on the task at hand to join in.  They learn, eventually, that he isn’t up for talking.  Interacting with people is only useful when there is something to gain from it.

Life has made it very clear that friendships do not come to him, so there is no bother hoping.  Tang is chasing the only person who gave him some semblance of respect.  He does not need, nor want, anyone else.

No one typically comments on his appearance.  His skin is paler than most, eyes dark and shadowed.  Still, that’s not enough to raise suspicion of him.

Typically, anyway.

“Do they know?” A man asks, when Tang comes up to the counter to hand him his order.  “Do they know what you are?”

Tang glances at the man with a small smile.

The man pales.  

Tang smiles wider.

“Here’s your order, sir,” he says.

The man leaves.  Quickly.

It takes him a year to accrue enough funds to acquire the gem.  It’s a clear white stone, almost in the shape of a teardrop, and it sits comfortably in his palm.  The jeweler had asked if it was a gift for someone.  Tang chose not to reply.

Now, there’s the matter of finding a demon to power it.  Again, not very hard.  Demons are well known to ravage towns from time to time.  Steal their crops, take the flesh to devour, things like that.  The next town over has been struggling with one.  Nothing too powerful, or else they’d have had a far bigger outcry, but of interest nonetheless.

He leaves his job without notice.  He doesn’t care if they’re bereft of a cook, not when he’s so close.  He rushes off, clutching his gemstone and his knives and disappearing into the night.

The demon doesn’t attack during the day, so when he arrives he has enough time to ask around.  Gather details.

They’re some sort of rhino demon, evidently.  Charging through homes in the night, taking mortals to consume, leaving nothing but demolished buildings and blood in their wake.  The townspeople are terrified, spending most of their days fortifying their homes.  They’ve neither the money nor support to escape, and sending for help will likely take too long.

That’s fine.  Tang can take care of this for them.  They get to be saved, and more importantly, he gets the power he needs. 

Tang stands at the entrance to the town, the moon high in the sky, patiently waiting for the demon to arrive.  His knife is gripped tightly in hand.  He has his pants rolled up to his knees, though his sleeves still hang loosely.

He hears the footsteps before he sees them.  Charging hoofsteps on the ground, and the glint of blood red eyes.  The rhino demon is large, at least twice his height, and is aiming for him, specifically.

Tang side steps, holding his knife out and letting it slice through the demon’s hide as he charges past.

“Sloppy,” he calls, turning around.  

Blood drips down the demon’s side.  The demon snarls, baring his sharp teeth.  He shakes his injured leg out a few times, splattering blood across the dirt, before he stomps it back down onto the ground, readying his stance for another charge.

Tang readies himself.  “Not used to a human who fights back?” 

Bajie taught him to fight.  Well, more how to dodge, because he said if Tang got hit by a demon even once he’d probably die on the spot.  Apparently, humans are very fragile.

“Do you have to be careful, with me?” Tang asked.

“A little,” Bajie had admitted.  “I mean, you’re not made of glass.”

“I’d hope not,” He’d laughed, sitting on Bajie’s shoulder..

“But I have to be a little careful,” Bajie shrugs the shoulder Tang isn’t sitting on.  “Most demons wouldn’t.  I, uh, want you to be ready for that.”

Tang scritched the place behind Bajie’s ears that always made a purr rumble up Bajie’s throat, smiling when he heard it right on cue.

“You have a lot of enemies?” he’d asked.

Bajie laughed.

“Something like that.”

The demon charges, and Tang jumps, stepping onto the demon’s large horn and using it as a springboard.  He leaves a large gash in the demon’s back when he descends, stumbling a little when he hits the dirt.

There’s a roar of pain from the demon at that.

Tang smirks.

He ducks when a large fist is levied his way.

Jump.  Sidestep.  Dodge.  Slash.

Close quarter combat would be to Tang’s disadvantage, considering one blow would break him into pieces.  The demon knows it, refusing to allow Tang an opening to make any more distance.  Tang doesn’t let that deter him, using the milliseconds between strikes to slash at whatever part his knife can reach.

By the time he trips, the demon is bleeding in more places than Tang can count.  Not bleeding much, the gashes rather small, but bleeding a little from a lot still has an impact.

Of course, getting choked also has an impact, Tang finds.

A large hand grips him by the neck when Tang trips, squeezing tight enough to bruise and then some.  If Tang were entirely mortal, well, this would be it for him.  Needing to breathe is certainly something required of Tang, in a sense, but he can hold his breath for far longer.  He makes his eyelids flutter, sliding them shut to keep the illusion that he’s dying. 

As this happens, as he goes limp, the demon huffs. Even relaxes a little, as if the battle’s won.

Tang opens his eyes and smiles.  He slashes once more and catches the demon across the throat.

Blood sprays out as if it were thrown out of a bucket, coating Tang’s face before he’s dropped.  The demon presses his hands to his throat and chokes, coughing up blood and wheezing for air.

The demon drops to his knees.  Tang comes close.

He drives his knife into the demon’s head, right below the horn, and the demon goes limp.

Tang side steps the falling body.

He takes a few deep breaths, watching the blood pour across the dirt in a way he’s never seen before.  He’s never watched anyone die like this.  He’s never made someone die like this.

All life is sacred, he was told.  All life was to be protected, cared for.  That’s why he was vegetarian.  That’s why he was a monk.  He should feel something, staring at the dead body before him.  He should be devastated by his actions.  He should be horrified.

He should care, but the demon was killing this town.  All life cannot be sacred when one life takes so many.  And, besides that, he needs the power.  If this is how he is to gain it, so be it.

He pulls out the gem, fumbling a bit.  His hands are wet from the blood.  He presses the gem against the demon’s body and waits.

Sure enough, energy flows into it.  The gem warms in his grip, and Tang swears he can hear a rattling scream before the gem begins to glow pink.  Reaching towards red, but not quite there.   

He holds the gem up in the moonlight, watching the light filter though it.  It’s too clear, still.  Once it’s near opaque-that’s when it’s ready.

“Look on the bright side,” he says to the body, though his voice is hoarse.  His throat is sure to bruise, and it makes it a little difficult to speak.  “Now that you aren’t murdering families in the night, maybe you’ll be of use.”

He pockets the gem, and after stealing some hanging clothes from the village—he feels little remorse, considering he saved the town—leaves the body to rot.

He washes himself off, burns his bloody clothing.  He’ll have to be smarter, he thinks, about how he kills.  Clothes are not easy to come by, and Tang doesn’t enjoy the idea of taking new clothes every time he kills a demon.  Far too much work, honestly.

He cleans off his knife once the rest of him is free of blood, staring at his reflection in the water.  The knife glimmers in the daylight.  The gemstone weighs heavy in his pocket.

He travels on the words of humans towards demons, flitting through the towns of the former and murdering the latter, and finds it a little isolating that he sees himself as neither.

The isolation is nothing new, though.  Tang has always been alone.

It’s after the sixth demon he kills that the gem starts to glow with promise, rattling in his grip as it begs for an outlet.  One powerful demon would have brought it to this point easily, but while Tang is no longer mortal, he is still terribly human, which means he is terribly weak.  He has to find the scraps of the demon world, those so weak they spend their days with mortals, hiding amongst them while trying to live a normal life.  He finds them using sigils that allow him to follow their trails like a scent, and he is silent as the grave in the night, knife steady in hand.

He’s gotten rather proficient with a knife, but he hates using it.  Too messy, too close, too personal.  He’ll find something more suitable later.

For now, there’s the matter of making sure the power he won (stole is such a dirty word, and is it really stealing if he beat the demon fair and square?) stays with him.  Consulting the book he took from the library, he knows he needs to establish a physical connection to it. 

That requires effort.  But Tang is nothing if not stubborn enough to make it work.

That night, he takes off his shirt and folds it carefully, setting it down beside him.  He places the gem on top of the cloth, and then uses his finger to trace the line where he needs to make the incision.  

He grabs the knife and follows his finger’s line down the center of his chest with the tip of the blade.  

Up and down, up and down.  

It starts to burn.  He trembles.  

It stings, aches, sharp and raw, and the knife slips from his fingers.

It drops, he presses a shaking hand to the wound.

Gasping for air, he coughs on agony.  Chokes on it as he wrestles with the pain of the action.  The urge to heave makes him shudder.

He isn’t unused to pain. He’d slipped a few times, cut his fingers while preparing dinner with Bajie.  The bruises on his neck took weeks to heal and asphyxiation burned.

But nothing like this.  Carving flesh, your own flesh, and having to continue regardless of every logical, emotional, and primal part of yourself screaming at you to stop is a challenge Tang didn’t think would be so hard to undertake.

Not for the faint of heart, the book said.  

His is already shattered, isn’t it?  What’s another break?

He takes a piece of wet cloth and wipes away the excess, patching up his failed attempt and making sure everything is clear.  He cleans off the knife, and takes a deep breath.

He raises the blade to right beneath his chest, closer to it than his stomach but still enough below that it isn’t exactly where his heart resides.  He hisses a breath in through his teeth as he sinks the blade in again.

Up and down, slowly pushing in deeper and deeper until the blade presses into flesh.

Up and down, like cutting vegetables, steady.

Up and down, deeper with each movement.

Blood wells up and pours down his chest as he slices deeper.  The stream buffers with every rise and fall of his chest as he takes deep breaths.

His hand shakes.  Pain is all he can think of and he pulls out the knife when he manages to make an incision a centimeter deep.  

Deep breaths.  Focus.

His teeth are clenched so tight they might shatter in his mouth, as he reaches over and grabs the gem.  He sets the knife aside and uses one finger to pull one side of the incision apart, creating more space.

His skin is clammy, sweat dripping down as he fights to keep himself from curling in on himself and screaming.

The blood pools down his legs, dripping toward the ground.

The gem sits comfortably in his palm, as he drags his tired limb up to press the stone into the newly made space.  His fingers are slick with blood, fumbling and terribly unsteady, as he forces the gem in deeper, until it pushes apart his flesh even more.

The sound is wet and sticky, as if his flesh were overwatered rice.  He swallows back nausea at the thought.  His breaths are haggar pants, wheezing gasps as his lungs beg for air below the lump of pain that tightens his throat.

The power hums, as he presses a flat palm against his chest, holding the gem in.  It pulses once, twice.

And then everything pitches into white hot agony.  Tang screams.

White becomes red in his vision as power surges through his core, the smell of burnt meat rising up to his nose as the gem clings to his flesh and fuses with it.  He can feel it touch bone, pressing against it.  He can feel veins crawling beneath his skin like worms, forcing their way into him.  

He curls in on himself, holding himself up by his forearms trembling against the ground, as something inhuman breaks through any barriers Tang once had and makes a home in his center.

It feels like hours.  Like centuries, even, as he twitches uncontrollably with every spark of energy that courses through him.  He coughs, and blood splatters onto his knees and onto the ground.  He spits a few times, to get the rest of it out of his mouth.  The metallic, bittersweet taste lingers on his tongue.

He swallows the urge to vomit up the meager meal he had a few hours earlier and breathes hard through mouth.

And then, as quickly as the pain comes, it vanishes.  Warmth spreads through his being, a soothing balm against the agony that threatened to pull him under.  Skin and flesh knit itself back together, even his first attempt healed within moments.  Where there was once pain there’s adrenaline

Tang pushes himself up and wipes his mouth.  A flash has him staring at his palm in surprise.

Crackling red energy twirls around his fingertips.  It bathes his skin in warm light, and when he clenches his fist and opens it again the power settles in his palm like a flame. Swaying with the wind, it moves in time with each breath.

His eyes glow with promise, as power surges through him.  He throws his arm out towards the firewood and the red energy crashes against the wood, splintering it and creating a blaze that shoots up tall, the flame rising up towards the treetops before it settles.  

He lets out a half hysterical laugh, a hand still against his chest.  He traces the veins that pulse outward, bright red, and imagines just how powerful he’ll be with more than six demons, more than ten, more than a hundred even.  It doesn’t matter how much it’ll take, he’ll make it happen.

“Just you wait, Bajie,” he whispers, grinning, imagining warm blue eyes, imagining the room they shared, imagining a new one.

The journal, the speech, it sits in the forefront of his mind.  He hasn’t had a chance to give either, yet, but that’ll change.  It’s only a matter of time.

“I’ll catch up to you soon.”

[1234-angelika]

Restorations

an:Hey y'all! So the weather is finally cooling down a bit here, not that I wasn't loving it, but I am finally managing to get some work done. This is the fifth installment in my Happily Ever After series for Derek. As always, hope y'all enjoy!

words:1.3 k

warnings:PDA (maybe) but other than that, I don't think there are any

summary:"We shape our homes and then our homes shape us." -Winston Churchill

masterpost|taglist|have an idea

You knew that outside of his work at the BAU, Derek had a side business restoring and flipping houses.

Since he used this business as a stress reliever and a hobby, that’s usually how he would spend his days off. When you were together, though, you would usually spend the afternoon with take-out in a movie-marathon haze. Occasionally, you would go out, but it was more important to the two of you to spend time together. You had only been to a worksite once. So, Derek promised that he would bring you out to a worksite one day, and you would work on it together.

It was five-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday, and you had just come back from your run when the phone rang. In an effort to answer the call promptly, you paid no mind to the caller ID.

“Hello?”

Derek’s voice rang through the receiver, “Hey Sunshine. That’s the hello I get?”

Giggling, you answered, “Good morning casanova.”

“Loving the new nickname sunshine.”

You smiled as you heard D’s nickname for you. “What’s up Derek? Usually you don’t call this early, especially on a day off.”

“Can you meet me later?”

“For sure. Where?”

“I’ll text you the address. Does eleven-thirty work for you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ok. I love you Sunshine.”

“I love you too, hercules.”

You took a long shower to relax. Deciding that an hour in the shower was long enough, you finished up and made your way out to the closet. The weatherman said it would be reaching an estimated high of 87°F. This heavily influenced your choice of an outfit. You grabbed your favourite pair of shorts, a comfy black tank top and a blue flannel to wear on top. You paired your most comfortable pair of shoes with the outfit while still keeping cool in the Virginia heat. After getting dressed, you did your hair and then went on to makeup. Meandering into the kitchen, you started to think about breakfast. You gathered the components and started making it. You had just put the bread into the toaster when your phone alerted you of a text message. Picking it up, you read that it was from Derek.

Hey Sunshine.

The address is 3972 Hazelmere lane. I can’t wait to see you.

You shot a quick text back confirming that you were still meeting him and asking if he needed anything. Then, you put down your phone and continued with your breakfast. You ate your food while flipping through the latest edition of your favourite magazine. Once you finished your food, you had to make an effort to keep busy. You tidied your condo before getting started on some paperwork for your upcoming training sessions. You worked and worked until all of a sudden, the clock read eleven. You decided to just leave your place and be early for whatever you were going to do.

The drive took longer than anticipated. Instead of the fifteen minutes, you estimated, the drive actually took forty. Finally, you pulled up to the address, and confusion overcame you. At the address was a beautiful house with a lot of yard in the front and plenty of trees. You parked the car—which wasn’t done super well, parallel parking—grabbed your bag and climbed out. Looking around, you spotted Derek’s car but no sign of Derek. Taking a chance, you walked up to the front door, but when you knocked on it, it just got pushed open. You walked towards the deafening banging sounds you heard, and it was there that you found Derek. He was taking down the rotted cabinetry and dropping it on the ground. He paused when he noticed you in the doorway and climbed down the ladder.

“Hey sunshine,” he said, kissing your cheek.

“Hi Der. So, where are we?” You asked, trying not to be too apparent in your ogling of his sweaty body. As you finished your question, his body language became nervous. The same as it was when he had asked you to be his girlfriend.

“Y/N,” he said, and instantly you noted the severity of the upcoming conversation, all playfulness was gone from his voice, “you know that I do this as a side business and I did promise you that we could work on a project together. I thought it could be this one. If you’re up for it, we could make this our forever home. What do you say?”

You squealed out in happiness and launched yourself into his arms. He readily caught you, and as you hugged him, you felt his chest rumbling beneath you, an indication that he was laughing. You pulled away, and he looked at you with a brow raised.

“So I guess that’s a yes?”

“Yes!” You kissed him hard, making sure your point got across. “So Derek, where do we start?”

He grabbed a spare pair of protective glasses from the counter and handed them to you. “We start with some demolition. Don’t bang out any walls. We’re just removing cabinetry, mirrors, light fixtures and flooring.”

You nodded and walked off to what you could only guess was the living room. You made a cut into the carpet before starting to pull it up. You slowly made your way around the house, pulling the flooring up, room by room, focusing only on carpet and laminate. You were now in one of the bedrooms pulling up the last floorboard when Derek appeared in the doorway.

“Need any help gorgeous?”

Standing up, you shook your head, “nah, I finished the flooring.”

“Are you done for the day?” Derek asked you, hoping you still had the energy to do some shopping.

“Not yet. I’m still good, why?”

“I wanted to take you shopping for some materials for the house.”

“Our house,” you said, correcting him with a grin.

“Our house.” Derek said with a smile akin to your own.

The drive to the hardware store was quick. The two of you walked hand-in-hand, picking and choosing the hardware and appliances. The hardware and the appliances were easy to determine, the hardware was matte black, and the appliances were stainless steel. Both complemented the cabinetry planned for the home, white for most of the cabinets and sage green for the island cabinets. However, paint and flooring ended up being a different story. You and Derek had utterly opposing ideas, and coming to a compromise was no easy feat.

“So, what paint were you thinking?”

“Well, I was thinking we do grey on grey.”

“Are you saying grey paint AND grey flooring?”

“Yeah. It’s simple…design-wise anyways.”

The opposition to the idea was evident on your face, and he sighed before saying;

“What were you thinking Y/N?”

Taking a moment to consider his ideas, you said, “What if we went for a lighter grey for most of the walls…and instead of the grey flooring, we go for a walnut coloured vinyl instead?”

He nodded as he considered your ideas. “What do you mean most of the walls?”

“Well, I wanted to use shiplap in the entrance way but I was thinking that instead we could use it as a feature wall against the staircase.”

“Y/N, have I ever told you what a genius you are?”

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p.’

“Well you are an amazingly talented lovable genius,” he said before leaning over and kissing you.

The two of you were walking through the aisles of the hardware store pushing the cart, your head leaning on his bicep when he asked;

“So, what about the kitchen?”

And that’s how you spent the rest of your day off and others alike. Building your forever home together.

taglist: @multixfandomwriter @myescapefromthislife @gspenc

[creampuffqueen]

Getaway Car - Cresswell, TLC Shipweeks 2021 (Criminal AU)

a/n: Hello!!!! TLC fandom! It's been quite a while since I did anything for y'all! But here I am, back from the dead, with an unholy amount of one single fic for the ship weeks. I was going to post this yesterday, since that was Cresswell's AU day (I think, I wasn't originally planning to post anything so I wasn't keeping track, but I listened to Taylor Swift's song Getaway Car and got a Vision) but sadly my ideas were too large to complete in one day! So take this now!

Word Count: 13142 (yes, I know)

Summary: In an alternate universe, Cress and Thorne are partners in crime, literally. They may also be in love with each other, literally.

Warnings: Contains mentions of guns, violence, underage drinking, cursing, and a lot of crime

~~~~

“Cress, you got me?” Thorne’s voice crackled over the speaker of the burner phone, right into the waiting ears of the person he needed most.

His getaway car, Cress Darnel.

“Loud and clear!” She replied, twisting the key in the ignition of the old car. The engine roared to life under her touch, and the young woman sped out of the alleyway. “Keep going, I’ll be there. You know what to do.”

“We’ve done this almost a dozen times; I know what to do!”

The blonde cracked a grin to herself, “Sure you do. You’d be lost without me.”

“You got that right! See you in two! Mwah!” With that last endearment, the line went dead, and Cress chucked the cell phone out the window with an exasperated smile. She was parked close enough that the rendezvous spot only took her one minute, sixteen seconds to reach.

Timing was of the utmost importance to this mission. Even a few seconds too late and everything would end.

This was proven approximately thirty-eight seconds later, when Carswell Thorne, renowned criminal, tore around the corner, half-zipped duffel bag slung over a shoulder. He had a gun, but both he and Cress knew it wasn’t loaded, it was just for show.

The doors were unlocked, the car had a full tank of gas, and Cress was a very good driver. “Floor it!” Thorne shouted, and Cress didn’t have to be told twice.

When the police arrived, approximately twenty-two seconds later, they, and all evidence, were long gone.

~~~~

After an hour of driving, it was getting dark. Thorne discreetly hotwired a new car in a full supermarket parking lot, and the duo was on their way.

Another hour of driving, and Thorne took over the controls from the younger woman, letting her nap in the passenger seat. She curled up in a little ball, so small she didn’t even stick out of the seat. When she was fast asleep with her cheek squished against the window, Thorne finally risked a glance over to his partner.

It was strange to think they’d only known each other for a few months. Well, six months, two weeks, and five days, to be exact.

He’d tried to stop himself from keeping count. It hadn’t worked. Six months, two weeks, and five days of Cress Darnel being in his life.

It was about nine o’clock, so the traffic was beginning to thin a bit. They were in one of the busiest parts of the city, easy to blend in with their average-looking car. Someone honked behind him, and Thorne gave a glance in his rearview mirror. Whoops.

The day had been long and exhausting. Time to start working on a place to hunker down for the night. Cress shifted a bit in her sleep, and a loud grumble cut through the car. Okay, time to find some food, too.

He drove around the city a bit more, making sure nobody was on their tail, before finally exiting to the more sparsely-populated areas. Where you paid for your room in cash and nobody asked questions.

It was eleven o’clock by the time he finally found someplace suitable enough. He drove through a fast food joint nearby, then finally parked the car. Nudging Cress awake as he exited, he wordlessly passed her the food before heading inside.

Most of the rooms were sold for the night, but they thankfully had one available with two twin beds.

He found Cress devouring her burger like she hadn’t eaten in years. And-

“Hey, fry-stealer!” He chuckled, snatching his bag, “Eat your own!”

She gave him a look with those big blue eyes and something inside him melted. “I already ate mine.”

Thorne rolled his eyes, but passed her a couple more fries anyway. “This means you have to carry your own bag, you know.”

That statement earned him another pout, but he ignored it, instead grabbing his suitcase and the duffel bag containing today’s goods.

He left Cress to her own devices, heading inside the room and grabbing the shower first. His food would be cold, sure, but at least he’d get all the hot water he wanted.

When he came out again, toweling off his hair and rubbing his freshly-shaven face, Cress was inside, passed out on top of her hotel-made bed.

Thorne sighed, but couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed. It was exhausting, having so much brainpower all the time.

He tugged off her shoes, placing them neatly by the bed, in case they needed a quick escape. Then, gently, almost reverently, he tucked her under the covers.

He couldn’t resist. Making sure she was fully asleep, he pressed a soft, tiny kiss on top of her perfect golden hair.

“‘Night, Cress.”

He was fast asleep himself before he heard her reply.

“Goodnight.”

~~~~

The pair made an early departure, before other residents rose from their slumber and possibly compromised their location. Since Thorne had driven for so long yesterday, Cress felt it was only fair that she drove. It was a bit strange, she admitted, usually she was the night owl and he the early bird. But yesterday had been hard. It took a lot of planning to pull it off that smoothly.

By the time the sun rose, the pair was at least an hour away from the motel. Cress got them both coffee at a little roadside place, then pulled off to the side so they could enjoy it.

“You always get my order right,” Thorne chuckled, leaning against her as they sat in the open trunk of the car. “I’ve got a very sensitive palette, you know.”

Cress snorted, “You sure do. That’s just pure sugar in a cup right there.” She took a big gulp of her own brew, which was almost pure espresso.

“I don’t know how you can drink literal dirt water!” Thorne protested, “It’s so nasty!”

Cress bumped his shoulder again, still smiling. He grinned right back at her, before turning his eyes back to the early-morning sun.

“You ever think you’d get to see stuff like this? Do stuff like this?”

Cress could think of a thousand different witty remarks to toss back at him, mostly along the lines of “Being a wanted criminal? Absolutely.”, but for whatever reason, she held her tongue, instead replying, “No. Back then I didn’t even know when I’d see the sun next.”

Thorne turned his blue eyes over to her, squeezing her hand in a silent comfort. This close, she noticed that he’d shaved last night. And was letting his roots grow out again. Her heart sped up, just a bit.

In the six months she’d known him, he’d changed his appearance so often she was losing count. He always did after a heist, no matter how big or small. He dyed his hair, let his beard grow out, or sometimes simply donned a pair of glasses. Cress hadn’t changed hers since the very first.

~~~~

“Hey, blondie, where are you headed?” Cress whipped her head around to the voice that sounded. Rumbling up beside her was a car, front window rolled down, to reveal a young man, only a year or so older than her.

“None of your business,” She responded warily, curling in on herself a bit.

“Are you lost?” The guy continued, “I could give you a ride.”

“Like I’d get in a car with a strange man. That’s, like, begging to be killed.”

The guy looked actually offended at that. “What? I don’t kill people!”

Cress just rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the offer, but no.”

She turned away, hitching her backpack higher. She’d chickened out again. Sybil would be home any minute and she needed to get home. Her pace quickened, and the car and the guy rolled off.

Little did she know, that certainly wasn’t the last she’d see of him.

~~~~

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.” Cress pulled the duffel bag of stolen material towards her, beginning to rifle through it while Thorne watched. The late afternoon sun filtered through the window, turning her golden hair into an illusion of fire.

They’d ditched the car yet again, this time nabbing one from a used car parking lot. Now they were in a small town that the highway ran through, alone in a back alley, the only company being an alley cat in the trash and a couple further down that were too caught up in each other to notice anything.

Inside the bag, Cress pulled out treasure after treasure. A lot of cash; Thorne had the employees empty all the registers, and a lot of what Cress needed: Computer parts.

She had an old, run-down laptop, one of the few things taken with her from her previous life in the quiet suburbs. She would have had Thorne steal another laptop, but those were too traceable these days, even if they were brand new.

So manual upgrades it was.

Computers were her specialty, always had been. And now that she was a part of this merry band of two, her computer and her skills were integral parts to everything they did.

As it turned out, the most recent robbery had yielded exactly what she needed, and more. She gave a squeal of delight after unearthing a certain part, hugging it close to her chest.

A little chuckle sounded behind her, and Cress whipped her head around. Thorne was grinning ear-to-ear, the kind of smile that made her face heat up. “Happy, Goldilocks?”

Her face burned, and she twisted her fingers in her shoulder-length locks of hair. But she met his eyes and nodded. “Really happy. This is exactly what I needed.”

Thorne’s smile softened. “Anything for you, Princess.”

And somehow, deep inside her, she knew he was speaking the truth.

~~~~

Cress sprinted along the side of the road, the grass scratching at her bare legs. Her whole head throbbed, and her left wrist was sprained for sure. Every step pulled at the bruising on her stomach, and it was a struggle to keep moving, keep the backpack on her shoulders, keep moving.

“I’m eighteen now, she can’t hurt me anymore. I’m eighteen now, she can’t hurt me anymore,” She murmured over and over to herself, a mantra to keep her sore legs moving. She needed to leave, needed to keep moving.

She risked a glance behind her. Her heart froze.

Car lights were coming up the road. Fast.

Cress started running faster, biting her lip to keep from sobbing, keep from just keeling over and dying right there. She could beat her. She could escape. She just had to keep moving.

It was the middle of the night, there was no way anyone else but Sybil was driving that car. There was nowhere to hide. All she could do was keep going, and hope that maybe she sped right past. It was foolish, but it was all she had.

Her foot slipped into a small dip in the earth, and her whole ankle screamed, sending her toppling into the dirt. Coughing and sputtering, she pushed herself up, stumbling forward. The tears came, fast and hard and unstoppable. The lights were nearly on top of her now.

And that’s when she saw it. Another car, coming towards her. Her last chance.

Cress nearly toppled over herself in her haste, tumbling into the middle of the road, in the path of the incoming car. As expected, it screeched to a stop, the driver slamming on the horn.

“Help!” Cress screamed, as Sybil’s car pulled up behind her, her face illuminated by the other headlights and frozen in fury. “Please help me! She’s going to hurt me!”

“Crescent Moon!” Sybil bellowed, and Cress backed up against the other car. The driver’s door opened. And out stepped the most handsome man Cress had ever seen in her life.

Okay, she was definitely dreaming. She gave herself a tiny pinch.

Maybe not.

The man… he seemed familiar, somehow. She couldn’t quite place it.

“Cress,” Sybil snarled, stomping over, “Get in the car, now.” Her tone left no room for argument. Cress curled in on herself.

“Hey,” The man replied, “Who the hell are you?”

“Her mother.”

“Foster mother,” Cress interjected softly. “And I’m eighteen. You don’t own me anymore.”

If Sybil’s face could get more furious, it did. The man glanced between them, brows creasing as he took in Cress’s limp, her black eye, the way she held her stomach.

“You heard the girl. She doesn’t belong to you, witch.”

Sybil lunged, grabbing Cress’s sprained wrist. She screamed in pain, and the man moved.

And suddenly he was pointing a gun at her foster mother. Everyone froze.

“Let her go.” He said, “Leave her alone.”

Sybil backed away. “I’ll call the police, boy. You can’t threaten me.”

The gun clicked. He armed it. He pointed it straight at Sybil.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s eighteen. And if she comes willingly, there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

And Cress really couldn’t say why, exactly, but in that moment she knew that he was truthful. That his words made sense, and more than that, she would go with him.

“I’m going with him, Sybil.” For the first time in her life, Cress Darnel was being brave. And it wasn’t a dream.

The man turned to her, flashing a grin, and Cress recognized him then. The same one who approached her nearly a month earlier.

“Cress, right?” He asked, when Sybil had retreated to her car and driven away, “Nice name. I’m Carswell, but everyone calls me Thorne. Oh, and sorry to scare you like that. This thing isn’t loaded, never has been.”

Cress glanced down the road, at the car growing steadily smaller in the distance. “Thanks for all that, Thorne. You showed up just in time.”

He offered her a hand to shake. “My pleasure, blondie.”

Despite everything, Cress found herself cracking a smile.

~~~~

“So, where to next, milady?” Thorne beamed, spreading a roadmap before them both. They’d finally stopped for the night, and were sitting on some questionable carpet in an even more questionable motel, figuring out their next plan.

“Dunno,” Cress shrugged, “Wherever’s good, I guess.”

“I mean, where you do want to see?” Thorne elaborated. “What’s your dream destination, Cress?”

She gave him a confused look. “Why?”

“You can say Disneyworld. I won’t judge.”

That earned him a snicker and a shove against the shoulder, and he could almost feel his heart swell with affection. She really was adorable, sitting in a tank top and pajama shorts, thick socks rolled around her ankles. He’d do anything to earn that smile again.

“I’m not sure, really. I’ve never had the chance to really think about it.”

“Well surely you must at least know some places. A place you’ve heard, maybe?”

Cress sighed, leaning further against him. “I don’t know, Thorne. What about you? Where do you want to go?”

“Ladies first, Goldilocks.”

“It’s Disneyworld, isn’t it.”

“You could hack their system and get us free tickets! And fast passes for all the rides! It would be great!” He replied enthusiastically.

“I mean in theory, sure, but Disney’s kinda notorious for being fairly unhackable.”

“Damn it.”

Cress yawned, laying nearly in his lap. “Let’s think about it tomorrow, ‘kay?”

Thorne lifted her, bridal style, to her bed, amidst her soft giggles. She sounded like a fairy. “Goodnight, milady. I shall seek thee out in the morning.”

Cress laughed harder, which turned abruptly into a yawn as she tucked herself beneath the covers. “Goodnight, my knight in shining armor.”

~~~~

Over the next few weeks, they travelled to wherever they felt like. The car they had was stolen from a junkyard, so it wasn’t like anyone was looking for it. Sure, it was a piece of crap, but it moved and it did its job.

They moved intermittently between small and big towns, usually only spending a day or two before hitting the road again. Cash was hard to come by, so they mostly resorted to stealing purses and pickpocketing. Cress felt a little bad about it, but hey, they needed to eat.

Things between her and Thorne were… changing. She couldn’t exactly tell how or why, but she knew they were. The change wasn’t bad, but it was different. And strange. And a tiny bit scary.

She’d find her gaze naturally finding his at any given moment, catch herself staring when she shouldn’t. She laughed at his dumb jokes more, focused on the sound of his voice when she should be focusing on the road.

He hadn’t changed his appearance in a long time. His hair was its natural shade of golden brown again, and he kept his face clean-shaven. The dumb glasses had been broken and dumped some time ago.

And it wasn’t just her that was staring, either. She felt his eyes, sometimes saw them too, when he thought she wasn’t looking. He was doing more and more to make her laugh. And he wasn’t being as careful to make sure she was asleep before he kissed her head goodnight.

Cress didn’t really know what to make of these changes. She couldn’t tell if these were good or bad. She wasn’t used to this, these butterflies in her stomach, this heat in her face. Sybil kept her isolated her whole life, and she was just now starting to really experience the world. Was it right to fall for the first guy her age she met?

Because she realized that’s what it was. They were in a moderately sized town, and were walking around the downtown area, looking for a place to eat and also some easy targets to fund said meal.

Sadly, this wasn’t an easy crowd. They had eyes in the backs of their heads, and after nearly an hour, they only had a meager ten dollars to show for it between them.

“Hey, chin up,” Thorne grinned, “We’ll be fine. I think I saw a fast food place up there, follow me.”

He grabbed her hand, and Cress couldn’t stop the dopey grin that found a permanent residence on her face. He’s holding my hand.

Unfortunately, it was a high end fast food place. The kind that had “gourmet” food at a third of the price of a fancy restaurant. Even the cheapest item on the menu really meant one meal to split between them both.

“You should eat, Cress.”

“No,” She protested, “Let’s find somewhere else. We both need to eat.”

He shrugged. “It’s late. Just promise to give me a bite, okay?”

She would have argued more, but she was really hungry. So, begrudgingly, she made her way to the register and bought dinner.

That was when she really realized what they were. He smiled at her the whole time while she ate her fill, head resting on his hands. He took the bite she offered, and refused any more. She knew he was hungry. And yet, he let her eat.

Anything for you, princess.

~~~~

Surprisingly, the guy hadn’t killed her yet. Weird. It had been three days. And he was still being nice to her.

They’d stayed in a motel nearby. Two separate beds. He’d been a perfect gentleman the entire time. He helped her ice her sprains and bruises every day. He made sure she was comfortable.

“Are you sure you really wanna be hanging out with me, Goldilocks?” He asked on the dawn of the fourth day, “There’s nowhere else you’d rather be?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” She responded suspiciously. It’s not like she had anywhere to go, anyway.

“No, no, of course not!” Thorne insisted. “It’s just, weird, I guess. People don’t hang out with me willingly too much.”

“Why?”

He dramatically brushed his hair out of his eyes, “I’m just too good for them I guess.” Then he met her gaze with a serious look. “No, it’s because I’m a criminal.”

“Yeah, I kinda guessed.” Also she’d looked him up as soon as she had some time alone. It wasn’t hard to unseal his juvenile record, where she found he’d been arrested several times for theft. And once for grand larceny at seventeen, which was honestly kind of impressive. That also explained where all the money was coming from.

“Oh.”

Cress awkwardly looked away. “I mean, it’s whatever. I don’t care that much how you make money.”

“I promise I don’t steal from old ladies or hobos or anything like that.” Cress blinked at that. How had he known that was worrying her?

He seemed to also understand that, too. “You’re literally an open book, princess. You’re not good at hiding your emotions.”

That was their last interaction for the day. He left around lunchtime with an empty duffel bag, and Cress decided to look the other way, for now. She made herself comfortable the rest of the time, before finally falling asleep around nine o’clock.

She’d barely been asleep thirty minutes, according to the clock on the bedside table, when Thorne burst inside the room with a gasp.

“What’s going on?” Cress grumbled as he flicked on all the lights.

“Get up, we have to go. The police are right on my tail, I won’t lose them for long.”

Well, that was one hell of a wake up call.

Thorne was tossing his stuff haphazardly into his own backpack, shouting at Cress to do the same. The duffel bag on his shoulder was full, and Cress caught a small glimpse of green on the inside. Money.

Being inside the motel for four days, her things were strewn about. She was taking too long. With only her laptop and about half her clothes packed, Thorne decided it was time, and dragged her out of the motel room.

Cress was barely inside the car before he floored it, screeching out of the parking lot. His blue eyes were wide, but nearly as terrified as she expected.

Of course, she realized later, he’s an adrenaline junkie. He lives for these kinds of moments.

But at that moment, all her focus was on the road as Thorne sped through the streets, heading as fast as the car could go for the highway. In minutes, a police car was on their tail. Thorne pressed the pedal harder.

“How did this even happen?” Cress gasped, trying in vain to take her mind off the sirens behind them.

“Someone called 911 before I was done. I didn’t notice the phone until too late. Stupid mistake on my part.”

“You know,” She suggested, the seatbelt holding her tight against the seat as they screamed around a turn, “You could have just bought a signal blocker beforehand, that way nobody could call at all.”

“A what?”

“A signal blocker. They’re super cheap at like, any electronics store. Hell, I could have done it for you. It’s not that hard; it was one of the first hacker-y things I learned.”

Thorne turned to her with a grin. “You can do that?!”

“Yes. Eyes on the road!”

Many terrifying minutes later, they’d shaken off the police tail and made it to the freeway. Thorne’s smile was huge, and his attitude was becoming infectious.

“That was awesome! We totally knocked them off our trail!”

Cress chuckled awkwardly. “Yep. Except now we’re both wanted criminals.”

Thorne raised an eyebrow. “Both?”

Cress flushed. “Yeah, these windows aren’t tinted. They probably all saw me, and now I’m an accomplice to robbery.”

“Well then, Goldilocks, I think it might be time to show you my post-heist ritual.”

Thorne waved off her questions for another half hour, before he deemed it safe enough to get off the freeway and find a gas station. They parked and headed inside, keeping their heads down and both wearing hoodies. (This was the first of many of Thorne’s hoodies Cress stole).

In the abandoned bathroom, Thorne finally showed her what he was talking about. His hair, naturally a golden brown, was dyed black, and the stubble he’d been growing was shaved off as well.

Then it was her turn.

“Cut or dye?” Thorne asked, holding scissors in one hand and a box dye in the other.

She twisted a strand of her long, golden hair around a finger. Goldilocks. He called her Goldilocks. She liked that.

“Cut.”

“Awesome. I’m a great hairstylist. It’s my true calling.”

“So it’s not actually crime you’re called to?” Cress snickered as he began to snip.

“Well, that too. Crime and styling hair.”

“What a combo.”

When he was done, her hair littered the floor of the bathroom. Cress couldn’t stop staring, or running her hands through it.

“Does this make you my official partner, Goldilocks?” Thorne asked with a smile.

“I think it does.”

It was nice to be a part of something.

~~~~

“I’m bored.” Cress complained, splayed out on her bed.

“Uh huh,” Thorne replied, eyes flicking through a magazine he’d snatched that morning.

“I’m tired of pickpocketing.”

“I know you are, princess,” He turned a page, still not looking at her.

“Let’s go rob somewhere.”

That sure got his attention.

“I’m sorry,” Thorne started, “But did I just hallucinate? You want to rob someplace?”

Cress sat up to look him in the eye. “I mean, I don’t want to do the actual robbing. You do that. But I haven’t been your getaway car in weeks, and I’m bored.”

Thorne gave her a thoughtful look. “It has been a while. And I am tired of not being able to afford things.”

“So let’s do it!”

Her partner in crime glanced around the shitty motel room. “Not here. We need to find a better town.”

“Well, duh.” Cress fished around in Thorne’s bag and procured the road map. “It’s gotta be a bigger town than this hole-in-the-wall kind of place.”

So that was how the rest of their night went. Searching for a town nearby that was big enough to have a variety of places to choose from. A quick jog from the freeway, preferably, and with a low rate of crime to ensure police wouldn’t be super prepared for something like this.

It took another day of pickpocketing before they had enough for food and gas money, but they did it. Set out on the road, a plan in motion. Cress almost couldn’t believe it. She was the one who suggested robbery.

That beaten-down girl from the suburbs far away was long gone now. Instead, the new Cress was in her place. The Cress that was confident in her abilities.

And, of course, the Cress who was also hopelessly in love with her best (and only) friend.

They reached the town quickly enough. They’d driven for longer hours before. However, they’d set out later than they wanted, and as such reached their destination much later than they wanted. It was almost one in the morning when they finally pulled up to a motel just outside their chosen city’s limits.

“You got any rooms?” Thorne asked the night manager through a yawn.

“Yeah, just one though.”

“Whatever, we’ll take it.”

The rest of the transaction was quick and wordless. Cress was slumped against Thorne’s side, nearly asleep on her feet. He grabbed the room key and they trudged to the room, both half-asleep.

He unlocked the door. They stepped inside, just like they had dozens of motel rooms.

This one, however, was markedly different.

Instead of their regular two beds, this one only had one.

Taking in the scene, Cress woke up a bit, stiffening slightly.

“Shit,” Thorne mumbled, “This isn’t right.”

“It’s the last room available,” Cress reminded him.

“Right. Okay, I’ll take the floor. Just toss me one of those pillows and I’ll be good.”

Cress snorted. “I’m not doing that. You just drove all day. I’ll take the floor.”

“What? No way. Take the bed, Cress.”

“No, you.”

“No, you.”

“No, you.”

With a loud groan, Cress finally said, “Fine! We both take the bed! It’s not that big of a deal.”

Thorne’s eyes went a bit wider. Cress could feel her face start to warm. She looked away.

“I- no, that’s-”

“Goddamn it, shut up and sleep in the bed. We’re big kids, you take one half and I’ll take the other.”

And that was that. Neither bothered to change, as tired as they were, instead just slipping their shoes off and climbing into bed.

The first thing Cress noticed about sharing a bed was that it was warm. Really warm. This was fantastic, as she was always cold when she slept.

“Cress, what are you-”

“Shut up,” She sighed, as she curled herself closer to Thorne’s body, “You’re warm.”

“Oh.”

Not only was her whole body warm, but her face was burning. This was a bad idea. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. Thorne was stiff in her arms, and she squirmed closer.

“Relax. I can’t sleep if you’re stiff as a board.”

“Sorry,” He whispered. He became a little less tense, which Cress decided was good enough.

In minutes, they were fast asleep.

~~~~

Cress woke up cold. Which totally sucked, because she’d gone to bed nice and warm. When she cracked open her eyes, she noticed that the bed was markedly empty.

Sitting up, she looked around for Thorne, but caught no sight of him. She sat up further, looking over the edge of the bed.

Oh.

He was sleeping on the floor, snoring very quietly. He took the scratchy blanket the motel provided, along with one of the towels and a pillow, and had made himself a place on the floor.

Cress’s face positively burned. Burying her face in her pillow, she let out a silent scream of embarrassment and frustration.

She’d thought into it too much. Of course he didn’t like her like that, why would he? She was just some random girl he’d picked up off the road, the brains of his criminal operation. He wasn’t secretly in love with her. He never was.

It was early. And she was still tired. But just to make sure she didn’t wake him up, Cress slipped into the bathroom to have the cry she so desperately needed, before tiptoeing back to bed and falling asleep once more.

She woke up many hours later, to the sun shining bright into her face. Thorne was awake, she determined by the shadow moving about the room.

“Hey there, Goldilocks,” Thorne chuckled, “Was that bed just right for you?”

“Yeah, it was fine,” She replied, not meeting his gaze. “What time is it?”

He snorted again. “Noon.”

“Damn.”

He tossed her a bag, which she caught quickly. “Lunch. Or, for you, breakfast.”

She couldn’t help the small laugh at that. “Thanks.”

The day passed slowly after that. Cress showered, thankful for the hot water to rinse off the grime and the feelings of the past few days. She and Thorne watched shitty reality TV that was on at three pm, laughing when he got way too into Say Yes to the Dress. Finally, they couldn’t ignore the rumbling of their stomachs anymore, and decided to go find dinner.

Of course, in order to get dinner, they needed money. Something they were in short supply of. Time to work the crowd again.

They had morals about who they pickpocketed. Or, really, Cress did. If she wasn’t around she was sure Thorne would definitely be an old lady purse-snatcher. But he always made sure to only steal from well-off people ever since Cress joined him.

Her gaze followed a man dresses in nice clothes from where they sat on a bench, Thorne’s arm slung over her shoulder in an effort to look casual. She nudged him, pointing at the target with her eyes.

“Nah, that Rolex is fake. He’s only pretending to be rich. But that guy over there-” He pointed out someone else, and Cress started up the act.

“Sir!” She chirped brightly, stepping directly in his path. The man started, taking in the tiny girl before him.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m trying to find my cousin, have you seen him?”

The man glanced around. “What does he look like?”

Cress stood on her tiptoes, gesturing as she spoke, “About this high, same hair and eyes as me. I just saw him, I don’t know how I got lost!”

From behind the man, Thorne gave her a conspiratorial wink as he plucked the wallet from his back pocket. The look was clear. Keep working him.

“I saw him over there last, do you see him? It’s hard to see with this crowd.” She pointed away, keeping his attention elsewhere as Thorne rifled through the wallet, stuffing bills and coins in his own pockets.

“No, I’m really sorry. Maybe try calling him.” The man gave her a smile, and began to walk away. As he retreated, Cress spotted the bulge in his back pocket, where the empty wallet had been replaced.

“Thanks for your help, mister!”

She turned to Thorne as they made their way to a more secluded corner of the street, “How’d we do?”

“Great, actually! That guy had a lot of cash on him. Let’s go eat.”

As they walked, Cress was suddenly aware of Thorne grabbing her hand, holding her close. She glanced up at him, heart pounding.

He just smiled. “Wouldn’t want to lose you for real.”

~~~~

“Drive!” Thorne shouted, slinging his whole body into the car.

“But-” Cress protested.

“DRIVE!”

“Okay, okay, geez!” Cress pressed the gas, but Thorne sat up behind her.

“Faster! Cops will be here any minute!”

Cress’s heart was in her throat as she sped up. “But I blocked the signal.”

“And you said it yourself, it only holds for as long as the satellite is in position, which it will be out of any time! We’ve gotta go! Faster!”

So Cress went faster. At Thorne’s instruction, she did her best to throw off the tail of anyone who could be following. Screaming around turns, suddenly going back the way she just came, tearing through alleyways and side streets. She ran every red light she could, narrowly avoiding accidents multiple times.

“Maybe you should drive,” She suggested after a few minutes, but Thorne shook his head with a smile.

“Nah, you’re pretty good at this. I knew you had it in you.”

Eventually, they made it out of town, a bag full of stolen cash and goods. Thorne took over driving, but only after Cress stopped the car and demanded it.

“So, you hungry?”

“Huh?”

“Are you hungry?” Thorne repeated. “You did great today. You deserve a treat.” After a glance at a sign on the road, he asked, “Does Sonic sound good?”

“I guess. I’ve never had it.”

His jaw dropped. “You’ve never had it? Jesus Christ, your life is sad.”

Cress wrapped her arms around herself, glancing down. Thorne seemed to realize his mistake. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine,” Cress lied, not meeting his eyes. “Let’s get this Sonic thing or whatever.”

“You’re gonna love it, Goldilocks. Promise.”

He was right. She did love it. And as they sat, eating greasy fast food beneath the stars, the earlier argument was forgiven and soon forgotten.

Cress promised herself that night that her life would never be sad, not ever again.

~~~~

“This is literally the worst idea, idiot,” Cress groaned, standing awkwardly outside a place she really didn’t belong: The local liquor store.

“Relax, it’s fine,” Thorne assured her, hauling along a case of White Claws. “You’re eighteen, that’s old enough to have a little drink, I think.”

“You’re not even old enough to legally buy it!” She protested.

He smirked, waving a little card with his other hand. “Fake ID, blondie.”

They made their way back to their motel, still arguing.

“We’re going to be here for a while during the planning part! We can at least have a little fun! It’s not like I’m going to a bar or anything.”

“Yeah, but if the cashier knew it was a fake ID and called the police, everything could be done for!”

His eyes narrowed. “Wait. So you’re not against the principle of underage drinking itself, but rather the fact we could get caught?”

She looked away. “I mean, it’s whatever.”

When the door was locked, Thorne opened up the case and cracked one open. “I like the lime ones the best. You’ll probably like the lemonade one better. Or maybe the raspberry. They’re sweeter.”

Glancing between the curtains and the blinds shut tight, Cress assured herself that nobody was outside, nobody was watching. With a sigh, she opened up a White Claw of her own. “You’ve thoroughly corrupted me, Carswell Thorne.”

“It’s what I do best, sweetheart.”

That was a new one.

They got a little planning done as they drank, but as the night wore on, and they both indulged themselves in another drink, then another, they started caring less and less about the upcoming heist.

Cress noticed she felt different by White Claw number two, but had another, just because she wanted to try all the flavors. Lemonade so far was the best, raspberry a close second. Mango, despite being a good flavor on its own, was actually disgusting. And Thorne had claimed all the limes for himself.

Everything around her was fuzzy. It felt like she was swimming in her own head. And everything was also really funny, too. At one point Thorne burped loudly, and while normally Cress would have groaned and scolded him, this time she began to giggle hysterically.

Thorne shot her a concerned glance. “Okay there, Goldilocks?”

Cress snickered. “You’re funny.”

“Right. And you are drunk. How many-” She noticed his eyes widen at the two empty cans, and the one in her hand. “Shit, Cress, that’s enough.”

He snatched the can from her, and she flopped onto the floor, still laughing. “Everything’s so spinny, Thorne.”

“Yeah, I’m getting you some water. Stay right there.”

“Sir yes sir,” She slurred, then giggled at her own voice.

Water began to run in the little bathroom. What had Thorne said about water again? Curious, she pulled herself up, then stumbled towards the sound.

He doing something at the sink. Cress slipped behind him, then in a sudden burst of immense confidence, wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his strong back.

“Cress?” His voice came out almost strangled. “What are you doing?”

“You’re warm,” She mumbled. “I like hugging you.”

Thorne sighed. “Not that I don’t like hugging you too, you need some water, maybe some Advil, and then you need to go to bed.”

He tried to pull away, but Cress held on tighter. “Noooo, don’t leave,” She whined.

Thorne managed to maneuver himself so instead of being wrapped around his back, she was facing him, chest to chest. “C’mon, Goldilocks, drink some water.”

She gave him her infamous puppy dog eyes, but he shoved the glass in her face. “Drink up.”

“You’re mean,” She muttered, but did as he said and drained the glass. She looked up again, her blue eyes meeting his own. “You didn’t wanna be my snuggle partner last night, and I got cold.”

Thorne looked away, and if she wasn’t so buzzed, Cress might have noticed the blush.

“Let’s get you to bed, okay? Can you dress yourself?”

She definitely had too much liquid courage. “You could help me, if you wanted.”

Thorne pulled away. “No thanks. You seem capable enough. He stepped out of the bathroom, and passed her a pair of pajamas from the outside. “Drink some more water while you’re at it.”

When she opened the door again, she instantly latched onto him again. “Cress,” He chuckled awkwardly, “I can’t move.”

“Then you can’t leave,” She murmured. For some reason she felt really sad now, almost to the point of tears. “Please don’t leave me.”

“Never, Goldilocks. Let’s get you to bed.”

He tried to move, but Cress held tighter. “You’re gonna have to drag me,” She warned.

“Not a problem.” In one motion, Thorne swept her off her feet, literally. Carrying her bridal style, her arms wrapped over his shoulders, he carried her effortlessly to the bed. The single bed, that they both shared.

She was laid down on the bed gently, but Cress refused to let go. “Don’t leave me,” She whispered, over and over again. With nowhere else to go, Thorne finally gave in and laid down with her, letting the smaller woman curl against him.

“Goodnight, Cress.”

Her eyes were heavy, but she looked at him anyway. “You always kiss my head goodnight.”

His face flushed harder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She unlatched one hand, tapping the top of her own head. “Right here. Almost every night.”

He couldn’t resist the puppy dog eyes again, she knew. With a sigh, he leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss on top of her head. Cress gave a happy sigh, and settled down on the pillow.

Neither of them moved all night.

~~~~

Everything hurt the next morning. Her stomach, her joints, her head.

“What in the fuck happened last night?” She mumbled into the shoulder of the person next to her.

The… person in the bed with her.

Cress shot up violently, instantly regretting it as her head throbbed harder. The person the shoulder belonged to groaned, opening up their eyes. Their familiar eyes.

“I feel like shit,” She sighed, as Thorne sat up next to her.”

He chuckled. “I kinda guessed that you would. You overindulged, princess.”

Things were coming back in bits and pieces, though everything was still fuzzy. “Why’d I have so much?”

“You wanted to try all the flavors.”

Right. “Mango tastes like shit,” She lamented, “I’m never drinking again.”

“Then who’s going to help me finish off the case?” Thorne chuckled.

“I would have helped you with the limes if you didn’t hog them all for yourself.”

“Princess, if I let you have a fourth you would have woken up in the hospital.”

“No, not a fourth, I mean instead of the nasty mango-”

Suddenly, as she leaned closer, Thorne winced, and backed away. “Whoa. Hangover breath. You need a shower.”

Cress’s face flushed. “Yeah. I’ll go do that.”

As she washed off the feeling of last night’s mistakes, more memories came back. But not quite everything. She was still missing a chunk: why she and Thorne had woken up in the same bed, after he’d left her alone the night before.

She got dressed, brushed her teeth, and drank some more water, before stepping out of the bathroom with the towel still wrapped around her dripping hair. Thorne stood up to take his own shower, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Hey, did… anything… happen, last night? I can’t remember everything, and if I said something weird-”

“Nah,” Thorne replied with a shrug, “You just got giggly, then suddenly weepy and clingy. You were really set on me not leaving you alone.”

She ducked her head, blushing. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Thorne assured her. “I mean, you’ve never been drunk before, it’s not your fault you didn’t know how you’d respond.” With that, he stepped away, into the bathroom, which was soon filled with the sound of running water.

Cress sighed, glancing around the motel room. Last night’s activities had left it trashed. So while she waited, she cleaned up.

About twenty minutes later, they were both back in the car, on their way for some coffee. Thorne had even decided to get black coffee for once, in an effort to ward away the hangover.

“So…” He started awkwardly, and Cress’s heart stopped. What was he going to say? Had she really embarrassed herself last night?

“You wanna talk about why you were so obsessed with me not leaving? I mean, I know before all this your life was pretty shitty, so I get it if you don’t want to talk, but-”

“My dad left when I was seven.” She stated simply.

“Oh.”

They got their coffee, and headed back to the motel. Thorne met her eyes again with another awkward smile. “You also seemed pretty upset that I slept on the floor the other night.”

Heat rushed to her face. “It’s not that big of a deal, it doesn’t matter that much.”

“Drunk Cress had other things to say.”

She didn’t answer.

Back inside the room, Thorne spoke up. “You wanna know why I slept on the floor?”

She shrugged. “It’s whatever. It’s fine if it was too much or something. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

His blue eyes got big. “No, no, that’s not what happened. Look, Cress, have you ever slept with anybody before?”

“What?!” Her entire face went red, and Thorne’s did as well, when he realized his words.

“Shit, no, not like that. I mean have you ever shared a bed with somebody before?”

“Oh. No, I haven’t.”

“Listen, Cress.” Thorne leaned in close, and her heartbeat somehow sped up and stopped at the same time. “I liked sleeping in the same bed as you. But…”

Oh no.

“You kick. Like, a lot.”

What?

Cress nearly spat out her coffee. “That’s why you slept on the floor?!”

“Yes!” Thorne laughed. “It was all fine and dandy until you kicked me in the groin at three in the morning!”

Her face fell into her hands. “Oh my God.”

“And I mean, I had to save the boys-”

“Shut up! Stop talking!” Thorne gave a loud cackle, and Cress gave into her own hysterical laughter. “That’s what this was all about?”

Things fell back into place easily after that. In fact, they seemed to fall further into place. They plotted and they schemed, searching out their target and making their plan. They never went in blind, and they weren’t about to start now.

And when they slept, they slept in the same bed. Thorne tucked her into his chest, arms holding her steady, and she never felt cold or alone while she slept. To keep from kicking, Cress twined their legs together.

Neither mentioned the obvious shift in their relationship. But they both knew it was growing deeper by the day. They woke up in each others’ arms. Thorne came up behind her randomly during the day to wrap himself around her waist and rest his head on her shoulder. He kissed her head before they slept each night. Cress was never asleep.

The day came, the day they’d been planning for weeks. They were ready. Whatever happened today, they knew that no matter what, they’d always have each other at the end of the day.

~~~~

“Cress, you read me?”

Sitting in the car, ready and waiting for his voice, Cress replied, “I read you. How’d it go?”

“Without a hitch! Incoming in about three minutes.”

“I got you, captain.”

“Ooh,” Thorne chuckled over the speaker, “I like that.”

Cress rolled her eyes. “Focus on running, doofus. I’ll be there.”

“Mwah!” The line went dead, and Cress tossed the burner phone like she always did. She arrived at the rendezvous in two minutes, eight seconds, leaving the doors unlocked for their quick exit.

Thirty-four seconds later, and the familiar sight of Thorne running for his life arrived. With a wild grin, he threw himself and the bag inside, and Cress sped away. At this point, she was an expert at losing the police.

“How much?”

“Close to five thousand!” He beamed. “It’s gonna last us a long time!”

“You’re fantastic,” She grinned back.

“Nah, sweetheart, it’s all you. I’d totally be in jail by now if I hadn’t met you.”

“I mean,” Cress giggled as she sped out to the freeway, “Prison’s always still on the table.”

“Then don’t get us caught, blondie.”

“You wanna stop at a gas station and change your look?”

Thorne glanced in the mirror, seeing they weren’t being followed. “No, I think the ski mask was enough. Plus, I wore the lifts in my shoes just like you said, so they can’t see my real height.”

“Cool. So, where to now?”

Thorne leaned back in his seat. “Wherever your heart desires, milady.”

Cress smiled softly, finding his hand over the center console. “Okay. Let’s go.”

~~~~

They switched cars that night, then kept driving. The adrenaline was keeping Cress going, even as Thorne finally dozed off. She’d forgotten how good that rush felt. Thorne had fully turned her into an adrenaline junkie, the same as him.

During the planning phase, they plotted their escape route thoroughly. There were multiple directions to exit, and they scoped each one out to see what worked the best. In the process, she’d looked extensively at the road map. And for whatever reason, the tiny, blip-on-the-map town called Farafrah was calling to her.

So that was where she went. It wasn’t too far away, but far enough that they’d be safe from the police of the other city. They could lay low for a bit before continuing on. There were so many other places to go. Cress wanted to see it all.

This time, it was Cress who drove through and got dinner. Cress who rented the motel room for the night. And it was Cress who urged Thorne out of the car and inside. Where the single bed was waiting.

They had their routine down pat. They rinsed off, even though it was eleven o’clock, changed into pajamas, and settled down for the night. Cress curled into Thorne’s side, her safe place.

“Goodnight.” Tonight, his kiss was on her forehead. And tonight, it lingered. Cress was smiling as she fell asleep.

Many hours later, she was woken up by another gentle kiss to her head. “C’mon princess, you’ve had enough beauty sleep.”

She rolled over, a contented smile on her face, even if she had to squint at the light coming in through the curtains. “Morning,” she whispered, voice raspy from sleep.

“I’ve found a nice brunch spot. I think you deserve something nice after everything yesterday.”

Cress sat up, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes. “You spoil me.”

“You know it, Goldilocks. I bet this place is gonna be just right.”

That earned him a pillow to the face, Cress rolling her eyes. “You doofus.”

“OH! I’ve been mortally wounded by my dear lady!” Thorne groaned from the floor. Cress peered over at him, only to have the pillow chucked back at her head.

“You don’t know what you’ve just started,” She warned with a smile. Within seconds they were in a full on pillow fight, flinging pillows bath and forth as they screamed with laughter.

After a few minutes Thorne managed to get the upper hand, smacking her right across the face with a pillow. Cress was knocked down on the bed, and he pinned her down with a laugh. A moment later his fingers found purchase under her arms, and he tickled her until she squealed.

“Stop! Stop! I forfeit!” Cress giggled, squirming away. Thorne was panting with laughter, still sitting on top of her.

“Learned your lesson, princess?”

She smacked his face with another pillow and escaped to the bathroom with her clothes.

Finally, nearly half an hour after she woke up- a new low for the duo who could get up and out in three minutes- they made their way to a little brunch spot in the middle of the littler town.

Their waitress was a woman about their age with a prosthetic hand named Cinder. She had a lot of personality, and had enough sarcasm to rival each of Thorne’s witty remarks.

About halfway through the meal (which was delicious), a little idea began to form in Cress’s mind. When Cinder came back to refill their drinks, Cress decided to ask her a question.

“How’d you end up here?”

The waitress shrugged. “Car broke down. Stayed to get it fixed, ended up making some friends and decided to stay. I could ask the same of you two.”

Thorne and Cress glanced at each other, before Cress replied simply, “Travelling through.”

Later, when she came back to deliver the check, Cress asked another question: “If you could do anything with your life, what would it be?”

Both Thorne and the waitress gave her a quizzical look. Thankfully, neither asked for elaboration. Instead, Cinder donned a slightly puzzled look as she thought.

Finally, she responded, “I want to open up a mechanical repair shop. For all kinds of machines.” Her dark eyes lit up as she began to ramble a little bit, about all the kinds of things she could do, what she could learn. But after a minute, her voice took on a slightly somber tone. “But, that’s not gonna happen. I’m always worrying about rent nowadays, I don’t have enough to save for anything.”

“How much is your rent?” Cress continued. The waitress stiffened.

“Why do you want to know?” She asked suspiciously.

Cress squeaked, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything, but…” She scrambled for a quick lie.

Thankfully, Thorne picked it up for her. “We’re thinking of moving here. We just wanted to know how much rent was.”

Cinder relaxed. “Oh. Well, it’s about $600 a month.”

Cress smiled, taking the check from their waitress. “Thanks, Cinder. It was great. We’ll fill this out in a minute.”

Clearly dismissed, the woman offered them a smile before departing. When they were alone again, Thorne turned a questioning gaze over to her. “What was that all about?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. I just… wanted to know. She seemed nice.”

“I agree. I’ll give her a good tip.”

Cress’s smile got big. “Wait, let me run back to the car real quick. I want to give her a big tip.”

She came back just two minutes later, her pockets stuffed. Thorne’s eyes got big. “How big a tip do you mean?!”

Cress methodically smoothed the $50 bills out, keeping them out of sight below the table. She tied the stack with a hairtie she kept on her wrist, and stuck it inside the little checkbook left on the table. Just to make sure they were really clear, she scribbled out on the receipt, “The money is for the meal. The rest is for you. Good luck.”

Primly, Cress stood up, brushing her leggings off. She offered her hand to the man sitting next to her, whose jaw was pretty much on the floor. Almost in a daze, he took it, and she led him out to the car.

Finally, back in the motel, Thorne rounded on her. “What the hell, Cress?! How much money did you give her? A thousand? Two?”

“Two thousand.”

“What the fuck! Why?!”

“Because,” Cress took his hand, looking deep into his blue eyes, “She needed it. More than we do, really. Thorne, whenever we run low on money we pickpocket and we steal and we rob. That girl, she’s too good for any of that. And if something like that didn’t happen, she was going to spend the rest of her life stuck in that restaurant, in this town in the middle of nowhere where she’d never grow.”

Thorne sighed heavily, rubbing the back of her hand with her thumb. “I wish you’d at least told me before you did it.”

“Why?”

That gave him pause. “I guess… we’ve been so in sync for months now. I feel like I know you, Cress, more than I’ve ever known anyone. And yet, I had no idea you were nice enough to just give away two thousand dollars to a stranger.”

She smiled up at him. “You’re that nice too, Thorne.”

“What? No, I’m not.”

Cress gave his hand a little squeeze. “If you weren’t that nice, you’d have taken the money back. You like to pretend you’re this big bad hardened criminal, but you’re still good, deep down. You show me that every day.”

At that, he pulled her in for a hug. “It’s because of you, Cress. Blondie. Goldilocks. Princess. Every day, you remind me that there’s still good in the world. Even if it’s not us doing the good. But you… you make me want to be good.”

Cress might have been crying. Thorne was definitely crying, his tears falling into her golden hair. “You saved me. Carswell Thorne, you saved my life that night. I always dreamed when I was little that someday I’d be saved. You’re my knight in shining armor.”

Thorne pulled away, still holding her, still sniffling. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Cress. I hope you know that.”

“I hope you know you’re the same to me.”

~~~~

They decided to stick around in Farafrah for a few more days. They had a bit more money to burn on fun before they got moving again and needed to get back in the swing of their criminal ways. The pair spent the day exploring the little down, taking in the sights. And at night, they cuddled in bed, watching whatever happened to be on TV until they got so tired their eyes were falling closed.

It was the morning of their second day when the objective suddenly changed.

Thorne came into the room, bringing coffee and croissants with him. As well, he’d managed to procure a local newspaper, which he handed to Cress alongside her breakfast.

The pair sat in comfortable silence for about twenty minutes, simply basking in the other’s presence as they ate. When she finished with her croissant, Cress opened up the paper.

And stopped dead in her tracks.

“Cress?” Thorne glanced over when he heard the soft gasp. “What’s wrong?”

Wordlessly, she passed him the paper, pointing out an article. It wasn’t hard to miss, in big, bold letter along the top: LOCAL ANIMAL SHELTER UNDER INVESTIGATION DUE TO CLAIMS OF ABUSE AND NEGLIGENCE.

“Shit,” Thorne muttered, “That’s awful.”

“Those poor animals,” Cress lamented with a sad sigh. “I wish we could do something about it.”

For Thorne, he thought that was the end of it. He headed out to go explore some more, but Cress opted to stay behind. He didn’t think too much of it; she was a fairly antisocial personality and had done a whole lot of talking to strangers the past few days. She probably just needed a day to herself to recharge.

What he didn’t expect, however, was to come back several hours later to find empty coffee cups and a couple RedBull cans strewn about, and Cress hunched over her laptop looking nearly frantic.

“Whoa, what’s all this?” She glanced up, and Thorne took a step back. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot.

“Thorne. I’ve got it! I know how we can do something! We can save all those animals! Come here!”

Cautiously, he took a few steps closer. Cress grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him over. She was surprising strong for someone so petite.

And what he saw pulled up on her screen…

HOW TO MAKE A HOMEMADE BOMB

“Whoa! Cress, slow down!”

“But I figured it out! Sit down, I’ll go over it with you!”

He yanked his arm away. “Cress. Look at me. Listen to me. We cannot blow people up because they might be abusing some shelter animals.”

Her blue eyes hardened. “Well, that isn’t the plan. We’re not blowing up people. Even if they deserve it.”

“When did you get so violent all of a sudden?” He took another glance around the room. “I’m never letting you have a RedBull ever again.”

“But-”

“No. No bombs. The police will take care of whatever’s going on with the shelter.”

Cress gestured around the room, almost violently. “How can we trust that?! The police haven’t caught us yet.”

Thorne sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. What the hell. Tell me your plan.”

She almost squealed with delight, but he cut in- “That doesn’t mean we’ll do it though. And if you go solo and get caught, I’m not bailing you out for your own mistakes. We don’t bomb. We rob.”

“Okayokayokay, listen up. Here’s how it goes…”

~~~~

It was exactly two months since they’d met, and the new duo had just completed their third heist. They’d robbed a fast food joint after it closed. Cress was really good at finessing the alarms so they didn’t sound as they emptied the registers.

Now, they were still driving. It was late, and Thorne was beginning to doze off. He needed to find a rest stop soon, or risk running them right off the road.

As for Cress, she was quickly headed in the same direction. Her head would tilt forward as she fell asleep, just for a few seconds, then rapidly jerk back, and she’d go back to fighting sleep.

“You can sleep, you know, blondie,” Thorne offered. “I’m looking for a rest stop so we can sleep for a bit.”

“But you’re driving,” She protested through a yawn, “I don’t want you to be alone.”

He cracked a smile at that. “I’m not alone. I’ve got you now.”

“No, but-” Another yawn- “You won’t have anyone to talk to. I’ve gotta keep you awake so you don’t kill us both.”

“I’m not gonna kill us both.”

Her eyes flicked up, out the windshield. “You’re drifting.”

“Shit.” She was right. He rubbed at his eyes, wishing they’d stopped at that gas station a few miles back to grab an energy drink. The rest stop was about two miles ahead, but Thorne was really beginning to struggle.

“Can’t fall asleep…” Cress mumbled, just as her head tilted forward again. Thorne snorted when, once again, she jerked up with a groan of frustration.

“Just sleep, Cress,” Thorne urged gently. “We’re almost there, I promise.”

She gave a cursory glance out the car, seeming to check and make sure he was still driving correctly. Finally, after another long minute, her head titled. She was falling asleep again.

This time, however, she dozed off with her head against his shoulder.

Maybe it was the time of night. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. But for whatever reason, having Cress against his shoulder, safe and sleeping, felt right. More right than anything else had in his nineteen years of life.

They made it to the rest stop ten minutes later. Thorne pulled off to the side and put the car in park before turning it off. Cress snoozed on.

Finally, he could relax. Thorne leaned back with a contented sigh, smiling a bit to himself as Cress nestled further against him.

He wrapped an arm over her shoulder, keeping her close by. And, for whatever reason, that felt right too.

Maybe it was the same reason that caused him to plant a tiny, barely-there kiss to the top of her golden head.

Yeah. It was just the sleep deprivation, for sure.

~~~~

They were doing this. They were actually doing this. Thorne was going crazy. Why had he agreed to this again, exactly? He shot a glance at the blonde woman at his side.

Right. Her. Since when had his judgement been so addled around her?

Always, idiot, his brain reminded him.

Shut up, brain.

They were inside the largely-contested Farafrah Animal Shelter. The same one that was under investigation for abuse and negligence.

Holding his hand, Cress smiled brightly at the man leading them among the cages. Her other hand gripped the straps of her purse. To everyone else, the smile was genuine, but to Thorne, who knew her best, it was as fake as could possibly be.

“And these are all of our felines we have at the moment. Do any of them possibly interest you?”

Cress shot Thorne a smile, this one a bit more real. “Let’s look around, darling, shall we?”

“Of course, my dear.” He gave her his best impression of an adoring look. Little did he know it was about as real as it could get.

“I’ll give you two a moment. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

Cress squeezed his hand harder and dragged him to the farthest cage in the room. As they passed cage after cage, they saw the same things they had with the dogs: matted fur, frightened animals, some so scrawny their ribs were evident even from a distance. Neglect. It was bad. They reached the end of the room, and Cress took a glance inside the cage they stood next to.

Instantly, her face lit up as she took in the cat. It was a black and white thing, scrawny really, the nametag reading “Boots”.

“He’s so cute!”

“No.”

“But-”

“That’s not why we came,” Thorne sighed, making sure the man was really gone.

Cress sighed. “But he’s so cute. And wouldn’t it be nice to have a little companion?”

“A cat? As a roadtrip companion?”

“A cat is better to your criminal look, you know. So you can turn around in a chair dramatically while stroking his fur and say ‘I’ve been expecting you’.”

Thorne rolled his eyes. “Life’s not a TV drama, princess.”

“Life is its own drama! Make it your own!”

“How would we even take care of a cat on the road?”

Cress dragged him closer to the cage. “Just look at him. Look at his sad little face. He’d be the perfect roadtrip cat. I just know it.”

Thorne opened his mouth to protest again, but then the black and white furball gave a plaintive mewl and all the thoughts left his brain.

“Okay… he’s kind of cute… I guess.”

Cress nearly squealed with delight. “He is! Besides, think about it; we need a plan to get into the office. It’s the perfect ruse!”

Boots the cat meowed again. “You wanna go commit crimes with us, buddy?” Thorne asked.

“Meow!”

“He says yes,” Cress whispered conspiratorially in his ear. “Let’s get him.”

As they walked to the office, Thorne hung his head in defeat. “I can’t believe I just let you talk me into getting a crime cat.”

The blonde had a bounce in her step, swinging their joined hands delightedly. “You’re fully at my disposal.” Oh, she didn’t know how right she was.

It took a few minutes to reach the office from the kennels, but they both knew that. Cress had hacked the blueprints for the building several days ago, and they’d both memorized them from top to bottom. The offices were the furthest away from the kennels, likely to keep the noise down.

Finally, they reached their destination. Cress knocked politely on the door, bringing out her most innocent look. The one that always served the perfect distraction while Thorne expertly stole their wallet.

The man answered the door after one knock. “Have you made a decision?”

Cress and Thorne locked eyes, then turned back an nodded in unison. “We have.”

The paperwork was extensive, and Thorne was sure he had to sign his name at least a hundred times. He made sure to read carefully, though; Cress had warned him about possible legal traps. By law, animals shelters were required to vaccinate all their animals before adoption, and strongly push the idea of neutering. But in the paperwork, vaccines were of no mention. The entire time, the man simply sat silently with a small serpentine smile.

Finally, after the paperwork was signed and handed back, the man stood, offering Thorne a hand to shake, which he took reluctantly. “I’ll go pick up your new lovebug, okay?”

“May I come with you? Please?” Cress employed the puppy dog eyes. They were about eighty percent effective on Thorne, and that was after he spent months working to resist them. The man stood no chance.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

“I can’t wait! Darling, hold my purse; I want to hold the precious kitty.”

The man herded Cress out of the room, leaving Thorne to sit quietly by himself.

Or so he thought.

When he was sure they were gone, the young man sprung into action. Inside Cress’s purse was a small package, hardly bigger than his hand. A homemade bomb she’d spent days researching. It was activated by a remote control, so it could be jostled as much as he desired and still wouldn’t explode.

It was important it was planted in the office. They would detonate it after hours, so no people would be injured, and it was far enough away to keep the animals unharmed. Their only goal was to make the place unusable, which would then force the animals to be relocated to other shelters where they’d hopefully receive better care.

Thorne moved quickly and efficiently, like he always did with his missions. There was a reason he was such a successful robber; he didn’t get distracted, and he always got the job done. After a minute of rifling around the room, he settle on hiding the bomb in a bookshelf on the far wall. This office’s wall was also an outside wall, so it was nowhere near another living soul. Perfect.

Five minutes later, the pair returned, Cress carrying a new cat carrier. “Here he is, darling! The newest member of the family!”

The goodbyes were quick after that. They made it to the petshop part, where they bought some food and the most important part: a cat leash. They walked out with their new charge, both of them pretending to ignore the front desk lady’s comment of “such of cute couple!”.

“Phase one, complete!” Cress said with a smile, still holding his hand. In the cage, the cat, Boots, seemed to give them almost a grateful look. Almost like he was saying thanks for getting me out of there.

Thorne gave a glance behind him, to the retreating animal shelter. “Phase two in t-minus eleven hours.”

Cress leaned against him as she walked. “Aye aye, captain.”

~~~~

Phase two of their master plan commenced, as said, eleven hours later. The duo spent the next several hours getting acquainted with their new cat, whom they hadn’t even intended on buying. As it turned out, Boots was a fantastic cat. Affectionate and sweet, he warmed up to both of them instantly. And he didn’t seem to mind the car either, one of the most important factors.

Later in the evening, they packed up. Their motel room was paid for another whole day, but that was just a countermeasure. They already had a secondary vehicle in waiting, and would abandon their current one in the motel parking lot. As always, they had everything planned down to the last detail.

Now for the big finale, and the most difficult part, too. Sneak close enough to detonate the bomb, then get away fast enough to not get injured in the blast and not caught up in the investigation.

The sneaking part was easy enough. They’d done that plenty of times. Sure, Thorne had to boost her over a few fences, and they had to do some real super-spy action in a tree to get over a sleeping dog’s head, but they made it without a hitch.

The concrete walls of the animals shelter loomed before them. They tracked around it once, scanning for anyone who could get in their way, and came up empty. Time for the moment of truth.

Cress and Thorne met up at the point, the spot Cress had calculated earlier to give them the best chance of success based on the bomb’s location.

She took a deep breath. Now or never.

Silently, Thorne’s hand laced with her own. Cress held the detonator out in front of her.

And she pressed it.

~~~~

Smoke. Smoke and fire. Smoke and fire and haze and blood and pain-

“Thorne-” Cress gasped, throat rasping, “Something went wrong!”

There was no answer.

Cress suddenly became aware that she was alone. She was lying in the dirt, still gripping the detonator. And Thorne wasn’t with her.

A massive section of the wall was complete dust. Fire and smoke billowed out, clearly originating from the point where the bomb must have been. A few stray papers fluttered about, before they were quickly seized by the flames.

“Thorne?” Her voice was quiet.

“Thorne!” Louder.

“THORNE!” Cress shoved herself up, testing each limb. Everything was in working order. Despite that, she knew something was wrong, so wrong.

The explosion shouldn’t have been that big. She calculated it over and over again, even explained the math to Thorne so he could do it himself. They both got the same answer.

This was not their answer. The fire was spreading quickly. Alarms went off inside, but the spray of water was doing little to quell it.

Nearly robotically, Cress pulled her burner phone from her pocket. She and Thorne had gotten them in case of emergency. They hadn’t expected to use it.

“911 what is your emergency?”

“There was an explosion at the animal shelter. There’s a huge fire. Hurry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Don’t let anyone get hurt. Please.”

She hung up before the operator could speak again. With all her might, she hurled the phone into the fire. By the time they found it, it would just be an unusable hunk of metal.

And then she ran.

All the scheming, all the plotting, all the plans went out the window. It was the dead of night, and Cress ran. She didn’t dare yell for Thorne; she had that much sense left. But with every step she felt it.

Something had gone horribly wrong, somehow. She must have forgotten something in her calculations. Maybe her information was wrong.

If both of them got out unscathed and unarrested, it would be a miracle, she knew it.

So lost in her own thoughts, she nearly ran face-first into someone who had stepped out onto the sidewalk. With a scream, Cress came to a screeching stop, standing and panting as she assessed the situation before her.

The woman was young, with dark hair and eyes and tan skin. And her hand… it was strange. A flash of recognition appeared in her eyes.

“Cinder…” Cress breathed. The other woman startled.

“Oh my God. It’s you.”

“I- it’s not what it looks like-” She followed Cinder’s gaze. Right to the detonator still in her hand.

“I swear, nobody was supposed to get hurt. I already called the fire department, if they get there in time they’ll save the animals-”

“Cress,” Cinder whispered, “Stop talking. Just go. If I see police I’ll cover for you. I promise.”

She stood still. Flabbergasted. “W-why would you do that?”

Cinder shrugged. “Because I know you’re a good person. Maybe you’ve got a convoluted way of showing it, but you’re good. Besides,” she cracked a tiny smile, “It’s thanks to you I might have a shot at my dreams.”

Then her voice took on a note of sudden seriousness. “Get out of here. The Farafrah police are no joke. Take the back alleys.”

Cress nodded numbly. “I will, I just have to find Thorne first.”

Cinder stepped closer, pulling her into a sudden hug. “Thank you. Both you and your dummy boyfriend.”

Cress found herself blushing, despite the situation. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

The other woman smirked. “He should be. He’s madly in love with you. He’d move the heavens and earth for you. Maybe consider telling him how you feel. Of course, after you’ve gotten out of here.”

“Right.” Cress chuckled. “Bye, Cinder. It was lovely meeting you.”

With that final goodbye, Cress began to sprint. Just as Cinder suggested, she took the back alleys. Thorne would be okay. He had to be. He’s okay. He has to be.

By the time she made it to the abandoned parking lot, the rendezvous point, police sirens had joined the firetrucks. The stolen red car… it was on! Idling in one place, waiting for her.

“Cress!” Thorne shouted, flinging the door open and throwing himself at her. He pulled her into his strong arms, pressing his face against her soot-stained hair. “God, I was so worried. I couldn’t see you in the dark so I headed back here. I was just about to go searching.”

Cress didn’t want to let go of him. Not now, not ever. But… “We’ve gotta go.”

“I know,” Thorne breathed, “But I was just so worried. It made me think… what if I lost you?”

She pulled back, just slightly, just enough to see his face in the dark. “What do you mean.”

“I mean, I started to think about you, Cress. How much I’d miss you. And how much I’d regret it if I lost you, and I hadn’t even done this…”

His voice trailed off, and Cress was about to ask what on earth he meant, when suddenly his lips were on hers.

Carswell Thorne is kissing me. Kissing. Me.

Her brain might have short-circuited, just a bit. But after a moment of frozen hesitation, she was kissing him back with just as much fervor, taking his face in her hands to pull them impossibly closer.

Thorne’s head tilted, and their lips fit together like they were always meant that way. His hands stroked at her golden hair, the hair he loved to much. What the hell; the girl he loved so much.

He might have told her as much when they finally came up for air, and she might have said it back. But all words were forgotten moments later, when they both spotted the flashing lights in their peripherals.

A police car, heading to the scene. If they were seen…

“Hey,” Cress whispered, beaming so wide her face hurt as she tugged on Thorne’s sleeve, “How about you be my getaway car for a change?”

“Yeah?”

She stood on her tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. Risky, in their situation. “Yeah.”

Thorne brought her hand, so small and delicate, to his lips. “For you, Cress, you know I’d do anything. Crime for the sake of crime. Crime for the sake of justice. Whatever it is, wherever life takes us, just know that you’ll always have me. I promise I’ll never let you feel alone, ever again.”

He stroked a stray tear from her face. “C’mon, Goldilocks. It’s time to make our grand exit.”

She made herself comfortable in the passenger seat, glancing where she knew the gun lay, tucked inside the glovebox, just for show, never loaded. The gun that saved her life.

Thorne tore out of the parking lot, speeding down the streets of the tiny town at three am, just begging to be chased as they passed the animal shelter. The fire was nearly out, animals being evacuated by the second.

She caught his gaze with her own. Blue on blue. “Police chase, huh?”

He smiled, gripping her hand in his own. “You know I like to show off.”

Sirens blared behind them. Cress’s grin grew. “Then let’s give them a show.”

Thorne leaned down and kissed her over the center console. “I thought you’d never ask.”

~~~~

a/n: Oh my gosh. I cannot believe I just wrote that. All that. I haven't written in a month and this felt fantastic!!! I hope y'all enjoyed! Reblogs and comments are so appreciated! <3

[archonanqi]

fragile as dust | 5 - culmination

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🔖 a/n - aaah some stuff finally starts going down in this chapter, thanks y'all for staying patient through the last four chapters. please let me know if you’d like to be tagged for updates! enjoy!

—

  “Admittedly,” Zhongli sighed, “I may have gone a little overboard with the food.”

   You both peered at the carnage leftover from your feast, the table strewn with at least half of the meal left.

   “Are you full?” Zhongli inquired. He wasn’t smiling, but there was unmistakeable amusement in his voice. You nodded — a few minutes ago, you’d felt like you could have eaten everything on the table, but the physical limits of your stomach betrayed you. “Very well. Let’s clean up, then I will show you around the house. How does that sound?”

   It still took you by surprise, each time he asked you for your opinion. “It sounds good, Mr. Zhongli.”

—

   The first time you touched him was as he handed you one of the plates, as you thumbed over the intricate blue-white markings and felt your fingers brush.  You didn’t know it then, but it would not be the last.

   He was wearing his gloves, and so it was really leather that you’d touched, but it was electrifying all the same. You winced, searching his features for any displeasure. It was not your place to so much as gaze upon a noble of  half his status without permission, let alone touch — you’d been taught that lesson, quickly and very early on.

   “Please take this to the kitchen,” he requested, as though nothing had happened. You obeyed with slow, deliberate steps, squashing even any thoughts of dropping the fine china. Gingerly — how in Celestia was even the inside of his fridge elegant? — you set it down, closed the door and almost jumped out of your skin. He was standing right behind you, arms crossed as he studied you, features unreadable.

   “Tell me a little about yourself, Hansi.”

   Small talk? Or a test? Surely, certainly, he wasn’t genuinely curious? You felt naked under his probing gaze, still clad in that plain white dress. Had it really only been a day since you’d met Zhongli? Every second with him seemed to stretch over the length of a millennia. Instinctively, your hands wandered to your chest, feeling for your Vision. Wasn’t there. Wouldn’t help you even if it was.

   I grew up in a shithole with a dozen other people. I stole, robbed, dredged myself through life, you imagined yourself saying to him, just to get sold to a nobleman who thinks I’m too stupid to understand his intentions. 

   By the way, three nights ago, Rex Lapis smoked up something real good and gave me a Geo Vision I don’t know how to use.

   “There is nothing to know about me,” you said, instead, “save that I am bound to you in loyal servitude, and that I will do as you please, Mr. Zhongli.“

   “Hm.” Zhongli hummed, a low echo. His golden gaze rend you through Then, rather abruptly, he said, “Let’s begin the house tour, shall we?”

   Somehow, his curtness stung. Had you said something wrong? What you’d said — that was the textbook response you were meant to give, no? Regardless, you nodded your obedience, swallowing the fear you felt, as always, at his displeasure.

—

   You almost expected there to be a dungeon of some sort hidden behind one of the doors, some skulls, maybe a poor chained up Hilichurl or two.

   What you didn’t expect was so many rocks. 

   And paintings. And scrolls, and trinkets, and jewelry, arranged carefully upon display stands in each room. You remembered how cluttered the drawers were that you hid your Vision in. In the daylight, now that your mind wasn’t clouded with as much fear and fatigue, you were realizing just how much stuff Zhongli owned.

    (Vaguely, it brought to mind images of dragons — the billowing, fire-breathing, treasure-hoarding creatures you’d read about in one of the many storybooks you’d stolen. You shook that image out of your head. Zhongli was plenty intimidating, even without a set of horns and fangs.)

   “—and this is the bathroom,” Zhongli said, pushing open the door. The bathroom, on its own, was bigger than the shack you’d shared with four other families growing up. In the middle of the room, the dark marble floor gave way to a large, circular bathtub — it looked a little like a pool. “You are free to use it, and anything in it, whenever you’d like.”

   The idea of a hot bath was heaven, but you were a hundred percent certain that your current state — dirt-caked fingernails and unkempt hair and all — was all that was keeping you safe. If you got nice and clean, who was to say what he would decide to do to you?

   No, you would avoid taking a bath as long as you could.

   Zhongli closed the door, and hesitated. “Hmm. There is less than I thought to show you,” he admitted. “These other rooms are simply full of items I’ve collected over the years, and I’m sure they would bore you.“

   “It would be my pleasure to hear more about them,” you said, quickly. You wanted to keep him talking; as long as he was talking, he was doing nothing else. Besides, you found yourself growing more and more intrigued about Zhongli — only so that you could read him better, you promised yourself.

   “Well, then far be it from me to deny you your pleasure,” he said. “What would you like to know more about?”

   You glanced around, gaze landing on a small, glass standing display case. Two gemstones sat side by side in it, both a rich, translucent gold — like his eyes, you thought. “What are those?”

   “Cor Lapis,” he said, and you heard a hint of something in his voice. Pride? “They were a gift, from someone close to me.”

   “Are they worth a lot? They’re so pretty.” You bit your lip. They were probably worth more than the average Liyue merchant would ever earn. Pretty? Really?

   “In terms of Mora, yes, they are worth no small amount,” Zhongli replied. “However, their value far surpasses material currency, for these are prime Cor Lapis samples from Mount Hulao.”

   “Hulao... in Jueyun Karst?” You’d heard the rumors that floated between drunk fishermen and merchants, of the dangers of the mountain, of those who entered and came back changed. You had never put much stock in them — drunk men would say just about anything.

   “Yes. And as I’m sure you know, Jueyun Karst is a dangerous place to venture into, without the proper precautions.”

   “Dangerous… even for you?” You glanced at the Vision hanging off his waist. You couldn’t imagine a situation where Zhongli would ever be forced to break that collected facade of his.

   “For any human.”

   You found yourself enjoying the light conversation — you couldn’t remember the last time you’d spoken to another person like this. “Who gave you these?” You tried to smile, and it came easier than you expected. “They must have been really nice, to give away something so expensive.”

   Immediately, you regret opening your mouth. Zhongli’s eyes darkened, and his face fell visibly.

   “Yes. She… was certainly very kind,” he said, quietly. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but didn't. Couldn’t.

   Was? You wanted to kick yourself. Of course you’d manage to bring up his dead friend in your first real conversation with him. The next seconds of silence were almost unbearable. Finally, you spoke up with the first thing that popped into your head. “So, you like rocks?”

   By the Archon, weren’t you on a roll today.

   You were pleasantly baffled to hear him chuckle, a deep, throaty rumble from the depths of his chest. “Yes, one could say that I am fond of them.” He said, amidst soft laughter. “And you?”

   “I don’t know much about them,” you admitted, “but the ones you have are beautiful, Mr. Zhongli.” So was his laugh.

   “Is that so?” He asked, the previous conversation seemingly forgotten, as he strode over to a case across the room, “perhaps you will find these to your fancy as well — these pieces of Noctilucuous Jade were mined from the deepest mines of the Mingyun...“

—

   By the time Zhongli had finished regaling you about his rock collection, the sky outside had become a smear of pink and orange, the sun drifting barely over the horizon. You hadn’t even noticed the time — Zhongli simply had the kind of voice that demanded wholehearted attention.

   “I seem to have gotten carried away again,” Zhongli smiled. Was it just you, or were his smiles coming more frequently? “Thank you for being such a good listener, Hansi.”

   You nodded in response, not quite sure what to say to that. The praise had a strange, warm feeling spreading through your chest.

   “All that’s left of the house is the library upstairs,” he paused, the tacit question clear on his lips.

   You froze. Ever since you started stealing to survive, you’d made a point to sell everything that couldn’t be eaten. Jewelry, hairpins, no matter how pretty, no matter how much your heart ached to put them on, went straight to the pawn store. But you could never sell books. You couldn’t bear to give up the worlds within them, the promises that one day you would be able to live as freely as the heroes of those stories.

   So you stole. First from Wanwen bookstore, then when the owner learned to watch for your grubby hands, from bags and pockets and homes. You devoured them like hot meals, kept them under the floorboards of your corner, read them out loud to the kids who lived with you, read them till the dirt from your fingers had smeared the words to unrecognition.

   You wanted to see Zhongli’s library, so badly that it hurt.

   But to tell him this would be to admit to him that you’d stolen those books, that you taught yourself a skill that someone of your social class didn’t deserve to learn. Something you weren’t worthy of.

   “I can’t read anyway,” you lied.

   “I see,” Zhongli said. “Then, shall we go and get some dinner? Are you feeling well enough to make a trip to Liyue Harbor? I know the most splendid restaurant.”

—

   You thought that things were going relatively well, that you were doing a fine job of squashing the unease and distrust of Zhongli that still gnawed at the corners of your mind. You were giddily excited, even, to be going to a restaurant for the first time.

   So, as you two arrived at the outskirts of Liyue, close enough to hear the bustle of nightlife, you certainly weren’t expecting the sudden wave of emotions that knocked you clean off your feet.

   It had started small — the unrelenting reminder of how out of place you would look at the restaurant. How out of place you would look in public, next to Zhongli in all his regality. Then: how out of place you truly were — how absurd of you to have started warming up to Zhongli when you knew, with every fiber of your being, what all men like him wanted; when you knew that one day he would grow impatient of waiting for you to offer it.

   If you took his dinner, his food, his kindness, what would you begin to owe him?

    Suddenly, you couldn’t breathe. The bile that rose through your throat was hot and bitter, and you doubled over and retched noisily into the nearest bush. Vaguely, you could hear Zhongli’s exclamation and his footsteps approaching, but you couldn’t stop until your stomach was empty once again.

   You flinched violently at his light touch on your shoulder. “Hansi,” he said, and you were baffled at how genuine his concern sounded, “what happened? What’s wrong?”

   “I don’t know,” you whispered, and it was true. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

   “Please don’t apologize. Can you stand?” Zhongli asked, voice low and soothing. “Let’s get you home.”

   You nodded. “I’m sorry I ruined dinner.”

   “Nonsense, your health is infinitely more important.” He said. “Do you think that you can walk?”

   Once again, you nodded. You let him lead you home.

—

   When you reached the front door of the house, Zhongli’s hand on your shoulder firm and gentle, something had begun — deep in your heart — to fester. The fear, the confusion, the things that had fallen into place but didn’t quite fit together — it had all been boiling too long, too hot. 

   “Mr. Zhongli.” You said, as you stepped through the door, once again greeted by a warm gust of air. 

   “Yes, Hansi?” He asked, close behind. His hand on your shoulder was suddenly heavy, and hot. You shrugged it off, whipping around to stare him in the eyes.

   “Please, just— do whatever you’re planning to do to me.” You said, knowing that if you lost your momentum now you would never get it back.

   “I beg your pardon?”

   “I’m not a child. We both know what I'm here for. When I lived on the streets, two pieces Mora would have earned any nobleman a night -- let alone... however much you’ve spent.” You were vaguely aware of how many lines you were crossing with each word, but there was no stopping the words flowing from your lips now. You could feel your heart thrashing against your chest, anger warming your bones. 

   “We both know that I have nowhere to run, no way to defend myself, so just DO it already. Be cruel, hit me, whatever, do your thing so that I can stop holding my Archon-damned breath and waiting for the inevitable. What exactly are your intentions with me, sir?”

   You paused to catch your breath, and the horror set in suddenly. Your temper had always been the bane of your well-being — you just had to let it get the best of you, every time, didn’t you? Why couldn’t you have just bided your time and waited for his patience to run out later rather than sooner?

   Zhongli stayed silent, face pulled into a frown as though he was pondering over your words. Time seemed to slow into a viscous fluid, drowning you in its wake. You glanced down the hallway at your room.

   If he raised his hand against you, would you be able to make it to your room? Would you be able to grab your Geo Vision before he caught you, and would you even be able to use it against him, against the years of experience he’s had with his? You knew the answer to all of those questions: a resounding no.

   Would he let you live if you apologized? You opened your mouth to beg.

   “My intentions with you...” he said, brow pulled down over heavy lids. “Hm. It seems that I must apologize.”

   You let go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding. For the umpteenth time since your meeting with Zhongli, you wondered: What?

   “I have been trying to let you acclimate to your new life at your own pace, whilst moving on from your old.” Zhongli’s pursed lips were the only sign of discomfort in his composed features. “I did not know that such concerns were going through your head, though I should have seen that your seeming lack of fear was but a facade from your incredibly strong character.”

   In the corner of your eye, you saw your hands trembling. You tried to get them to stop. They would not.

   Zhongli swept on. “The circumstances of our meeting are... unfortunate. In time, you will understand my intentions in orchestrating our meeting, but for now -- you have been put in a very uncomfortable situation. I am remiss for not having acknowledged this much earlier.”

   What?

   Zhongli cleared his throat. “Hansi, please listen to me. While you are under my roof, I will never lift a finger to cause you any harm, physically or otherwise. And for as long as you are a part of my household, I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are never again touched by hunger, frost, hardship. That you will never be subject to the kind of fear that’s making you tremble,” he reached out slowly and took your hand, “like this.” 

   He had done all the speaking, but it was you who had lost the breath from your lungs. Each of his words was a low rumble, earthquakes in their own right. You didn’t know if you believed him, but you so badly, badly wanted to, with every inch of your shaking body.

   “I do not expect you to believe me, right now,” he said, as though reading your mind. He let go of your hand, and it fell back to your side, still shaking. “However, you will soon come to learn that I never break my word.”

   You were beginning to see why Rex Lapis had chosen to grace this man with a Vision. He commanded — no, demanded — your attention, your respect, your trust, your entire being. There was more to him than the rich, lonely nobleman he seemed to be; in that moment, you had never been more sure of it.

   “Is there anything else you would like to ask me, Hansi?” Zhongli asked.

   You shook your head, mutely. There were a lot of things you wanted to say to that, but the swollen words stuck in your throat. “Thank you, Mr. Zhongli,” you said, and hoped he heard everything behind it. 

  Tomorrow morning, you supposed, it’d be alright if you had that bath.

[oddsnendsfanfics]

Christmas Cookies

Genre: Fan Fiction (Sand Castle) Pairing: N/A Warnings: It’s so fluffy! Pure Absolute Christmas Fluff! Rating: G Length: Drabble Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: I just wrote multiple pages of Sy being an absolute marshamallow, with his nieces and nephews. It’s as sweet as Maple Syrup! Enjoy. 

Henry Cavill Master List

“You're sure that it's okay if the kids come over?” The concern for her brother didn't go unnoticed, the blue eyes they shared were locked on his face as if she didn't believe him, when he had given the green light.

He looked ridiculous in the white and red ugly Christmas sweater. The knit garment depicting Santa on a beach. Leave it to Sy. Aimee had lost it laughing a few weeks ago, when her brother had called to tell her that he'd got ugly Christmas sweaters for his nieces and nephews, too.

A smirk curled his lips under the thick beard that had been growing on his face for the last ten or twelve years. Running a hand over his grown out hair, her little brother laughed. “Yes, Aim. I am sure. I wouldn't have told them to come, if I didn't want them here. Go on, we're fine. I am sure Mike will appreciate the night off.”

Early this morning, Sy had been woke to his phone ringing on the night stand beside his head. Stupidly loud, the phone screamed at him, begging him to answer. After the fourth ring, it was clear that the person on the other end was not giving in. Despite the headache and heartache from hell, he reached over and answered.

On the other end, his youngest niece greeted her hung over Uncle. “Uncle Sy, I want to come stay with you tonight. Mommy said that I can't invite myself over, but I want to see you. Please say yes.”

“Morning Wispy,” Sy muttered sitting up, rubbing his hand over his face. “Uncle Sy is a bit hazy this morning, I'm gonna need ya to repeat that. Slowly.” He shook his head and chuckled at his niece.

Repeating her request, Willow waited for her uncle to give her the all clear. She was his favourite person, after all, he would never tell her no.

“Sure can bub. Let me talk to your ma, please. And Wispy, I love ya bug.”

Taking the phone from her over excited daughter, Aimee greeted her brother. Her first round of questions assaulting the youngest Syverson.

“Four kids, are you really sure?” Aimee raised her brow looking at her brother. “I can't believe we let Willow talk you into this. I had no idea she was calling you until she came in with the phone. Apparently she and Harley had planned this yesterday.”

“Whatever. I'm cool with it. I didn't have much to do anyway. Probably spend another night down at The Hole.” Sy shrugged. His favourite dive bar had become his temporary home, since his girlfriend of five years had decided she wanted more than a cranky Army vet to share her life with.

Willow had heard her parents discussing Sy's break up, when she coerced her cousin Harley into the plan for a weekend with their uncle. Uncle Sy was her favourite person in the whole wide world, they even shared a birthday, and Uncle Sy was the most fun! He would often let Willow paint his nails and decorate his beard. Why wouldn't that silly woman want him? Willow had grumbled about her “Aunty Nina” being a bit meany who probably ate boogers for breakfast.

“If you think you are okay with this, fine.” Aimee laughed peeking around her brother into his house to see her two children, plus niece and nephew running around his kitchen like four wild beasts. “But if you need help...”

“I will call in the Army.” Sy's laugh rumbled. “I'm kidding. If we need you, then we will call.” He leaned in giving her a kiss on the cheek, straightening up he called to the kids. “Come say good bye to your ma and aunt.”

Children thundered to the door, rushing Aimee and Sy. Hugs and “I love yous” exchanged as Aimee gave her brother one last out for the weekend. Raising his hand to wave her off, Sy wore the biggest, goofiest smile. She'd behaved like he had never had all four children on his own before. Hell during his Army days he had been responsible for a lot more bodies than four. All had made it home, too. Most on their own accord, but he wasn't going to relive those memories right now. Those were the sort of things he thought about when he was alone in the dark. This weekend was going to be anything but dark.

With only a short span of time to plan, Sy did his best to get a few activities together for the children of various ages. Ben, 12; Annie, 10; Harley 7; and Willow, 6.

Ben had likely only agreed to his sister's impromptu weekend because it was better than staying home with his parents. Besides, he loved hanging out with his Uncle, even if it meant three other children tagging along.

“Okay, listen up.” Sy clapped his hands together, grabbing attention. He bent to gently scratch behind the ears of his beloved shepherd. “You know where your bedrooms are, go take your stuff up. Then meet me back here for our first item on the list.”

Lagging behind her brother and cousins, Willow bounced over to Sy hugging her arms around him as tightly as she could. “Do I have to share a bed with Annie? She kicks me.”

“She kicks you?” Sy stooped to scoop her up in his arms. Her dark curls tied back in pig tails, gently he tugged at the end of one. “Well then good thing I got them pillows you asked for.”

“The really big ones? With the pink sparkle unicorns.” Willow's eyes went wide as she gasped. Sy nodded and laughed. Vibrating with excitement she hugged her uncle's neck tight kissing his cheek. “I want to make a fort in the bed and then Annie has to stay on her side. But it's okay, because we can still share the blanket and my night light.”

“Is that so? Well, you best go tell her that. The others will be back down before you get up there, hurry up.” Sy let her down. “If you need some help, ask Annie. Okay, Wispy?”

“Okay.” She shouted, little legs carrying her to the stairs. Thumping and running through the house, Sy smiled and went to the kitchen to begin planning phase one of their weekend.

With Christmas right around the corner, he had broke down and dug out a few early Christmas Eve gifts. Since it was Syverson tradition to spend Christmas Eve with his momma and daddy, decorating and what not, he was in charge of supplying the kids with gingerbread houses and cookies to decorate. Momma would forgive him, if he told her that the houses were done early this year. If she was adamant about it, he could buy a few more for Christmas.

Pulling out the kits, Sy laughed when Ben trudged into the kitchen. Clearly the kids had gotten the message when they found sweaters laid out on the beds. In a blue and green sweater with penguins at a disco on the front, the twelve year old rolled his eyes before laughing.

“It suits ya.” Sy laughed.

“Sometimes I wonder if you love us or secretly hate us.” Ben laughed along with his uncle. Laughing harder when Harley strode in wearing his green and red sweater, two reindeer on the front throwing snowballs.

“I think you secretly love it.” Sy nudged Harley with his elbow. “Should have gone bigger, huh?”

Harley nodded, the arms of his sweater a little too short. “Do I have to wear it long?”

“Nah,” Shaking his head, Sy pointed to the gingerbread house kits. “Long enough to get a photo for Nana and your momma.”

Giggling, Annie and Willow rushed into the kitchen. Purple and pink ugly sweaters worn with pride. Annie stood straight to show her uncle how well the new shirt fit. Purple decorated with dancing snowmen in a ballerina scene, a nod to Annie's love for dancing. And of course Willow, in her pink sweater with cats in Santa hats with red and green mittens.

“I love it, uncle Sy!” Willow exclaimed jumping up and down. “We look very pretty.”

“We look something.” Her big brother snickered.

“Are those gingerbread houses?” Annie eyed the items on the counter suspiciously. Sy nodded and grinned. “Nana is going to be mad at youuuuuu.” She sang out.

“Well this year, Nana is fine with us decorating early. We can get more for Christmas Eve.”

“We better!” Harley exclaimed wide eyed. “Santa will be upset. He always gets a gingerbread house and he eats it all!”

The tradition of leaving a whole house for Santa had began when Sy was a little boy. Perhaps even before, Aimee and Will had left houses surely before he was born. Over the years Santa had devoured a lot of houses at the Syverson's. He'd even had a few to eat while Sy was over in the desert, serving his country. His momma, without fail, had managed to get him a kit or two. Sy would set them up and let the other soldiers have their fill before sending photos to the kids back home to tell them Santa had came by.

“You know that Santa isn't...” “Going to be upset, because he will still get Nana's homemade cookies.” Ben cut in glaring at Annie.  This was her first year on the “Santa isn't real wagon”, but Ben wasn't going to let her ruin that for Harley and Willow.

Nodding and giving Ben a subtle thumbs up, Sy picked up to defuse the tension. “Right, he's still going to get lots of treats. And I don't know that I'd want a boring store made gingerbread, if I could have my momma's homemade shortbread and peanut butter blossoms.” He clicked his teeth together and made a show of rubbing his hand across his stomach.

“Uncle Sy, do you think Santa ever takes cookies home for the elves and Mrs. Claus?” Harley stared up at his uncle, his face scrunched at the thought.

“Sure does, bud. I bet he takes one cookie from every house home to share.” Sy winked at his youngest nephew.

Pulling out the hard as rock cookie house pieces, Sy instructed Ben to get the candies from the counter that he'd set out for the purpose of making these a grand master piece. Even The Grinch would appreciate the work that went into a Syverson House.

“So, what's everyone been up to? I feel like I've hardly seen y'all lately.”

If he asked the kids to talk about themselves, it meant that Sy would have to talk less. He loved hearing what the kids had to say. They chattered and laughed, Annie and Harley bickered a little over who got to put the door on the first house. A squabble ended when Sy reached in, putting the pretzel door on the house himself.

Lost in their good cheer, Christmas songs, and general chaos of four children with limited rules – for the time being – Sy sighed and began to relax. Something he hadn't done since Nina had decided to pack up her things and leave him nearly two weeks ago.

Whatever. Five years wasted. If she had known that she didn't want to be with him, then why had she stayed? His brother had a few ideas about that, stating that it was the perfect opportunity for any gold digging – Sy wouldn't even repeat the word to himself. Living in a house that was paid off. A car that was hers. Never having to pay bills, it all allowed her to work and save while she decided one day she'd had enough and wanted something better.

Better. More money.

Well, whoever took her next, Sy wished them luck. He hated that he was so broken about this. But he'd loved her. Maybe. He had his doubts these last few nights, as he sat thinking over a pint or eight at the bar.

“Uncle Sy,” Willow's soft voice broke his thoughts. Glancing down at his niece, he smiled. “When we finish, can we make cookies?”

“What if we make some cookies tomorrow, Wispy?” Wiping his hands on a tea towel, Sy bent to scoop her into his arms. “We can make some sugar cookies to decorate. I also thought I could make ya some snow crackles that you love so much.” he nudged cheek her with his nose.

“The gooey chocolate ones?” Her eyes were wide. Sy nodded. “Benny!” She turned, calling excitedly to her brother who was less than four feet away. “Uncle Sy is going to make us those crack cookies!”

“Crackle.” Sy gently corrected her with a deep laugh.

Sy's snow crackles were always a welcomed hit. Family, friends, even the post man loved the damn things. Hell if he'd had those over in the desert to hand out, the war could have been over in an hour. Or so a few of his superiors had always teased him.

“Can we make them with the candy cane?” Harley asked wiggling in his seat.

“Absolutely!” Sy agreed with a wide smile. A touch of peppermint in the cookies were the perfect Christmas treat. Even better when enjoyed with a nice cup of rum and homemade egg nog. Although he would save that for the adult parties.

“I love Christmas!” A giggling Annie exclaimed, not going unnoticed that she and Ben were enjoying the left over icing for the houses. A tube each, the two older kids were trying to be stealthy about their activities. Nice try Sy thought, they knew nothing got by their Uncle.

“My favourite holiday is my birthday.” Willow declared.

“That's not a holiday.” Ben laughed at his sister, shaking his head.

“Yes it is! It's a holiday, because it celebrates me and Uncle Sy. Right, Uncle Sy? It's a holiday?” Willow pouted at her uncle, hoping for some back up. If Uncle Sy said it was, then it was true.

“I think birthdays are kind of like holidays. We just don't get time off work or school.”

“See!” Willow stuck her tongue out at her brother Ignoring his sister, Ben had already moved on to something else.

“Okay you two, enough.” Sy let Willow down. “Let's get this mess cleaned and we can get some plans for dinner going.”

“Can we have ice cream?” Doing her best puppy dog eyes, Annie looked at her uncle.

“After we eat dinner.” Sy smiled kissing the top of her head.

“Candy cane ice cream?” Harley was hopeful. Sy had never met a kid, or anybody, who loved candy canes as much as his nephew.

“I have some candy cane. I also have chocolate and pecan. Something for everyone.”

“And grape nut for you?” Wrinkling her nose, Willow shivered in disgust. Ice cream was one of the only things she didn't agree with her Uncle on.

“Yes, grape nut for me.”

“You're such an old man.” Ben added gently tossing a candy piece at his uncle's head. Nailing Sy in the side of the cheek, Ben laughed and threw up his hands in victory.

“Oh is that how you want this?” Sy picked up a few candies, launching them back at his nephew. Nailing Ben with four our of five, Sy straightened himself up. “Still got it.”

Gingerbread construction cleaned, photos taken, Sy announced that the children were free of their ugly sweaters. Rushing upstairs to change, shouts and laughter filled the house. Sy, comfortable in his sweater, worked out the decision for dinner. Ordering pizza seemed like the clear winner and nobody would complain.

Four pizzas later, enough variety that everybody had something they liked, Sy announced it was time to settle for a bit and watch some movies. Who could resist? Pizza, as promised ice cream, and various snacks that he always had on hand for the kids. It was the perfect way to spend an evening getting over a break up.

Sprawled out around the den, the kids got comfortable. Blankets and cushions all over. Sy resting on the leather sectional, Willow curled up on his lap – of course. A bowl of candy between them and Harley, who laid stretched out. Annie and Ben occupied a bean bag each, blankets pulled up around them while the decided upon “Miracle on 34th Street” played on the screen.

Dozing on and off, Sy didn't know when it had happened, but at some point the movie had come to an end the dvd menu replaying over and over. A soft whine of his beloved shepherd is what roused him this morning. Scratching his nose and sitting up, Sy scrambled to grab Willow before she slid off of his knee. Around him the kids were asleep, the house quiet and his watch informing him it was nearly dawn.

Gently sliding Willow into his spot on the couch, Sy stood and raised his arms, joints popping and his body waking. Tiptoeing out of the den and to the kitchen, Sy opened the back door letting the dog out. Rubbing his eyes, he watched the dog zoom around, before debating coffee or going back to bed. The kids would sleep another hour or two at least, which would be nice to sleep as well. Coffee won, brewing a fresh pot Sy looked around the kitchen.

His house still, the presence of the kids not going unnoticed, it felt nice to have someone else in the house. The bodies moving and bringing merriment. A kick to the gut, really. Nina having told him that part of her leaving was because she wanted children and he didn't. He loved his nieces and nephews, but full time parenting wasn't a project he was cut out for. Sy sniffled, fuck it. Shaking his head, he grumbled under his breath. She and her notions were gone now.

Opening the back door, he let the dog in. Giving a morning scratch and cooing to his faithful friend. Coffee filled the house with a delicious aroma, Sy poured his first cup and sat at the table watching the backyard. Once this coffee was gone he would get to work on his crackle cookies, they would need to freeze before baking. Tiny, nearly silent foot steps caught his attention. Willow hummed softly as she walked, her momma always told her that it wasn't polite to sneak up on people. Especially Uncle Sy. No matter how much he loved her, sneaking up could scare him and Willow didn't want that.

Sy hated the thoughts of his family feeling like they may not be safe in his presence. But he appreciated her attempt to let him know she was awake and moving around.

“Morning Wispy.” Sy's voice was steady and quiet. Willow giggled lightly. She loved that he knew it was her, without having to look. “Come here.” Sy held out an arm. Willow rushed her last few steps. “Have a good sleep?”

“Uh huh,” she rubbed her eyes and nodded. “Morning, Uncle Sy. Did you sleep good?”

“I did,” he nodded taking a sip of his coffee and pushing out his chair. “Have a seat, Miss Henning.”

Climbing into the kitchen chair, Willow sat quietly.

“Hot chocolate?”

“Yes, please.” Willow yawned and nodded. “But no coffee, it's yuck and daddy says I'm too little.”

“Your daddy has the right idea,” Sy smiled fondly, pulling out the cocoa mix and Willow's favourite mug. A big mug with a photo of her and Sy's old dog Aika.

“Uncle Sy, are you happy that I came over and brought my brother, Harley, and Anna?”

“Of course, Wispy.”

“Good, because I think you were sad but I didn't want you to be sad. I told my momma that we would make you happy if we came over. I think I was right.” she beamed through tired eyes.

“Wspy, bug, nothing could ever make me happier than you kids.” Scooping the cocoa into the mug, pouring cold milk until the was half full to save it from getting too hot.

“Not even if you had your own kids? Do you think you'll get married and have kids? Momma said...”

“Wispy,” Sy held up a hand to stop the unintentional prying. It was too early. “I will always love you. You're my best gal, yeah? All you need to know, bug, is that I will love you forever.”

“Do you love me more than Christmas cookies?”

“Well,” pausing for effect, Sy took a beat to pretend he was thinking, “I do love Christmas cookies. But yeah, I suppose I love you more than Christmas cookies, even.”

“Good, because I love you more than Christmas cookies, birthday cake, anddd Nana's biscuits.” the little girl wiggled in her seat, giggling.

“More than Nana's biscuits? Oh boy, that is some loving.” Stirring the hot cocoa, Sy lifted the mug and placed it on the table in front of his niece. A can of whipped cream in hand, he shook it before adding more than required to the top of her mug. Sitting down, he glanced at his coffee and shrugged, the hiss of the can when he added a dollop to his coffee. “Cheers,”

“Cheers!” Willow slid her mug a few centimeters to clink it against Sy's.

[sweetestlamb]

Wake Me Up Inside(Chapter 2)

Summary: Hope is a flickering light, coming and going as it sees fit. 

Author's note: Y'all like this? Color me surprised I thought everyone had cast Sujin aside based on tumblr post honestly, expected maybe 3 people to read this. I'm happy so many are enjoying, thanks for coming along for the ride. If any talented individuals want to make me a header that would be great, anyway enjoy the teen angst. More awful parenting, beware. it hurts me to write this but random immediate romance doesn’t make sense to me so here we goooo. 

The world seems larger, everyone towers over her as they squeeze by jostling her tiny body, she twists and turns desperately searching for a familiar face and faltering when there is none. Just blurred faces with stretched out smiles that are horrifying grotesque, almost as if they were painted on by a deranged circus clown. She begins to run frantically racing away from the figures, who are now reaching out for her grabbing her arm and tugging at her pigtails. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out, bringing a trembling hand to her lips she finds them sewn shut, silencing her petrified screams.

Then a hand clutches at her elbow and she's spun around, suddenly staring into the face of evil.

"Where have you been you brat? Everyone was waiting for you."

She tries to tug free of his punishing grip but his fingers tighten on her tender flesh, marking the delicate skin. Ignoring her evident trepidation he forcefully pushes her towards a table, with a large looming birthday cake.

"Hurry up and blow out these candles, you're almost old enough to be useful to me."

Screaming no in her mind, she breaks free of his hold running as fast as her compact legs will take her but she miscalculates and trips over a stray toy, tumbling over the edge of a pool she hadn't noticed there earlier. The cold splash of the chlorine scented water on her skin shocks her in a panicked daze and when she pries her eyes open the menacing face of her father greets her looking nonplussed by her hectic drowning.

"Good riddance." He smirks sipping from his cup as he stalks away, no longer bothered with her. 

Water constructs her airway and she continues to sink to the bottom. Forgotten and discarded.

With a flash she bursts from her nightmare silent scream on her tongue, it's his presence that silences her cry. Wide feline eyes regard her from his crouched position, it takes a moment to realize that the rapid puffs of air filling the room are coming from her lips. She grips at the mattress beneath her, hopelessly pleading with her heart and lungs as her body quivers from the intensity of her dream.

"Are you okay? You looked like you were having a bad dream, I called your name a few times."

She's decidedly not any semblance of okay and has no concept of what that would entail for her but she finds herself nodding, lying as easily as she always does.

"I'm fine." Clipped and brisk despite the cold sweat on her skin, she's probably soaked through his shirt the collar almost plastered to red collar bones.

He doesn't reply further than pursing his lips and walking over to a dresser she'd hadn't noticed earlier.

"That lie would probably be more believable if you didn't look as if you were going to pass out at any second." She can hear his eyes rolling at her and it raises her heckles, she doesn't need anyone looking after her, she is fine on her own.

"I should go." She says curtly, forcing herself out of the dangerously warm bed to walk across the room and test her previously soaked pajamas. Damp, but they'll do.

"I thought you had nowhere to go." He challenges finally standing to his full height, subconsciously she flinches at the sudden movement and immediately he takes a step back pressing himself almost flush with the wall. Lowering his head until they are almost eye level. Shame washes over her do strongly she has to turn away, so pathetic.

Speaking to his bedpost she answers, "That was last night. I can go home now."

Her father will be at work until late into the evening, she just needs to lock herself in her room and she should be safe until school tomorrow.

He hums at her sounding closer than he did earlier, "You don't have to go. I'll find an excuse to give my mom, you can stay here."

No she can't. She knows what's going through his mind, probably the same thing that went through Suho's when he saw the blood on her lip for the first time, you poor little thing. Pity was always the first reaction but it never lasted, eventually pity shifted to annoyance nobody wanted to be friends with someone getting beaten. It was depressing, and uncomfortable to discuss and there was nothing anyone could do to help her. It was her penance for being born a girl and not being the best at least to make up for that disappointment.

"I'm not a stray puppy, you can't just pick me up off the street and expect me to stay. I told you, I'm fine." This time she says it harder, sharper with a bite that screams don't push me.

Unsurprisingly enough Han Seojun doesn't seem intimidated by her.

This time she gets to witness the eye roll as he approaches her but still keeps his head lowered as if deferring to her. "I already told you that I don't pity you, you need help stop pretending you don't."

But she's not pretending, that would imply that she wants others to help secretly. That just isn't accurate, she wants nothing- expects nothing. Her father pound any inkling of hope she had out a long time ago.

Stepping into his space, her eyes narrow as she bites out, "I don't need anything certainly not help from you. You're not a nice person, what am I your one good deed? Just mind your business."

She pointedly glances away at the flash of hurt that scatters across his expressive face.

She expects him to lash out, stretch to his full form and berate her, reprimand her ungrateful behavior and an even darker side of her almost expects him to slap her. I see why your father does that, you deserve it.

"Suit yourself."

That's all he says solemnly with a shrug before tossing more dry clothes at the bed and silently exiting the room.

She feels worse than she did before. Guilt gnawing at her, she ignores the offered clothes she doesn't deserve his hospitality or warmth. She disrobes and puts back on the damp chilled pajamas, that matches her better.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

That's what he gets for trying to help someone, his act of kindness thrown back in his face. Angrily he pours the boiling water into the waiting cup, starting his mother's mandatory morning tea. He's so lost in the routine that he doesn't notice her presence until she clears her throat. His pride stops him from turning around, her words were as painful as a dagger.

"Your clothes are on the bed. I called a cab."

He nods without looking back, "Get home saf--" He cuts himself off, maybe he's overstepping again. So he just hums and stirs the now perfect cup of tea with a splash of milk. His sister's will get three sugars, she has such a sweet tooth.

The soft snap of the front door closing is loud in the silence of the morning, the sun has barely risen. His mother will be out in an hour, he was worried for nothing. Nobody will even know she was here. He can pretend this was all a fever dream and listen to her advice, he's never minded anyone else's business why did he decide to start now?

Lesson learned.

He spends the remainder of his weekend not thinking about the bruises on her face and instead plays video games, bullying Suho into playing Call of Duty with him online until the stupid genius starts to win too often and it's no longer stress reducing.

"Sore loser." He scoffs at the staticky insult through his headphones, draining the can of soda he took from the fridge. He should start dinner soon, his mom and sister will be back from shopping any minute.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did." He can't help but roll his eyes at the lame response but he pushes on ignoring his brain shouting at him that this is the opposite of minding his business. He hardly listens to his brain, his gut is much stronger.

"Does Sujin have any siblings? Or does she like to box or anything like that? " He tries to make sense of the night, maybe it wasn't what he thought initially. From his memory Sujin comes from a very affluent respectable family, there's no way right?

"What? What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer me." He quips impatiently, ready to let go of this unwarranted worry that's been weighing on his heart.

After a long pause where he checks if his Wi-Fi disconnected he finally hears a response, "No. She lives with her mother and father, she's an only child. And I’ve never known her to do anything physical like that."

His chest tightens, not what he wanted to hear. Her flinch this morning flashes brightly in his memory. He wasn't mistaken. He's sure of it, she'd been scared. 

"Why?"

He can barely hear through the ringing in his ear, "Nothing. I have to go."

He signs off before the other boy can reply, walking autopilot to the kitchen to get started on dinner. Chopping vegetables does nothing to stop the nausea bubbling in his stomach.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Taking the bus the next day is out of the question, he has spent the entire weekend wishing he had the nerve to get the girl's number but anyone he asked would misunderstand why and he didn't need anymore rumors circulating, he would just have to get it from her himself. If she wanted him to mind his business she shouldn't have collapsed where he could see.

The engine rumbles between his legs as he brings his motorcycle to a stop, swinging off effortlessly before tugging the helmet off and shaking his hair free. He doesn't notice the various lecherous female and male eyes watching his very moment, too focused on walking into the school and finding her.

Turning a corner he sees her instantly, sandwiched between her two best friends, they look like a high school brochure giggling as they walk down the hallway garnering the attention of most of the male population. The purple bruise on her cheek is missing, nothing but smooth blemish free skin. He almost does a double take. As all three of them pass him, he locks eyes with Sujin for a moment, the mask slides off for a second but the moment he blinks the façade snaps back into place, nothing left but a pretty empty smile.

He follows them into class, sliding into his seat and promptly going to sleep. He has to catch her alone.

Doing so proves to be a near impossible feat, she's always surrounded by her two bestie shadows and Chorong and the gang are never far from him either. He sighs forlornly even time he sees her only for someone to interrupt before he can approach her. All too frustrated.

He's sitting dejected on the staircase when he hears the bustle of students in the hallway, their voices carrying down the long space and he rolls his eyes imagining what ridiculous situation they've deemed as drama now. Last time it was Ju-Kyung having pimples, a topic that was completely groundbreaking and worthy of weeks of discussion. So it's with the smallest shred of curiosity that he stands up wandering over to the commotion.

"What's going on?" He directs to the closest person, some mousy looking girl who stutters out an indecipherable answer. He looks at her confused before stalking away to find someone who has a better grasp of communication. He poses the question again, to a boy this time.

"I heard one of the girls started freaking out in the bathroom. Screaming not to be touched."

He stands frozen before the words register in his brain and his feet are moving without his brain's permission. Shoving past gossiping bystanders, he easily gets to the front only to see Ju-Kyung covering someone with her sweater as they walk down the hallway. Immediately the crowd comes alive and they surge forward like a wave all calling questions out at once, "What's wrong with you?", "Why did you freak out?", "Who do you think you are? Are you too rich to be touched or something?"

He twists his head around ferociously at the last question, everyone in front of him gulps while taking a step back. The hallway is a cacophony of voices and shouts and he can feel his anger boiling, slamming his fist into the nearest surface-a wall- he gets everyone's attention.

"Go back to your classes. Now."

Some of the male students look as if they are going to challenge his authority but another step forward is all it takes to get the student body scampering to their classrooms.

Inhaling deeply he stomps off to find the source of his unease.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It had been hard to disregard, how lacking of warmth her house was. Seojun's apartment had been brimming with warmth and love, the fridge bursting with papers and drawings documenting that someone cared enough to show them off. Her home was a large empty prison in comparison.

But she'd been right, it was dark and quiet proof that her parents were not home. With her heart in her throat she ran to her room, locking the door behind her. Sleep captured her before she knew she was in its grasps, waking up groggy hours later and forgetting where she was. Fierce pounds on her door reminded her instantly.

"Open this door now."

His voice is a low growl, even more terrifying than when he's screaming his lungs out. She grabs her vanity chair pressing it under the door knob for more protection.

She jumps when the door bulges, the loud crashing making it clear that he's slamming bodily into the door now determined to get to her.

"Please....stop." She pleads, tears already cascading down her bruised cheeks.

"Open this fucking door!!"

She's sobbing now, body folded as she cries her eyes out shaking viciously as her father continues to ran into the door, dread filling her stomach as he's never fought this hard before.

Then everything is quiet.

The pounding is gone as suddenly as it arrived. She doesn't let go her panic just yet, still too raw. Butt seconds crawl to minutes and she hears nothing so she finally exhales, sliding to the floor in relief.

She weakly crawls to her bathroom, turning the dial to the hottest temperature possible wanting to burn off his brand on her skin. After her shower she brushes her wet hair, staring at the bruise, it's turning yellow now with tinges of purple. Good thing she let Su-ah and Ju-Kyung convince her to buy foundation the last time they were in the beauty store. She will have to layer it on tomorrow.

She's starving but the thought of leaving her room with him in the house is enough to eliminate her appetite. Instead she puts on a warm sweater and sweat pants and wraps herself in a thick blanket, still too cold ice running through her veins.

She had never felt as warm as she did at his house.

A quiet knock thankfully pulls her away from such unnecessary thoughts. She simply listens.

"Su-jin, it's mom. I brought you food."

She sits up, crawling out of bed to stand in front of the bed. Her mother has never brought her food, even when she was nine and hadn't gotten a perfect score on her spelling test and her father locked her in the closet for two days with only a dictionary. She'd contemplated eating the pages before she was finally set free. Her mother had simply looked away, avoiding eye contact until she was safely back in her room.

But her stomach grumbles at the mention of sustenance and despite her best judgement she opens the door.

It's a mistake.

Immediately she notes that her mother has nothing in her hands, trembling herself and before she can slam the door shut a foot blocks her escape.

He uses the belt that time whipping her in places that others will never see, her back, thighs, and shoulders. Her mother's weakly calls out, "Don't hit her face she has to meet that boy you wanted this week."

It goes on for what seems like hours, he leaves her crumpled on the ground her body stinging as she refused to cry, blinking her tears away not wanting to give him what he wants. When her mother meekly walks over and extends a hand to her, she looks at her with listless eyes. Her mother has a fresh bruise on her cheek, her father hardly hits her anymore using Sujin has his punching bag instead but at times of high frustration he would regress.

She wonders if her mother knew that one day this would be her faith. If this was the purpose of her birth.

She doesn't take the hand. It seems there was still some hope left, it is extinguished now.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The school day had been easy she's been hiding her abuse for years, no teacher had ever suspected a thing and she didn't even blame them. It would just be bothersome, her father was a powerful man there wouldn't be much they could do.

She slaps on a smile, allowing herself to be dragged around by Su-ah and Ju-Kyung, listening as they giggle about their boyfriends chiming in the appropriate moments to not seem disinterested or jealous. She is jealous though, of their freedom and innocent problems, she'd lost her innocence a long time ago.

She knows Seojun is trying to talk to her but she can't handle seeing him right now, having to face someone who knows what she's going through sounds worst than being beat right now. So she jolts at every sight of the tall lanky figure, thankful for his fan club who seems to announce his every arrival. She's on her way to having a successful day when everything goes to hell.

She's in the bathroom drying her hands when a classmate comes in, responding to the small talk she answers the girl's question before nodding her head in goodbye.

"Oh your tag is sticking out."

That's all she hears before a hand is brushing across her sore beaten neck and her reaction is instantaneous, she turns around catching the offending hand and twisting it.

Her throat wheezes out, "Don't touch me."

The girl stares at her wide-eyed before tugging her hand away, then other girls begin to come of the stalls to see what's happening and before she knows it she's hyperventilating on the ground, nonsensical words dripping off her tongue. Everything is too loud and her head is splitting in half just when her vision is graying out, she smells a familiar perfume.

"Su-jin ah, you're going to be okay. Just breathe with me, follow me."

Ju-Kyung's voice is calming and sure, not touching her but covering them both in her sweater as she models how to breathe, she follows until her lungs are no longer burning.

"Good. You're doing so good, is it okay if I touch you? I'm going to help you up."

She grabs at the bathroom wall yanking herself until she's upright, trying to show her friend that she's not that weak but a look of hurt is displayed on her face and Sujin doesn't comprehend why.

The other girl shakes it off though, now covering her fully with her cornflower yellow sweater.

She's suddenly reminded of her nightmare this morning as she has to pass all the students in the hallway, all pointing and laughing as she falls apart some of them even have their phone out recording her and she sways uneasily before catching herself, trembling the whole way she walks down the hallway until a loud bang and a voice she recognizes all too well silences the uproar.

Resisting the desire to look back she allows Ju-Kyung to pull her up the stairs until they're on the roof. Air pumps into her lungs as she's finally free of all the judgmental eyes.

She expects the other girl to start interrogating her the moment the door closes but it never comes, instead Ju-Kyung places her sweater around her trembling body.

"You're okay. Just keep breathing."

She does her best to follow the uncomplicated directions.

After a few minutes, Ju-Kyung's phone suddenly rings disturbing the quietude. She barely hears blood rushing in her ears like the waves at the beach.

"Okay we're on the roof."

She stills at that utterance, turning in alarm.

"Who was that? Who did you tell where we are?"

Ju-Kyung looks guilty, as if she wasn't meant to hear that conversation. She doesn't want to see anyone right now, can barely stand to be with herself.

"Call them back and tell them not to come. I want to be alone."

Ju-Kyung holds her phone in her hands gingerly staring at the screen, clearly contemplating what is the right decision. She almost lunges for the phone to see who is the most recent call, but it's not needed as the roof door slams open.

"Why are you here?" She shouts, walking away now furious that tears are already filling her eyes now just at the sight of him.

"Nice to see you too princess." He drawls back, following her further onto to roof.

"Will you two be okay? I have to go back to class."

She spins to glare at her friend, why would she leave her alone with Seojun? They have had any interaction at school that hasn't been antagonistic.

"Yes, we need to talk." He answers for them and that's enough to make Ju-Kyung nod before walking off with a smile in her direction. The door shuts loudly behind her retreating back, Sujin wants to chase after her. Instead she turns back to him spitting fire and poison. 

"I told you to mind your business."

"Are you okay?" He counters, eying her like a wild animal who can bolt at any minute, he isn’t wrong.

"That's none of your business!"

His expression remains the same, those beguiling feline eyes that scream at her.

"How hurt are you?"

Her emotions come crashing down again. He just keeps pushing and picking at her, no matter how much she shouts and shoves him away he just won’t go away like everyone else did. What is wrong with him? Couldn’t he see that she was more trouble than she was worth?

"What do you want to hear, huh? That everything hurts, that he used a belt this time! Do you want to hear about how he beat me until I bleed! Why do you care what happens me, why won't you leave me the fuck alone!"

Sobs ravage her body, she keeps brushing the fiery tears away fighting with her emotions but they won't stop and her palms are wet from covering her face, her breath is hitching until she starts hiccupping uncontrollably and she starts to feel light-headed.

"Hey! Su-jin! Breathe!"

But she can't, she doesn't remember how. Her body only knows how to hurt.

"Breathe, damnit!" Despite his shout, she hears the slight quiver in his voice but she can't discern why it's there but it desperately makes her want to obey.

When he cups her head, staring her head on she feels the vine wrapped around her lungs shrivel up and air starts gushing in until she feels dizzy, she sways back and forth gravity now also working against her and then she's being reeled in, her head placed on his chest. The thumping of his heart lulls her into a meditative state, she starts to count the beats and before she knows it the cobwebs in her head subside. Embarrassed by their sudden closeness, his arms are still by his side now almost immediately retracting from her head but she can feel his warmth radiating onto the skin of her thighs, she begins to draw back.

"Just stay. It's helping."

She blisters at his words, preparing to push him away.

"It's helping me, seeing you like that....it scared me. I helped you the other night, you should return the favor."

She puffs up before deflating, she'll never admit it but this is helping having something else to focus on, his scent, his heartbeat, the way his chest expands and constricts with every breath. The buzz of their skin nearly touching, his deep voice rumbling through his chest and into her ears, all placating and soothing her worries away. 

"Fine."

She's never known Seojun to stay still for this long after years of attending the same school, always bursting with kinetic energy so she's pleasantly surprised by how long he simply stands and lets her rest on his chest, neither of them saying a word.

She stiffens when he suddenly starts moving disturbing their stillness, she sees his hands balled into tight fists by his side and wonders what's going through his mind.

"You can't go back there."

This again, she starts to remind him that she has nowhere to g--

"Stay with me."

[putseraphinaonthaphone]

Chromatic

Classical Pianist Katsuki Bakugou has a favorite coffee shop on the short walk from his studio back to his apartment. It's small, 24 hours, and has a stage that's always free for musicians to use. And it's run by you, a would be musician who's a better baker and coffee maker-that he can't stop coming back to see.

@nanamisbento & @hanji-is-life both made a world of difference in making me feel confident enough to write this as a full drabble, so thank y'all <3 y'all are sweethearts and I love this au so muchhhh

~light angst, slow burn, black!queer!reader, musician au~

"Cross my heart hope to die, I ain't got no love to give," you plucked at the guitar strings lazily your eyes focused on nothing but the strings and trying not to cry- and if felt like your alto voice was fighting through gravel. Huskier than normal, verging on tenor like you always dreamed about, and you were too fucking sad to enjoy it.

You missed your friend, you missed talking to him. Teasing him, making him laugh. And worse, you knew the home he went back to wasn't the healthiest. You knew all too well how a house could be so much worse than the stress of school.

"Baby boy so goddamn fine, swear you give me a peace of mind," and it was true. Just being near him, talking about poetry, anything, made you feel so calm. Fuck you missed him.

"Swear you make this young girl go crazy," If some tears fell onto your fretboard at least it was late enough that no one would come in until the morning rush.

"Now how could a man like you want somebody, so incredibly immature, insecure just like me?" Because he was just as insecure as you. It's why you two would talk on the phone for hours on end, about all your fears and worries, as much as your happiness. He was the friend you could talk about the lowest lows with because neither of you were afraid or unfamiliar with rock bottom- mentally, emotionally.

You slipped the strap of your electric guitar over your head and put it back on the rack (you left it out for musicians of all kinds to play when they felt inspired by your shop's vibes) and wiped your aching eyes. You didn't see or hear Bakugou slip back out the side door he'd came in through.

~

He'd first started coming in April, when the Washington rain was too torrential not to seek cover. He'd walked in soaking wet and spitting curses as he shut the door behind him. Ash blond hair and garnet eyes plus a jawline you'd cut yourself on meant you were half way infatuated before he even ordered.

"Black coffee with extra raw sugar, and whatever bread you have that's not sweet." It was a rumbling bass of a voice and damnit now you were officially in love- but then you noticed a case that you guessed carried an electric keyboard by the shape at his feet and in your excitement (that distracted you from his stunningly pretty face enough you could talk to him without tripping over your words like you were sure you were going to when you first came to take his order) you grinned at him so genuinely he forgot he was pissed.

"Sure thing, but just so you know- we have a permanent open mic set up here. You can play whatever instruments of mine you'd like to use, or you could set up your keyboard. It's great to see more musicians in here." You meant it, he could see in the way you seemed to light up like fireworks just talking about it.

"..Maybe next time." He tried to say hell no I'm never coming back to this tiny ass shop, do you know the size of the stages I usually play?!

But how could he regret his grumbled words when you clutched your small notepad to your chest and asked him in a rush (with a sparkle in your big doe brown eyes that didn't match your shaved head or heavy silver rings and earrings but was adorable nonetheless) "You mean it? You'd play here?"

It wasn't the same eagerness of ochestral directors prepared to embarrass themselves for a chance for The Katsuki Bakugou, classical pianist prodigy, to play with their ensembles. It was just a person who loved music and ran a tiny well cared for shop that was full of second hand furniture and mismatch cutlery and china, that was excited at the thought of music being played at all.

"Why not? I could play some of my own compositions for once instead of another goddamn Bach piece." You must have been imagining the blush on his cheeks because it was gone in seconds, and he was glaring at you with only the slightest of smiles taking the sting out of his words. "But am I going to get that coffee before I catch a cold from the fucking rain currently soaking my fucking clothes?"

Now it was your turn to feel heat burning in your cheeks as you sheepishly saluted "Right, coffee," and ran back to your bar to start his order. You found some fresh plain yeast rolls on the top shelf of your display case and an old towel in your supply closet. And if you didn't think about how much of a dork you made of yourself in front of your hottest customer to date your hands didn't shake when you put together his coffee in the largest cup you could find.

"Least sweet bread I have, black coffee with a fuck ton of raw sugar.." You winked to (hopefully) let the blond know you were kidding, "and a towel to make sure you'll survive long enough to play for me sometime."

He snorted and snatched the towel from your hands, starting to rub it vigorously over his hair with a blatant lack of fucks for how fluffy and wild it made it hair, but it seemed to you that there was humor in his voice as he sighed, "That depends on how good your shitty coffee is."

~

He started coming in on the regular after that. Sometimes dressed in a suit, that he was all but ripping off until he could roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt and unbutton the collar so he could breathe. (The first time you saw the bare column of his throat and the obvious strength of his chest meeting the delicate structure of his collar bones, you had to blame lifting heavy bags of coffee beans for your breathlessness.)

Sometimes he came from the opposite direction, dressed in jeans and old tshirts when it finally started warming up. He brought in his keyboard on those days and played a range of compositions you knew were his without him having to tell you. His left hand was more comfortable in the lower octaves of his keyboard when it was his own work, and there was more grief mixed in the bombastic anger that fueled the more staccato and forte phrases that had everyone in the small shop falling quiet to listen. Because it wasn't just hammering at the keys, it was complex harmonies of thirds and major sevenths that haunted the air even as he was moving on to the next phrase that was more of a murmur of echoing themes that passed back from hand to hand.

But your favorite times to see him was during your night shifts, when the shop was mostly deserted except for your quieter night owl regulars. Then he'd play pieces that were.. lullabies. Soft melodies and less minor chords than his daylight pieces. He'd take breaks in between pieces to come talk to you at the bar, ask your opinion on his playing- the genuine way he listened to your comments and compliments making your heart melt more than his good looks could have done alone.

And some nights, especially when it rains, he's telling you about the superficial nature of the classical music world and how sometimes he wishes he'd never gone into orchestral piano and just stayed in his old tiny but cozy apartment.

"Maybe we would've met anyway, and you'd still have this place and I'd come play for scraps on the weekends." And damn the wistfulness hits him hard, you can see it in the way his eyes soften for the first time in knowing him.

"I wouldn't let you play for scraps, it's tiny but it's my place. And your music would only add to the atmosphere. You'd get full employee wages and free coffee on the house." You're wistful too, and maybe it's the rain but you'd love for this dream to be real. Even for a moment.

~

You were sure you'd actually walk into being head over heels in love if he did one more sweet thing for you with his signature grumble and glare. But it was weird, ever since a few weeks back he'd stopped coming by as often. Looked at you strange when you teased him like you were both used to, and played pieces with more anger and sorrow than you'd ever heard from him before.

It was turning into the longest you hadn't seen him by the end of the week, so you were fucking furious when he strolled in one night.

Obviously coming from one of his bigger performances with the coattails and tuxedo tie, but no smile to show for it. Not even smugness in his eyes from a performance well done. He looked a little like shit actually, dark circles under his eyes and something indescribably sad in his garnet gaze that sought you out as soon as he walked in. It was the only thing that stopped you from completely ignoring his order when he came to the bar.

But you couldn't stop the obvious way your jaw was clenched while you worked, the hurt in your eyes when you set his coffee down in front of him.

He said your name, low and questioning, confusion growing on his perfect stupid face and that's when you couldn't take it anymore. He looked like shit, but you felt it. Losing one friend in a year was more than enough heart break for you. Having a friend, who you were already half in love with, start ghosting you on top of that? You weren't strong enough to take the highroad.

"Don't you fucking dare look at me like you don't understand. I don't understand why you decided our friendship doesn't mean shit to you anymore. If you were going to fucking ghost me I would've preferred if you'd done so before I started waiting for you to come by." You were glad no one was in the shop but the two of you when you realized somewhere along the line of yelling at him you started crying. Kat was looking at you with his mouth open in shock, and you didn't want to wait around to drag out your embarrassment.

But you were surprised when he came after. Calling your name again, moving quickly to get around the counter to follow you.

"Wait. Wait." His hand grabbed your wrist, the first time he touched you with no pretenses or excuses. The strength and gentleness of his hold only making it harder to stop your tears.

"I didn't mean to make you cry." You almost wished he'd go back to his more brash daylight self, you can't handle how quiet and gentle he gets in the early morning hours. Your heart was too soft on him already- even in your anger, you didn't resist when he pulled you close and cupped your cheeks. The pads of his thumbs wiping away your tears.

"You were crying that night too, when you were playing. I'd never heard you sing before." His fingers were on your lips, silencing you before you could even ask what the hell he was talking about. It was too much. Being unable to escape the way his eyes watched you, the way his voice got quiet- confessional.

"Let me finish. I heard you sing, and I saw you cry, and the thought of you crying for another man made me so angry I thought I'd die from how much I hated him. Whoever he was. So I stopped coming by as often. I didn't know that would hurt you.. I didn't think you would care if you were still heartbroken over some asshole." It was starting to make sense, starting to make you hope that maybe.. maybe he felt the same way you did.

"I get heartbroken over friends you know. Just friends." Your words are slightly muffled by his fingers, but its worth it to see the hope flare to life in his eyes.

How had you both missed it? All these months of longing.

"But the way you broke my heart by just not coming by? When I didn't even know what was wrong? That's worse than anything I've ever felt before-"

Your first kiss with Katsuki was salty from your tears, but it was okay.

He wanted your tears, your lips, you to be his and only his.

~

[cyhyr]

Whumpmas in July: Warmth

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: E

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka

WC: ~3940

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Notes: frottage, therapy, safewords, cockwarming, oral sex, past abuse, love confessions

A/N: So, y'all know about my wonderful problem with terrible interpretations of prompts... Oops? Anyway, we'll return to our regularly scheduled whump-fest in the next fic. I think.

Follows "Look At Me"

For @whumpmasinjuly prompt list

Read on The Archive

~

They’re on a mission together when the idea comes to him. And he knows Kakashi isn’t going to approve, nor will he be interested in trying it; but a man can dream and it’s just the two of them on the road for five days and Iruka can admit that there’s probably something messed up with his head that he wants this but he can’t help it.

He remembers often, giving Kakashi that blowjob, and how it made him feel. He enjoyed having Kakashi in his mouth for the time he managed it, before he went and fucked it up by giving Kakashi his hair. They lay near each other at night in the forest and huddle together and oftentimes Iruka feels the outline of Kakashi’s dick against his ass and it’s… it’s a lot.

In a good way.

Fuck, but he wants Kakashi.

He just… doesn’t know how to go about having him without also triggering himself. It wasn’t until he started seeing a therapist, his first session two weeks ago, that he realized how much Mizuki ruined sex for him. He already knew he was damaged goods, but he hadn’t realized how much.

But this idea he’s got…

Maybe.

~

They’re two days from Konoha, huddled together in a shallow cave while a storm rages just outside. They could have kept going—a little rain and wind never hurt anyone—but Kakashi seemed to jump on the chance to settle down for the night early, and led them here. Iruka set up intricate traps and barrier seals around the mouth of the cave, assuring both himself and Kakashi that only the truly desperate will get into their hiding spot, let alone know they’re here. They dry out hair and clothes (Kakashi’s control with katon is brilliant, like the rest of him) and are simply enjoying sitting next to each other in front of a small fire.

Their vests and pouches remain within easy reach—they are still on a mission.

Iruka leans against Kakashi’s shoulder, contently dozing in and out. Kakashi has an Icha Icha book open in his palm, but hasn’t turned the page in over fifteen minutes. Their silence is odd in that it’s comfortable, but only if Iruka doesn’t think about how long they’ve each been quiet.

Kakashi breaks. “Iruka?”

“Hmm?”

“You… you would tell me… if I was doing something wrong. Right?”

Iruka’s eyes snap open and his happy doze fades fast. He lifts his head and shifts to face Kakashi. “Yes, of course, but what is this about? What’s—?” He stops and glances away, “Have I done something wrong?”

Kakashi hums. “You’ve just been a little distant for most of this mission. Since we passed through that hamlet on our first evening. I just—I don’t—”

“Kakashi, no,” Iruka reaches out for his hands, but at the last inch stops. He knows what this is about now; of course Kakashi picked up on his odd mood, his being-lost-in-thought. “Can I hold your hands?”

Kakashi nods, his blush barely noticeable in the firelight.

“Kakashi,” Iruka starts again with his partner’s hands in his own, “I’m sorry for seeming distant. I had an idea and it’s been plaguing me, but I wanted to wait until we got home to talk about it. I also—um—kind of want to discuss it with my therapist first.”

Kakashi brings their hands up to his masked lips and kisses Iruka’s fingers. “You will tell me, though?”

Iruka nods. “I want to, very much so. But I also need to. To talk it out with Rikona-sensei.”

Kakashi accepts the answer and tugs Iruka closer, which he does willingly. Iruka takes initiative and leans into the space behind Kakashi’s ear and mutters, “Can I...?”

Hands pull him to straddle Kakashi’s lap while a groaned “Yes” rumbles against his chest. Iruka slips Kakashi’s mask down just enough to get to that sensitive spot and nips at it. Kakashi, at the same time, gently gropes and kneads his ass.

“I. Want. Uhh, there—Iruka, more. Still can’t believe you’re able to hide this ass in—ohh, fuck—standard uniform pants. Oh gods. Iruka.”

Iruka smiles against Kakashi’s neck as he reveals bare skin. He won’t pull down the mask entirely—that’s a limit Kakashi set and, gods, Kakashi’s so good at remembering his triggers that Iruka can do him the favor of remembering one limit. Kakashi is hard, and Iruka grinds down on his erection to get him to swear and squirm some more.

So long as Iruka stays on top, stays in control, these kinds of encounters don’t bother him. Mizuki never treated him like this, not exactly. The differences are enough.

He rolls his hips against Kakashi, a little faster, holding onto Kakashi’s shoulders for balance. “Kakashi,” he moans breathily, “wanna see you come.”

Kakashi pants. One hand leaves his ass and pulls down his mask, and then they’re kissing, mouths devouring each other and teeth clicking together. Iruka feels his own stirrings of arousal, finally, and groans deeper in his chest.

“Close,” Kakashi warns, breaking the kiss after a few minutes.

“Good. Why’s your hand not back on my ass?”

“I don’t. I mean.”

Iruka smirks and takes Kakashi’s hand, bringing it up to his face. Iruka normally likes Kakashi’s gloves. The texture, the smell, the implication of power… but tonight, he’s glad the gloves are off, over with their vests and pouches.

He slips Kakashi’s first finger into his mouth and hums.

“Oh, shit.”

He continues to hold Kakashi’s finger against his tongue until he’s finished and slumped forward, and then lets it slide free with a pop.

“Gods, Iruka,” Kakashi murmurs, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him as close as possible. “That was. Wow.”

Iruka giggles and replaces Kakashi’s mask, and then cards his fingers through silver hair. “Very articulate.”

Kakashi hums. He’s still glowing, and won’t want to be coherent for a few minutes.

“Can I return the favor?” he mutters against Iruka’s neck. Even during the afterglow, Kakashi thinks of him; it’s sweet.

Iruka says, “No thanks. I started to get there, but just wasn’t… y’know.”

Kakashi sighs. “Still wanna kill him.”

“I know. I appreciate the sentiment.”

He whines. “It’s not fair that I get all the orgasms in this relationship.”

Iruka laughs outright. “Even though I’m okay with giving them to you? And also not asking for reciprocation?”

Kakashi nuzzles him. “Wanna see you come, too,” he murmurs.

Someday.

~

“It’s good that you feel ready to take steps to move forward. But what steps are you prepared to take to prevent an episode?”

“Well, I thought a lot about it on the way home. Mizuki would always come to my place, so I thought first maybe a change in scenery will help—I’m gonna ask if we can do this at Kakashi’s place.”

“That’s a start. But many of your triggers are auditory.”

“And Kakashi’s never said anything to tip me into an episode since our, uh, second disaster. I trust him.”

“Trust is important. What else?”

“I’m also going to heavily condition my hair, and brush it out. So in case Kakashi snags it accidentally it won’t pull. I’m… I’m also going to request that he wash up beforehand. He and Mizuki smell… too similar, right now. I don’t want to risk it.”

“What about position?”

“That’s something I will need to discuss with Kakashi. I can’t—I can’t be on my knees for this, that’s just asking for an episode.”

“I agree. May I also suggest the two of you discuss hand signals for safe-words? You won’t be able to talk, after all.”

“Yes. I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you have put so much thought into this.”

“I just need to prove to us I can move past this.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ve gone over time by ten minutes, but I think it’s worth it. I truly hope this works out for you, Iruka-sensei.”

~

Iruka is scrubbing the cabinet faces in his kitchen, waiting for Kakashi to get back from another mission. They’d gotten back, and the next day his partner had been sent out again—he had been angry at first, at the Counsel for requiring so much from Kakashi, and at himself for not understanding immediately that Kakashi requested the mission to give Iruka a little bit more time and space to work out that “odd” thought.

He’s worked it out. He talked it out with Rikona-sensei. He’s as prepared as he can be.

That’s why he’s cleaning.

Iruka can admit that he’s terrified this will go wrong. Against all of his thoughtful preparation, he could still dissociate. The more he goes under, the more likely it becomes that he just won’t resurface. Or he could resurface, but with new triggers—new ones relating to Kakashi instead of Mizuki.

Worst of all, Kakashi could just outright deny him and not even try. Iruka’s not sure how that situation would go, but it probably won’t be good.

At least. At least Kakashi’s due back today. He shouldn’t have to—

“Hello dear,” comes a voice from his kitchen window.

Iruka doesn’t hide the smile Kakashi’s voice drags out of him. He looks up from his spot on the floor and watches as his partner slinks through the window and over the sink and counter to join him on the floor.

“Sandals,” Iruka says. Kakashi takes his off and leaves to go put them in the genkan, and is back at his side quickly.

“You’re cleaning,” Kakashi comments. “Rough day with the ankle-biters?”

Iruka laughs. “No, nothing like that. I quite like this class, actually.”

“Then…?”

Iruka sets aside his sponge and sighs, standing up. “Right. Let me put this away, and then. Then we can talk.”

He leaves the room, taking as long as he dares knowing Kakashi is standing, arms crossed, in his kitchen. He dumps dirty water down the shower drain, sets the sponge in the bathroom sink to dry, and puts the bucket away in the bottom of the linen closet.

One more bracing breath, and then he leaves the bathroom.

“Okay.” He comes back into the kitchen; Kakashi hasn’t moved. “Would you like to sit?”

Kakashi holds a hand up. “First, please?” Iruka nods and gestures for him to speak. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“No.” Iruka’s proud of how even his tone is. “You may want to consider it, after this, but I don’t… it’s not what I want.”

Kakashi takes the chair beside Iruka’s usual one, and pulls down his mask. “I highly doubt whatever you have to say is going to change my feelings for you.”

Iruka sits. Smiles. “That’s sweet, but hold your judgement until you’ve heard me out.”

Kakashi leans forward and reaches out for his hands. Iruka gives them to him, letting Kakashi entwine their fingers together on the tabletop.

“I have something I want to try,” Iruka starts. “And I’ve given it a lot of thought, how to go about it without worrying about triggering an episode.”

Kakashi sits up a little straighter. “What do you want?”

Iruka’s face heats up, and he looks away for a moment to collect himself. “I… okay, so. I—before I fucked up that last time, when I was blowing you—”

“We agreed that it was both of our faults,” Kakashi glowers. “If you want to take any of the blame, I get an equal amount for being the instigating party.”

“Right. Sorry—”

“Iruka.”

Iruka closes his eyes and bites his lip. Deep breath. “Thank you, Kakashi, for reminding me.”

Kakashi brings his hand up to kiss his fingers. “You’re welcome. I’d like to hear more, but not if you’re going to be self-deprecating.”

“I. Yes. Okay. I can… I’ll try.”

Kakashi replaces their hands on the table and waits.

“So, the blowjob. When I was. Before I dissociated.” Iruka flushes hard. “I really enjoyed that.”

“As did I. But you also said that your performing oral sex is off limits, because of your trauma. Has that changed?” Kakashi is trying not to look excited, but Iruka can see the spark in his eye.

“Not exactly. I’d like to try something, um. Blowjob-adjacent?”

Kakashi waits.

“I’d like you to consider. Letting me… um.” Oh just thinking about it is getting his heart racing; his breathing speeds up.

“Iruka, are you with me?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “I’m not—slipping. It’s. Fuck,” he takes one hand back from Kakashi and presses his palm to his forehead. He decides to spit it all out as fast as he can. “I want your cock in my mouth again, but I want to just. Hold it. Does that make—”

Kakashi’s chair screeches as he pushes back from the table. He comes around the corner of the table and kneels in front of Iruka, looking up at him reverently. “You would do that for me?” he whispers.

Iruka puts his free hand against Kakashi’s cheek. “You’re the one who’d be doing me a favor,” he smirks. “I want this, Kakashi.”

“Now?”

Iruka shakes his head. “I mean, yes, but not-not here. And I have some preparation steps for both of us, to help prevent the chance of an episode.”

“Anything.”

~

Two hours later, it’s late and dark, and Iruka stands outside of Kakashi’s apartment door. The jōnin barracks are sparse, as most shinobi who attain this rank either are part of a clan, make enough to purchase their own quarters, or find better housing with spouses or roommates. As it is, Kakashi is the only one living on his floor, and has been able to secure the apartments above and below him to stay empty as well.

Iruka knocks. He doesn’t have to wait long for Kakashi to open the door.

“Hello dear.”

Iruka smiles and leans in to accept Kakashi’s kiss to his forehead. He’s led inside, and once the door shuts, he reaches up and starts untying his hair.

Hands gently take his elbows and Kakashi crowds him from behind. “Leave it up for now?”

Iruka tightens the tie again, then turns around in the circle of Kakashi’s arms. “Have you thought about it?” he asks.

Kakashi hums. “Can I kiss you? I won’t get to for a while.”

Iruka leans in and tugs gently at his mask with one finger. “Gotta take this off first,” he says.

“Go ahead.”

Oh. Iruka cups Kakashi’s jaw with both hands and slowly eases the fabric down over his nose and mouth. His face bared to the room, Iruka traces his lips with a fingertip. “Can I—?”

“Please, Iruka.”

Lips meet and moans rumble in both of their throats. Iruka keeps his hands on Kakashi’s face, revelling in the bare skin he was allowed to—Oh his chest aches in such a wonderful way.

Kakashi runs one hand up his spine while the other stays around his waist. Iruka smirks into the kiss as Kakashi traces his hand back down, past his waist, his hips, and finally settling on the curve of his ass.

“Someday,” Iruka murmurs into his mouth, and groans at Kakashi’s harsh kneading.

“Best ass in Konoha,” Kakashi whispers. “In the world.”

Iruka laughs outright, tipping his head back. The laugh turns into another moan as Kakashi kisses his neck and jaw. He lets Kakashi lead as they start walking over to the bed.

Then they fall gently, slowly, onto the mattress. Iruka keeps his eyes open; there’s a different visual stimulus here, Kakashi’s studio being so different from his own bedroom. He’s urged to lay beside Kakashi, still in his comforting embrace.

They kiss forever, until Iruka feels comfortable exploring Kakashi’s body with his own hands, until he closes his eyes and rests his head back against the pillow and lets Kakashi kiss him all over, tapping and tugging at various pieces of clothing to ask if he can remove them.

They’re both down to their underwear when Iruka starts to feel the faint prickling of panic at the edge of his awareness. He pulls Kakashi back up to him and kisses him deeply, slipping his tongue into Kakashi’s mouth and feeling the scar across his eye.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Kakashi asks.

“Hmm. Almost wanna just keep making out with you all night,” Iruka says.

“We can do that,” Kakashi offers. “If you want to wait on—”

“Oh no. I’m getting that monster back on my tongue tonight.” Iruka kisses along Kakashi’s jaw, hunting for his weak spot. He probably can’t reach it from this position. Judging from the rumbling moan in his chest, Kakashi doesn’t mind his trying. Or his words.

“Shit, alright. Sit up a moment.”

Iruka collects himself up onto his knees and waits while Kakashi repositions himself to sit against the headboard, his legs apart. He crooks a finger in Iruka’s direction and yes he’s helpless but to settle between Kakashi’s legs and lean in to kiss him again. Iruka drags his mouth across Kakashi’s chest, licks at his stomach, and finally lays himself down and breathes in Kakashi—bitter, dark; he wonders briefly if Kakashi had followed his request to wash up before this, so the faint scent that reminded him once of Mizuki would be covered by soap smell.

Kakashi’s musk doesn’t flash a threat of Mizuki now.

He lays his head on Kakashi’s thigh and waits. Kakashi pets Iruka’s hair with one hand—very gently—and fondles himself with the other. Watching Kakashi go from semi-hard to fully erect in front of him is maddening; he feels his own dick respond, and the heat in his core starts to build. He licks his lips and shifts closer just a bit.

Kakashi stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, just. Just a little bit more.”

Iruka whines.

Kakashi stops. “Iruka?”

“I’m fine. I’m great. Please, please keep touching yourself,” he whimpers. “Gods, keep touching yourself.”

“Fuck.”

Kakashi pulls his cock out, finally, and strokes himself. Iruka’s lips part involuntarily, beginning to pant. He shifts his hips against the sheets, but keeps his arms still around Kakashi’s hips and his head steady on his thigh. His mouth dries out quickly with his panting.

“Please, Kakashi, please. I-I want you so bad please—”

“What do you do if I check in with you and you’re okay?”

Iruka taps his hip once.

“And if you ever need to stop?”

He taps twice. “Or I can just pull away.”

“Right. And if you find yourself slipping?”

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-

Kakashi chuckles. “Alright, alright.” He holds his cock at the base and guides Iruka forward with his other hand at the back of his head. He doesn’t push, doesn’t hold him, doesn’t grab him; and Iruka goes for it happily, sliding his lips around the head and moaning along with Kakashi at the first touch of tongue to cock.

He sucks on the head for a moment, breathing deeply and focusing himself. When he feels ready, he slides down, bit by bit, hearing Kakashi’s harsh panting echoing in the room.

“Little more, that’s it. Fuck, beautiful—c’mon, c’mon, just—oh, gods.”

Kakashi’s cock hits the back of his throat. Iruka pulls back, just a second, breathes, and on his exhale sinks down the rest of the way.

“Shit-shit-shit, fuck, Iruka, so g—ah, shit, your mouth yes.”

He lays his head back on Kakashi’s thigh and lets his partner run his mouth above him. He’s got cock comfortably settled down his throat and yeah, they’ll have to change the sheets because Iruka’s already drooling around his mouthful something terrible—something wonderful—and by the time he’s ready to come back there’ll likely be a small puddle.

It doesn’t seem that Kakashi will mind.

He finally collects himself to quiet down, still hard in his throat though. It’s nice. Kakashi pets his hair again, and this time also pulls the tie free from his hair. He’s careful, so damn careful, and then Iruka’s hair is loose around his face and he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care because he’s got better things to focus on.

He’s in Kakashi’s bed, with Kakashi’s scent all around him, and Kakashi’s bittersweet cock on his tongue, and Kakashi’s words echoing around him, and he’s hard.

Oh, he’s hard.

If he shifts he’ll choke. He can’t take any relief for how turned on he is. That’s… that’s okay. He’s not doing this to get off. He’s doing it to prove he can.

And he is.

And he does.

Kakashi checks in with him every ten minutes. He stays present the whole time. It’s so. It’s perfect. The third time, Kakashi tells him it’s been half an hour, and Iruka hums and glances up at him questioningly.

“I’d. I’d really like to come, Iruka. But I also want to wait until you’re ready.”

He sighs through his nose and carefully pulls off of Kakashi’s cock. He sucks on the head for a minute, listening to Kakashi swear and pant some more as he swallows and lets his throat relax. When he pulls off the rest of the way, he noses at the hard, reddened length and says, voice wrecked, “Come, then. If you’d like.”

Kakashi wastes no time in grabbing his spit-slick dick and beginning to pump furiously. Iruka sits up on his knees to watch, pressing the heel of his own hand against his erection and breathing heavily to keep himself under control.

“You too, please,” Kakashi whimpers. “Can I see you? Can I—oh, can I blow you? I’ll be just as-as-fuck, Iruka, please, I want you too; wanna see you, too.”

“I know,” Iruka says. His shoulders are heaving with the force of keeping his breath steady. “But this was for you.”

“But—”

“Oh, my Kakashi,” Iruka murmurs. “Just. Let go. Let me see you. Let me know I d-did good.”

“Fuck, Iruka.”

“Come, love.”

He does. Oh, he comes, hard and loud and wet, streaking up his chest and dripping over his hand and gods does Iruka have the urge to kiss him through his afterglow. He inches forward on his knees and reaches past Kakashi’s shoulder to the washcloth they’d prepared before, sitting on the windowsill. Iruka gently wipes it across Kakashi’s chest and groin, and then takes his hand and swipes it with the cloth, too. He tosses the washcloth across the room to the sink, and leans forward to press his forehead against Kakashi’s.

“Can I—?”

“Please kiss me,” Kakashi whimpers at the same time.

He does. Kakashi’s arms embrace him loosely and he holds Kakashi’s face in one hand and braces his other palm against his chest. His heart is racing, pounding.

“You called me—”

“I do.” Iruka murmurs, pulling away so he can look into Kakashi's eye. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, tied with Naruto.”

“For different—”

“You know what I mean.” Iruka chuckles. “Yes, for different reasons.”

“Does this mean I can get you off now?”

Iruka shakes his head. “I just wanna enjoy your glow with you. You’re so precious like this.”

“I like it,” Kakashi mutters. “Being yours.”

“I like having you,” Iruka cards his fingers through Kakashi’s hair. “I… I love you.”

Kakashi says, “I love you, too.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ve loved you for months, Iruka. I’m just. Scared.”

“Don’t be. You’ve got me.”

They breathe through the glow. They’ll have to change the sheet, and Iruka hasn't yet confirmed with Kakashi if it’s okay if he stays the night. But he’s happy, and he’s proven to himself that he’s on the mend, and Mizuki’s hold on him has loosened just that little bit more.

[consumedkings-archive]

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter ten: the kind of love we gather

word count: 7.5k

rating: m for mature

warnings: there is an interaction with an abusive ex-husband that eludes to physical/domestic violence. also, i think it's fair to warn against joseph himself--whatever argument there is to be had about the sincerity of his feelings, there's a few times where it feels like there's definitely some emotional manipulation happening.

notes: this is an interlude chapter, a little flashback/prelude going through isolde and joseph's relationship--or, at least, a significant part of it (still some secrets to be discovered!). i've had this chapter drawn up for a while and i thought this would be a great cliffhanger/changing point in the story to give their relationship and their dynamic a little more context, so i hope that's alright with y'all!

some of you folks who follow me here on tumblr may recognize a part of this chapter as a smut oneshot i wrote for them; that was the alternate universe to this instance in time, which is firmly rooted in their canon. lmao

it should go without saying that i have yeeted canon out the window for all of ancient names and witching hour, and the way that the seed brothers were pre-reaping and hope county is subject to much the same.

—Before—

The first time that Isolde saw Joseph, she knew she was in for it.

If he had been any other man, she thought, it wouldn’t have been so clearly a disaster waiting to happen. She would have been able to crash and burn with him as she pleased: but he wasn’t just any other man. He was John’s man, his older brother, the one that he tried so hard to live up to and impress. She had only heard of him in passing, but that was all it had taken. Isolde knew exactly how John felt about him.

“Who is that?” she asked, when she spotted the cleanly dressed man across the room. The office was dimly lit with the lights lowered; people mingled and chatted, drinks in hand, as everyone celebrated that they’d been able to move into a nice, new office downtown, with a whole floor to themselves.

John’s gaze followed hers. His expression flattened. “Stop it.”

No fun. Isolde feigned innocence. “Stop what?”

“That’s my brother Joseph, Sol,” he hissed. “Do not try to fuck my brother.”

“You have a couple, don’t you?” she asked. “What’s the one?”

“Fuck off.”

She sighed, taking a sip of her drink. Just her luck. A Seed boy, and yet, so fine. What a waste. “Fine, Johnny,” she said, patting his shoulder. Across the room, she saw Joseph’s gaze land on hers as he politely smiled at one of the other partygoers, and then stay locked, right on her. “I won’t fuck your very hot brother, who is very plainly making eyes at me from across the room.”

“He’s never had great taste in women.” John grimaced. “Off-limits, Isolde, I mean it.”

“Scout’s honor.”

So much for that, anyway, she thought later, when Joseph crossed the party and made his way up to her. He was even more handsome up close, and though long hair wasn’t typically her type, it looked good on him, pulled back and slick. Just enough to look polished.

“You’re Isolde?” Joseph asked, and his eyes swept over her. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“Are you the authority on Isoldes?” she replied. She arched a brow loftily at him. “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of an expert.”

“Well, it’s just that John rarely complains about beautiful women,” he countered easily, the flirtation slipping so seamlessly from his mouth that she might have missed it. “They’re his greatest vice. Yet, he complains incessantly about you.” He paused. “I’m Joseph, his brother.”

That did sound like John. Isolde wrangled a smile, leaned comfortably back against the wall as Joseph sidled over to her. With him in front of her, he almost completely eclipsed out the rest of the party, like he’d suddenly bubbled her and it was just the two of them in the entire room. He was so very good at that—with his eyes on her, it felt as though nobody else in the entire world existed.

“I’m flattered,” she murmured, “that I’ve managed to break John of his greatest vice.”

“I did come to thank you for that.” Joseph’s mouth ticked up into a smile, almost playful, if the rich timbre of his voice wasn’t so soothing. “And for taking good care of John. He’s a...”

Isolde watched Joseph through her lashes. He had no alcohol in his hands, but kept them tucked easily into the pockets of his slacks; he held himself without the easy arrogance that John carried himself. It was more like Joseph knew, exactly, his place in the world, and so didn’t feel the need to assert it. It simply was.

“Handful,” Isolde supplied.

“That’s a good way to put that,” he agreed. A quiet moment stretched between them—an easy silence, and she got the impression that it was going to be like this with him; no pressure to fill the silences—before she shifted on her feet.

“So, how are you going to do it?” she asked him, taking a sip of her drink. Joseph’s gaze, which had drifted to where John was chatting with Jacob and another guest, flickered back to her. The inquisitive tilt of his head followed after, and when she didn’t supply further questioning, he didn’t bother smothering the amused little smile on his face.

“Do what?” he asked.

“Thank me.”

The smile didn’t quite leave his face yet. “Didn’t John give you the same speech about how off-limits we are to each other?”

“Well,” Isolde relented, “whatever is he going to complain about if his brother doesn’t take me out for dinner? I’d be failing him as his vice breaker if I didn’t keep my game fresh.”

“Is that what I’m doing to thank you, then?”

Joseph’s voice was a low, rich sound, rumbling straight through her, vibrating in the cavity of her chest. She thought, instantly, that she’d like to know what it felt like to have him say her name into her skin. Isolde’s lashes fluttered; she hummed thoughtfully and polished off the last of her wine.

Dinner isn’t sex, she reasoned. So technically, I’m not really breaking John’s little agreement.

“It’s an option,” she offered after a moment. And then, in an act of what John would surely describe later as pure spite for his well-being and mental health: “Though you’re welcome to do more, if you feel inclined.”

This finally (finally, a part of her said) elicited a laugh out of Joseph. His eyes slipped from hers, lingering on her mouth before pulling away to the rest of the party, almost reluctantly.

“Tomorrow,” he said after a moment. “Are you free?”

“Technically I’m working,” Isolde drawled, “but lucky for you, I’m the boss and I can make my own hours.”

“Lucky, indeed,” Joseph replied amusedly. “Six, then.”

“And don’t tell John,” Isolde said, as though making a pact. The man inclined his head a little, reaching up and sweeping a loose strand of hair behind her ear and made a low noise of agreement.

“And don’t tell John,” he reiterated. “Yet.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I asked you for one thing, Isolde!”

John was, as to be expected, upset.

“That’s not true,” Isolde defended, busying her hands with gathering up a few files and tucking them into her bag. “You ask me for a million things, every day. Namely, tolerating your ego. Not to mention keeping your head from exploding every time someone pays you a compliment, and—”

“You know what I mean.” John exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temples as though Isolde had inspired in him the greatest of headaches. She hoped that she had. It would be the least he could suffer, after all of the brainpower she had to expend on the daily to keep him in check.

Leaning back in her chair, Isolde said, “It was just dinner, John.”

“Do not pretend to be stupid all of a sudden,” John snapped. “Joseph does not date around. He doesn’t ever do something that’s just dinner."

"Funny," she mused, "it feels like that's exactly what it was. Eating food together, at a restaurant, during the evening."

John’s head cocked to the side. He leveled her with a singular pointed look and said, “Oh, yeah?”

She squinted at him. “Yeah.”

“Is that so? Then what did you do after dinner, Isolde?” He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the wall as he waited for her answer. She kept her face wiped clear of emotions even though John’s question instantly inspired in her a flurry of memories; Joseph, snagging her hand on their way out of the restaurant, leaning in and kissing her; and kissing her, and kissing her, keeping her pulled close against him until she thought she was going to go dizzy from it all.

And then, well—

“We’re two consenting adults, John,” she said at last, and he threw up his hands.

“I explicitly said not to!”

“Yeah, well!��� There was no good excuse; she knew that. The excuse was that Joseph was incredibly attractive, and Isolde had wanted him, and so that had been the beginning and the end of it. Still, she kept her eyes on the paper in front of her. “I made that agreement before I got a good look at him. John, I’m actually trying to get some work done, so if you could—”

John scoffed. “One, Joseph is related to me, so of course he’s hot, and two—you’ve got the impulse control of a toddler. I hope you know that.”

He pushed off from the wall and started collecting his things to leave her office; a blissful departure, to be sure, but there was something sitting and stinging in the pit of her stomach that wouldn’t let her leave it to rest.

“Rich,” Isolde said demurely, “coming from the man who can’t stop an endless chain of making-up-breaking-up.”

His movements paused. He stared at her for a long moment, before he said. “Hey, Isolde?”

“Yes, John?”

“Fuck you.” John’s movements resumed to the door. “Fuck you, and see you in the conference room in twenty.” Another pause, and then thrown over his shoulder: “If you’re not too busy letting my brother—”

“Alright, point made!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “It’s really not anything serious. Okay? It was just dinner and a date, that’s all.”

This had him stopping again, paused in the doorway with a bit of frustration welling up in his voice when he said, “You don’t know my brother, Isolde.”

“But I know me. Alright?”

He sighed. “Yes, alright. Twenty minutes, then.”

For a moment, it felt like things had been settled between them. John was still young, she thought; younger than her, and the baby of his brothers, which she knew meant he held on tighter to things that maybe he needed to all the time. Too tight, or too loose, to make it hurt less when something didn’t work out.

But the peace only lasted for a moment, because a few minutes after John had settled back in behind his desk across the hall from her, their secretary came around the corner, her arms filled with a fragrant bouquet of lilies.

“Ms. Khan, you have an admirer!” she exclaimed delightedly. Isolde met John’s eyes across the hall, staring at her with an expression that could only have been described with the phrase I told you so. “It looks like they’re from a gentleman named Joseph S—”

“Thank you, Laura,” Isolde interrupted, clearing her throat. “You can set them on the table there, I’ll find them a vase.”

Laura nodded and smiled, laying the bouquet delicately on the coffee table and then making her way out of the office. Isolde left the flowers untouched for about an hour, unable to stand the thought of John catching her keeping them alive (because she would never hear an end to it), but it was killing her a little bit. She had mentioned once, in an off-hand comment, that she didn’t like the typical flower bouquets like red roses or carnations; lilies were her favorite. One tiny comment, and this was the result?

There was only a note with the flowers. It said, Hoping John isn’t giving you too much trouble. Be by at six for you.

It felt a little treacherous; just enough to make it a bit harder to look at John with a serious face and not burst out laughing at the absurdity of their situation. Thankfully, close to the end of the day John made the dramatic announcement that he thought he was going to kill himself if he had to spend even another second sitting across from the elaborate bouquet.

“I’m going to go home,” he said, shrugging into his coat, “and try to retain at least half of my brain cells.”

Isolde hmm’d. “So just the one, then?

“Ha-ha. Goodnight, Sol.”

“Have a good night.”

It seemed like there were only a few moments of quiet between John’s departure and Joseph’s arrival, though in reality it had been a few hours; focusing felt like a chore, like it took a little extra work to get through the depositions she had to prepare and the emails she had to answer.

Just dinner, she thought. Just dinner and a date, and whatever happened after. And just one more date tonight. Not a big deal; adults go on dates all the time. I’m an adult. It’s fine.

But it wasn’t just that, because she was sure her heart rate had plateaued at a solid one hundred and ten since Joseph’s I’ll pick you up from work text. Because Isolde wasn’t the kind of woman who took a man back to her place on the first date, and yet.

By the time Joseph did swing by to pick her up, John had been gone for a few hours and she’d gotten almost no work done, instead completely consumed by the predicament she’d planted herself in. It did break the rules to date Joseph. No business and pleasure, first and foremost. Normally, Isolde would have considered herself a woman of incredible discipline, able to turn down temptations of varying degrees—but when Joseph rolled through her office door with those stupid, hot yellow aviators on his face, she thought maybe she had overestimated herself.

“You look tired,” Joseph said lightly, brushing some snow out of his hair. Isolde’s expression flattened.

“Thanks, Romeo. ‘Hi, Isolde, how was your day?’ ‘Oh, just fine, except for your brother throwing a baby temper tantrum every five minutes’. ‘You poor thing, Isolde, but you have to tell me how you manage to be so exceptionally beautiful still’.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t look beautiful still,” he replied. His eyes followed her as she walked around her desk, having slid her coat on and collected her purse; they stayed trained on her all the way up to when there was no space left between them, until he was gazing at her with amusement dragging his mouth into a smile.

She said, lightly, “You didn’t say I was beautiful at all, actually.”

Joseph reached up. Though the room was empty of everyone except the two of them, somehow it still felt special when he looked at her—it still felt like nothing else in the entire world mattered to Joseph in that moment except for her. The pad of his thumb brushed her lower lip, his gaze drinking her in, admiring and hungry in equal amounts.

“You are,” he said, his voice low, the timbre of it rattling something animal inside of her. “Beautiful.”

Kiss me, she wanted to say, because he was so close and yet seemed to refuse to actually finish the job. She didn’t think she could have mustered the words even if she wanted to; Joseph was a wildfire, eating up all the oxygen around her, sucking it right out of the air until there was nothing left but for her to feel swallowed by it.

“I wasn’t entirely truthful with you, the other night,” Joseph continued, dragging his thumb from her lip down to her jawline, “when I said that John’s greatest vice was beautiful women.” He paused, his head tilting. “They’re mine.”

Isolde’s lashes fluttered. She glanced up at him, and she said, “Well, that’s not the greatest sales pitch for yourself. How many red flags should I be looking for?”

He laughed and brushed his lips against her temple. “I get the feeling you won’t miss a single one.”

It shouldn’t have been quite so endearing, his casual reference to any red flags that he might have. Even his confidence that she’d pick them out (she would; if finding red flags was an Olympic sport, Isolde would have been a gold medalist) didn’t inspire the greatest feeling in her, though if she was playing devil’s advocate she knew that there were things about herself that didn’t make her so very well acquainted with healthy relationships.

“I’m glad I was able to come and pick you up today,” Joseph continued casually as they left her office and headed down the stairs. “It’s been snowing all afternoon. I’d hate for you to have to drive in this weather.”

And then he did things like that—uncharacteristically gentlemanly of him, to not want her to drive herself home in adverse weather. “I think I would have been fine,” Isolde replied. His fingers brushed hers at her side, snagging them and bringing them up to his mouth to kiss.

“Undoubtedly.”

It hadn’t been a lie, his remark about the snow. By the time they were pushing the doors to the lobby open, bidding the security officer goodnight, at least a solid foot of snow had collected and was pushed up against the lip of the sidewalk.

She grimaced. Winter was her least favorite season. Holiday cheer and Isolde Khan were not two concepts that melded well—not that she was a scrooge, per se, but with her only family halfway across the world and, on top, a tenuous relationship at best, it didn’t make Christmas very fun.

As they walked down the sidewalk, passing Joseph’s car in favor of pursuing a nearby restaurant, the blonde kept their fingers tangled together. The gesture was light, and didn’t demand anything, but it was enough to say something: I want you close to me.

“Does your family come here for the holidays?” Joseph asked lightly, disentangling their hands in favor of giving her hip a squeeze, keeping his hand there as they drifted into a warmly-lit wine bar. “I remember you saying they live in Turkey.”

So Joseph did just have that good of a memory. She’d have to be more careful about the things she said to him. “No,” Isolde replied, desperate to steer the conversation elsewhere. “It’s too far. And I don’t go there.”

“Then what do you do on Christmas?” he prompted. He tugged a seat out for her at a spot farthest away from the door and then planted himself across from her, absently reading over the list of wines.

“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely. And then, in an effort to redirect, again: “You, if you’re around.”

Joseph’s gaze flickered up to hers from across the table. She could tell he was trying to stifle a smile. “You’d have to come all the way to Hope County if you had that penciled into your planner, Miss Khan.”

“Oh, Miss Khan, am I? We’re suddenly very formal with each other.” Isolde grinned. “And what does Joseph Seed, in Hope County, do on Christmas?”

“We haven’t spent many holidays together, but this year I’d like have a big family dinner on Christmas Eve, the handful of us.” He settled back in his chair a little, like he was getting ready to be there for a while. “Since John’s moved out here for work, Jacob’s been out of the country, and we only recently found each other again, we don’t get a lot of time together.” He shrugged. “And you, of course. If you’re around.”

Before she had an opportunity to respond, caught off guard by how easily he wielded her own flirtation against her, she felt a few bodies brush past their table and then pause, only to be followed by a dreadfully familiar voice: “Isolde?”

Something sharp and hot brought her pulse to a grinding stop—or it felt like it, anyway, like all of the breath had been sucked right out of her and she had ceased to be alive anymore, a cadaver sat up to play pretend like in those old photos. No, she thought when she felt a hand touch her shoulder, nausea welling up inside of her. No, I don’t want this, not right now.

“It is you,” Alec said, his voice blooming with warmth. “I thought I recognized you. I know you like this spot.” His hand slid from her shoulder and she felt, without even looking at him, the way he turned his eyes to Joseph. “Who’s your friend?”

“Date,” Isolde bit out. “He’s my date.”

Her ex-husband let out what she could only describe as a comical exhale of breath. Joseph was watching her, inquisitive but ever-so-composed, before he turned his gaze politely to Alec and offered his hand.

“Joseph,” the blonde said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The sight of the two men shaking hands made her want to puke. Everything Alec touched in her life was rotten, putrid—brimming with bile and spoiled, forever. She didn’t want it to be like that with Joseph, too.

Alec began, “I’m—”

“Alec is my ex-husband,” Isolde interrupted, her voice hard, punctuating each consonant of the words that came out of her mouth with violent intent.

Joseph settled back in his seat. Suddenly, Isolde was reminded that he had a penchant for remembering even the smallest throwaway details, and that she’d probably let him in on more than she would have liked about how her relationship had been with Alec without even saying anything. Yes, Isolde thought absently, her brain careening like a plane on fire as she watched Joseph fix his eyes on Alec, yes, he can tell.

“Fresh on the dating scene, and only six months divorced,” Alec remarked lightly, his infuriatingly handsome face the only thing filling up her peripheral. “I’m happy for you, Isolde.”

“So leave,” Isolde snapped. She finally looked at him, really looked at him, and naturally he looked perfect; dark curls, stubble neatly trimmed, eyes bright and amused. There were a few thin, gossamer scars on his face from the last time they were together— but he must have paid quite a bit of money to smooth those out.

He lifted his hands in a show of surrender, his gaze sweeping over her. Just that one gesture felt like a violation—she wanted to smash his face into the table and tell him he didn’t get to even look at her anymore.

“Good luck with this one, Joe,” Alec said, his overly-familiar use of a nickname that Isolde had never heard anyone use with Joseph sticking to her ribs like a heavy dinner. “She’s a wicked little thing.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” Joseph replied serenely.

Alec paused; his gaze lingered on her neck and suddenly he was grinning. Isolde knew what it was he was looking at—a bruise, a remnant of the night before, left by Joseph.

“Yeah,” Alec agreed, “it looks like you’ve already figured out how to handle her.”

Who’s going to pity you? If you were me, you would have seen that you were begging for it. You fucking asked for it. 

Isolde stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the wooden paneling of the floor. Sick, she thought, her stomach rolling. I’m going to be sick. “Leaving,” she managed out, only vaguely aware of Joseph also coming to a stand across from her, albeit more composed. “We’re leaving.”

I’m your husband, Isolde. It means it’s my job to keep you in line.

“Not on my account, I hope,” Alec sighed. “You’ve always been so dramatic. Anyway, Joseph—a pleasure to meet you, and—you know, call me if you need help with her. I’m always happy to lend my expertise.”

Everyone knows what it takes to get you under control, and I’ll tell anyone who asks.

She pushed past him, stepping around the table and clutching her coat and purse in her hands. There wasn’t time to put them on; there would never be enough time to get as much space between herself and Alec as she wanted.

I should have killed him, she thought viciously, taking in lungfuls of frigid air, snow dappling her face and sticking to her eyelashes. Right then, I should have bashed his fucking skull in.

Fingers brushed her arm. On instinct she startled, whirling to face the impending threat, half-expecting Alec to have chased her out into the street in an attempt to corner her—a thing that he had taken great joy in before, sweeping things off of the counter to grab and pull and rip—but it was Joseph. He waited two heartbeats before he reached again, his fingertips cradling the crook of her elbow.

It was a question: can I? Will you let me?

“I wish he would die,” she said, without thinking, the words spilling out of her like a poison she just couldn’t hold in anymore. Whatever information Joseph had gleaned about her tumultuous marriage with Alec made him unbothered by this statement; he tugged her closer to him, the hand not holding her arm reaching up to brush the pads of his fingers across her pulse point.

He said, “I know.”

“Joseph—”

“Isolde.” His voice was low, the words murmured against her forehead. “Don’t explain.” Because I already know, is what he meant. Because I already understand what’s going on here.

He tugged her coat out of her hands and pulled it around her shoulders. Bent like he was, leaned into her with something that she thought might be adoration, Joseph brushed their noses together. She felt tension flood her body; she was afraid that he might try to kiss her right then, of what she might do if he did while her body was brutalized by adrenaline, but he didn’t. 

He just held her.

“Here,” Joseph said, taking her hand and bringing it to his neck until she could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his pulse under her fingers. “I’ve got you.”

It should have frightened her. Joseph’s intensity was an intimidating kind, but in these moments, the intensity was required to cut through the panic. It overwhelmed her fried senses, the neurons firing rapidly stifled and swallowed up by the looming responsibility to recognize his closeness. The smell of his cologne, the bump of their noses, the feeling of his stubble under her fingertips, his hands closing the jacket around her shoulders. All of it meant that her brain could no longer panic, and had, instead, something to occupy itself with.

“Can you take me home?” Her voice felt small coming out of her, like it belonged to someone else. A different Isolde, at a different place and time. The girl she might have been or perhaps was before Alec.

Low, Joseph murmured, “Of course. Whatever you need.”

A sick, macabre part of her wanted to look back behind Joseph at the wine bar. It wanted to see Alec again—the way that you couldn’t stop yourself from peeking through your hands at the monster in a horror movie, the way that you couldn’t look away from a brutal car crash on the highway. Sick, she thought dizzily. He made me sick.

“Take me home,” she said, more firmly this time.

“I’m trying,” Joseph replied. His voice was so soft that she almost had to strain to hear it over the pounding of her heart. His hands came to her face, cradling. “You have to let me.”

Isolde nodded, swallowing back what adrenaline insisted on leaking into her brain. She hadn’t realized that she was bolting her feet to the floor, gritting her teeth against the gentle pressure of Joseph’s hands, until he said, you have to let me. 

“Okay,” she murmured. He nodded and brushed the hair from her face. This time, his guiding pressure actually registered in her brain; when he nudged her away from the bar and down the street to his car, she moved, instead of digging her heels in.

When they reached the vehicle, he opened the passenger door for her and waited for her to climb in before he leaned down.

“I’m—” Isolde started, the words shredding in her mouth before they got out of her. I’m sorry, she wanted to say. “About—the bar, I—”

“I told you, don’t explain yourself,” Joseph insisted, tucking her hair behind her ear. There was something almost earnest about his gaze now as he watched her, her heart thrumming violently in her chest with a different mantra now. Same, it said, when Joseph’s fingers grazed her cheek, tilted her chin up. Same as us. Ours, too. He’s our kind.

“There’s plenty of people I wish were dead, too.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Shoes, clothes, charger, phone. No phone?

“Where did he put my phone?” Isolde muttered, searching through the suitcase on the bed. An array of clothing was laid out, but not yet folded; in fact, the only things that were packed yet were all work things that she’d have to take with her. Joseph would probably be furious—he had, in fact, specifically insisted that no work come on the vacation—but better than anyone he knew what it was like to rely on John for things. Which was that, if you liked things done to the standard that Joseph and Isolde wanted them done to, you didn’t rely on anyone else. Least of all John.

“Soli…” It was Joseph’s voice coming from the bottom of the stairs, not questioning but asking. Beckoning. You’re taking too long. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

“Where’s my phone?” she called back, pacing around the other side of the bedroom. “I’m trying to pack it up for tomorrow so that I don’t have to worry about it.”

A beat, where Joseph was likely collecting his patience, passed. “It’s down here. You left it on the counter.” And then: “Come eat, won’t you?”

He was doing that thing where he phrased it as a question and meant it as a statement. Joseph had learned, in a very short period of time, that she didn’t like when someone told her what to do; as petulant as it was, she’d buck against something like that desperately until it felt like her idea all along.

Isolde sighed. “Yes, I’m coming, Joseph.” One more up-and-down the stairs, ten more minutes of packing, and then she’d be content enough to sit down and eat.

“Full first name?” came the leisurely reply from downstairs. “My, you are in a mood tonight.”

Isolde busied herself with folding clothes, a smile fighting its way onto her face in spite of Joseph’s insistence that she was “in a mood”. She wasn’t; if he wanted to believe that, he was certainly welcome to, but she wasn’t in a mood. She was thinking.

So she put folded clothes over the work files and said, “Joseph, light of my life; the sun which my planet orbits; the fabric by which the stars are made…”

“This sounds more like the Isolde I’m used to.” His voice was closer now, coming from the doorway, and when she looked over her shoulder at him he said, “And definitely not coming to eat.”

“Do you go by Joe?” she asked lightly, dropping the last of her clothes in the suitcase.

Joseph wandered across the master bedroom until there wasn’t any space left between them; his hand came up to her face, trailing the slope of her cheekbone. “I certainly do not.”

“So, definitely call you that, then.”

“You are testing my greatest virtue,” Joseph replied, leaning down and kissing her. Just the once, though; long enough for her to want to lean into it, and not long enough to be satisfying. He pulled back just so far as to let their lips brush when he said, “Come sit down.”

Skimming her fingers along his chest, she asked playfully, “What are you going to do if I say no?”

The blonde eyed her amusedly. “John was right. You really don’t like being bossed around, do you?”

“How dare you say those words, in that order, in my presence,” Isolde murmured without heat. “You know I can’t stand to have someone stroking his ego by admitting he’s right about something.” A low laugh slipped out of Joseph and he carded his fingers through her hair, letting the pads of his fingers skim the back of her scalp as he kissed her temple.

She loved it. She loved when he did this; Joseph was so tactile, taking every opportunity to connect them through touch, like she grounded him. Like she was something precious that he wanted to enjoy every chance he got.

“You are the only one I’ll say something to more than once,” he said, his voice pleasantly low. “But luckily for you, I find your obstinance endearing.”

“If it helps,” she countered, “I don’t mind if you boss me around. Mostly. Why don’t you give it another try?” That wasn’t true. She did. But she liked the way it made Joseph’s ego inflate the second he did, even if it was for something stupid.

“Sweet girl.” His voice was a pleasant purr against her skin. “Always threatening me with a good time.”

This made her laugh. Joseph kissed the slope of her cheekbone, and then the corner of her mouth, his fingers sliding through her hair affectionately. She finally relented and allowed him to nudge her out through the bedroom door, making her way down the stairs. It wasn’t her first time going on a vacation with a… Friend of the romantic persuasion, but it was her first time going on vacation with a friend of the romantic persuasion back home. She’d never introduced her parents to any man that she’d dated—not only because they were eleven hours away by flight, but because there just hadn’t ever been anyone.

Joseph was—different. But she had always known that; she had always known that he was an exception to a lot of people’s rules, not just her own, and she was violating cardinal rule number one of her own personal regiment, which was “don’t mix business and pleasure”. Pursuing a romantic relationship with your business partner’s older brother didn’t exactly adhere to that, did it?

“It’s going to be hot,” Isolde said, “and the flight is long, and the traffic is going to be… Well, insane. But my parents will definitely insist on feeding us the second we get there—”

“That’s fine.”

“—so what I’m saying is, if I blink at you five times in rapid succession, we need to make up an emergency to leave. What’s the emergency? We have to have one ready and on hand, otherwise my dad will see straight…”

Her voice trailed off. The kitchen was not as she’d left it, a little over an hour ago, to pack. In fact, it was dimly lit by candles, the dining table sporting a bouquet—not roses, like someone might have expected out of a scene like this, but calla lilies. Her favorite.

“What—” She stopped in the doorway, but Joseph sidled up behind her, hands on her hips and nudging her forward. “Joseph, what…?”

“I told you.” He kissed just below her ear, reaching for her left hand and bringing it up to kiss her knuckles there, too. “You’re the only person that I’ll say something to more than once—”

Isolde felt something—something both hot and cold, sharp and too soft—whip through her immediately at the leading tone. “You’re not making any sense,” she managed out, trying to dig her heels in, but Joseph wasn’t trying to push her in any further so it didn’t matter.

“I want you to marry me.” Joseph said against her skin, and he slid something cool and metal along her finger. “I want you to be my wife, Soli.”

A ring, her brain said, the alarm bells ringing immediately. That’s a ring. Holy shit, that’s a really big fucking ring. On your finger. Holy shit.

“Isolde.” Joseph turned her around to look at him fully now, brows furrowing at what was surely a look of panic on her face. What she thought had to be the assumption that they were only nerves, he continued, “I know that—”

“No.” The word came out of her mouth before she could stop it, the single-word-statement fleeing her mouth in her panic. She thought she’d feel regret about it, but she didn’t; only about the way Joseph looked at her when she said it.

He seemed to be gathering himself for a moment, like maybe he didn’t think that she meant it, that she was playing some kind of joke on him.

Joseph began, “If this is your idea of—”

“I mean it,” Isolde interjected. “I won’t marry you, Joseph. So—no. Take this—” She fumbled the engagement ring off of her finger and put it into his hand like it was a cursed item, like she couldn’t get it off of her finger any fucking quicker. “Take this back. And—that’s it, I just don’t want it.”

His eyes were fixed on her, no longer soft in their romanticism, but hard, steely. “And why not?”

She swallowed up a sound that probably would have been close to agony. It was agony, having to explain to him; her mind vibrating at an entirely different frequency than his, the panic settling into her bones. She needed to say, I’ve been married before you and I know what it’s like to give yourself over to someone, she needed to say, I won’t fucking let someone own me, Joseph Seed, she needed to say, I told you two months ago I never wanted to get married again, and you just apparently didn’t listen, which is reason enough.

“I don’t need to justify myself to you,” is what she said instead, going to step around him. But his hand caught her wrist, the carefully manicured and polished exterior fading into something that hit an edge of tension, pulling pulling pulling until she thought she was going to watch him finally snap.

But he said, “You do.”

“Fuck. You,” Sol bit out. The anger flared hot in her chest. It was, at last, a familiar emotion; anger and not panic, filling her up. Drowning out the sadness that tried to rip through her like a wildfire. “I told you. I told you I wasn’t doing it again.”

“I’m different.” Now it was his turn to sound almost petulant, his grip on her wrist like iron. “You said that yourself. That we’re—”

“Not different enough,” she snapped. “Apparently, anyway, since you couldn’t wait longer than two months to try and put your name on me, could you?” Trying to pull her wrist out of his grip proved futile, and she managed out with the timbre of her voice vibrating with poison, “And get your fucking hand off of me, Joseph.”

He stared at her for a long moment before he finally loosened his hold on her wrist. Enough to let her pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t. Isolde stayed firmly put, willing her legs to carry her somewhere else—back home would probably be the best thing, driving the hours it takes between Hope County and the nearest lick of civilization.

You said that yourself. I’m different. 

He was. She wanted to say, you are, Joseph, but she didn’t, because she knew that it would only start them in another circle again, a snake swallowing its own tail in an endless cycle. 

So they stood there for a moment: neither of them saying anything, her last threat hanging, jolts of anger fizzing and popping in the air between them. Isolde’s hand slid just enough to catch at the wrist in Joseph’s grip, and he took her hand instead, then, tugging lightly to draw her close to him.

Testing her out. Feeling her boundaries. She’d basically said I’ll tear your hand off if you don’t listen to me, but he didn’t think she would. And now he was going to slam those buttons—slide his fingers under her edges until he found the exact farthest he could push her.

“I won’t,” Joseph said, very low and quiet, “let you do this to me, Isolde.”

She had been expecting something else. Something sweet, maybe—Joseph liked to do that. Sweet girl, he’d say to her, and if anyone else had tried to call her girl they would’ve gotten dumped, but with this viper it was different. It didn’t feel condescending when Joseph said it to her. It just felt covetous. 

And that’s what he was best at: bite, and then soothe. It made his sharp edges more tolerable. It made them nice. But now he was all sharp edges, only hard lines, catching on her and tearing every time the two of them made contact. It had always been this way; John had said that he thought they were poorly matched, and at the time, she’d written it off as John not liking to share even his business partner with his older brother. 

Now more than ever, she thought that he was right. They were both too unwieldy, too wretched, to let someone else sway them from their opinions.

“You are so fucking dramatic,” Isolde said, pulling her hand out of his grip at last and turning on her heel. “We don’t need to be married to be together. And your antiquated notion—”

“There are things I want to accomplish, and they’re best done with a wife—”

“I’m sorry, did you hear a period punctuating the end of my sentence? Don’t fucking talk over me, Joseph,” she snapped. For one split second, she saw something vicious flicker over Joseph’s face—just for that one, tiny second—and then he cleared his face. 

After a second of silence, of waiting for Joseph to try and get the last word in, she finished, “You don’t know me well enough to want to marry me. And—marriage is a scam, anyway. I would know, I handle nasty divorces every day at work.” I’ve handled my own nasty divorce. “If you’re looking for a pretty housewife to sit around statuesque and have dinner ready for you when you come home, then—well, then you really don’t fucking know me.”

Joseph was silent. His jaw worked, his eyes sweeping over her, tension radiating off of her until he said, “I guess I don’t.”

“I guess so,” Isolde agreed. Another moment of silence, where it felt like they were circling each other like wounded dogs, and she said, “I’m going to go—”

“Fine,” he interrupted, the thing that he knew she hated. “When you’ve calmed down, we can discuss this like adults.”

“There isn’t anything to discuss,” she said, gathering up her coat and keys and walking up the stairs. “I’m not going to change my mind, Joseph.”

From the kitchen, she heard him agree, “Not yet.”

“Shut up,” Isolde snapped. “You make me so fucking mad.”

He didn’t respond to that; she heard him moving around in the kitchen, gathering things and putting them away as she hauled her suitcase down to the front door. He met her at the door, opening it for her—which pissed her off half as much as him putting an engagement ring on her finger.

It shouldn’t have, but it did. It was like he was saying, I know you’ll be back, so go on. Feel free to leave whenever you’d like.

Like the gentleman he was, he carried her suitcase out and loaded it into the car, lingering around the driver’s side as she threw her coat inside. And then she was the one waiting, unsure of what to do; the muscle memory of her body said, kiss him goodbye, the fury in her brain screaming to get in the car and leave.

“When you change your mind,” he reiterated calmly, reaching up and brushing the hair from her face, “you know how to get in touch with me.”

Isolde’s gaze flickered at the touch, Joseph’s warm, heady cologne washing over her as the space between them vanished. She said, the amber and vetiver of him welling up inside of her and filling her like a wineskin, “I won’t.”

His lips grazed her temple, fingers brushing her jaw. “I love you, Isolde.”

Fucking narcissist, she thought, venomously, pulling away from him. Her gaze drifted over his face, trying to find something familiar, something that reminded her of the man she had thought she had loved—but who had clearly proven he was incapable of thinking of anyone but himself.

So finally, she bit out, “This is what you think love is?”

She wanted the words to sting. She wanted them to wipe the tranquility off of his face. He had always been so composed; the wretchedness in her wanted to shake it out of him, making him squirm like he was so good at doing to her.

But he didn’t; his mouth ticked upward in a serene smile, eyes fixed on her as he stepped back from the car. He seemed confident in himself—that it was love, that she would see it was. One day.

I won’t let you do this to me, he’d said.

“Have a safe drive,” he called, when she slammed the door. It was an hour to the airport; an hour, and then however long of a flight, however long she’d have to wait for the next flight heading out to Georgia.

Joseph turned and walked back inside as she pulled out of the driveway, as carefully as she could through the snow; in her rearview mirror, she saw him stop at the door and turn to look, eyes fixed on her.

There are plenty of people I wish were dead, too.