#i assume i was going to start cross referencing some of these

[brucewaynehater101]

Hurt/comfort AU based on a dream I had:

Tim has been Robin for a short time now.

Bruce finds Tim's fanfiction account.

At this point in time, Bruce has warmed up a little bit to Tim, but they still have a more professional relationship. Tim thinks he has to earn his spot still.

Bruce finds Tim's fanfiction account that has fics from before and after Tim becomes Robin.

The before ones are self-insert Bats ones. Plots like a nine, ten, and eleven year old being saved, being the witness to a crime, or solving the case before them. They all end with the self-insert joining the team.

The ones after Tim becomes Robin are filled with Batman being fatherly and kind to the self-insert (who's an additional vigilante) or to Robin. He'll ruffle their hair, hug them, and tell them that he's proud of them. All of this is stuff Bruce currently doesn't do for Tim.

There's only a few fics where Batman is written in embarrassed situations (and Bruce crossed referenced the upload dates. Some of the dates were after Bruce did something mean or fucked up. The others, Bruce has no idea why Tim might have been upset).

When Bruce first reads the fics, he's mad. He, incorrectly, assumes that Tim has always been trying to become part of the team and took the first opportunity available. He's cold to Tim for a few weeks because of this (because Bruce is an emotionally constipated asshole who doesn't communicate).

Then Bruce starts to notice that the relationships Tim describes in his fics don't match up with how their relationship currently is. The teen doesn't eagerly ramble about his activities, ask Bruce to hang out with him, or otherwise engage unless it's mission related.

In fact, Tim's fanfics seem to portray what doesn't happen in their interactions. With Bruce being cold to Tim, the self-insert gets more hugs, words of affection, and praise.

Bruce learns more about Tim's hobbies, likes, dislikes, and passions from the fanfics than he ever knew. Bruce has the startling realization that they just don't talk.

There's a few fics Bruce has been avoiding (the ones with Robin II tags), but he read the ones with Nightwing. Tons of brotherly bonding and affection, basically.

Bruce finally makes up his mind when Tim releases a new fanfic a few days after an interaction with Poison Ivy. In the fic, Robin had gotten dosed with cuddle pollen and was cuddled all night with Batman and Nightwing.

Bruce is in a panic because he realizes that Tim could've gone back to his own house afflicted with cuddle pollen, and Bruce would have never known. He doesn't even know if Tim was making this fanfic as a desire due to him actually being dosed or if it just came to his mind. This freaks Bruce the fuck out.

Thus, Bruce then uses the fanfics as guides for how he should be acting with Tim and Dick. He puts the effort to be a better mentor and parent to them.

It freaks the other two out at first (and Tim is the most resistant to the change), but they slowly become closer.

Bruce never tells anyone that he found Tim's fanfic account.

Part 2: After Red Hood comes back and does the whole Titan's Tower Attack.

Bruce, after realizing that Tim's fanfiction account now had Red Hood fics (both ones making fun of the man and ones where the crime lord is being kind/brotherly), tells Jason mid-fight that he should check out this random fanfic account Bruce thinks he'd enjoy.

Jason, obviously fucking confused why Batman is recommending fanfiction in the middle of a fight, just stops.

Bruce nods at this, tells Jason he cares about him (Bruce has been working on it!), and then just leaves.

Cue Jason researching this account (that he doesn't initially know is Tim's) and going through a series of conflicted emotions.

[bairdthereader]

Intentional Touch, Respected Space: A By-Episode Study, Part 3

This is the space where their loves grows in safety.

S1E3: Kiss

[Note: Approx. 4K words here, so grab a snack first!]

Nick has been dealing with and processing quite a lot of newly acknowledged feelings in the days leading up to the events of episode 3. (See @stopper-my-heart’s excellent post analyzing Nick’s internet research.) When Harry asks how’s it, Nick’s “fine” is followed up with a totally untrue “everything’s normal," as he tries to push back the confusion he's feeling. After Harry invites Nick to his party, Nick has some interactions where his internal turmoil starts to affect his responses to the people around him: Imogen's thinly disguised effort to wrangle Nick into a date and the locker room teasing about Imogen and Tara. These are some of the places where we clearly see Nick beginning to struggle with the divide that's appearing between his previous self and the deeply buried truths he’s starting to recognize, saying things he doesn't quite mean and sliding back into the persona he's always held up with his friend group.

So, it’s a ways into this episode before Nick and Charlie are able to have a real conversation, and Nick takes the opportunity to ask Charlie to Harry’s party. Nick’s previous conversations about the party resulted in impulsive, pressured, or protectively ambiguous responses ("Yeah, sounds good," to Harry; "Fine, I guess I can invite you" to Imogen; "Yeah, maybe," to the rugby lads re: Tara), but this is a determined, intentional Nick. [I won’t belabor the point here, but see my previous post about this scene and Nick’s intentions if you’d enjoy more detail.] Suffice it to say that the space between Nick and Charlie has gotten visibly a bit smaller and emotionally very much smaller. Nick keeps his arms crossed during this conversation, but loosely, and he’s leaning forward. There’s some self-soothing and protection here as Nick bravely pushes forward and asks Charlie to go to Harry’s party, but at the end of the exchange Nick is still leaning toward Charlie, looking at him in a similar way as he did on the couch while considering holding Charlie's hand, but with more happiness.

On the flip side, Charlie’s hesitancy in saying yes to the party is obviously due to the fact that Harry’s party definitely is not his kind of thing, but also, I think we can assume, due to the locker room conversation referenced above where Nick (from Charlie’s perspective) has just contradicted all the signals he sent Charlie during the hug at his house. Charlie can’t imagine enjoying a party where Nick has his “chance with Tara.” But then Nick says “I want you to be there” and Charlie takes a moment to really look at Nick’s face, which is, it must be said, pretty close to his own in this moment. Charlie’s expression runs the gamut in just a second (Joe, you genius). There is the briefest moment when he looks like he might decline again, then a moment when his gaze roves around Nick’s face, and then Charlie clearly changes his mind. Something he sees reassures him that Nick means what he says, and so Charlie says “okay.”

On the night of the party, we see that Nick has been spending time with the rugby lads and other people from his friend group, enjoying himself generally, but not fully present. Imogen makes a grabby appearance, demands a hug and a compliment on her dress. Nick turns away almost immediately, looking for Charlie, whom, he’s beginning to realize on some level, he’s more comfortable with than any of these people. Charlie, on the other hand, is essentially entering what must feel to him and his PTSD like a gladiator’s ring. He’s surrounded by either strangers, bullies, or people he knows only superficially, with chaotic sound and strobing lights. He needs a grounding force and comfort.

So when they see each other, cross the room and enter their shared space, there’s clear relief and gladness, a mutual clicking into place.

Nick, likely recalling the hug at Charlie’s house, approaches Charlie with arms raised, possibly wishing to repeat that gesture of honest affection. So perhaps the original intent was a hug, perhaps not, but either way Nick remembers the public setting and that Charlie has not been privy to the progression of Nick’s thoughts around touch between them and so wouldn’t understand the motivation behind the hug. He settles instead for a two-shoulder grasp, continuing to respect the space between them—both the physical space required by the public setting and Nick’s concern about Charlie’s potentially negative feelings toward touch in general, and the emotional space required by the fact that they are both still unsure of what any touch beyond the purely platonic might mean. And here that space is literally brightly illuminated.

Meanwhile Charlie, a veteran of hiding in plain sight, with reactions and instincts hammered into place by physical, social, and emotional abuse, keeps his hands down by his sides. He stops approaching Nick just a split second sooner than Nick stops approaching him. His primary thought here has to be protecting Nick (and himself, but mostly Nick) from the potential speculation of the people around them, followed by continued uncertainty about what Nick’s touch actually means (see: long hug followed by locker room talk), and finally trying to keep himself from falling even harder for a likely (in Charlie’s view) unavailable Nick. Despite all this internal conflict, Charlie is clearly ecstatic to see Nick and doesn’t try to shrug off this very deliberate and affectionate touch. Nick’s hands start out tight, then loosen just a bit before reluctantly sliding off Charlie’s arms. They spend a long moment just smiling blissfully at each other while the light continues to shine between them. It’s right there on their faces, but there’s still too much uncertainty for either of them to fully recognize it.

The camera pulls away to show us Nick and Charlie in the center of the melee, with a still and peaceful space between them and bright light illuminating them. They’ve created safety and calm for each other, no matter what is going on around them.

Next we find Nick and Charlie couching it up in a random hallway discussing, once again, Mario Kart. As on the couch at Charlie’s house, Charlie is squarely in the middle of his half of the couch, a few pillows on one side, while Nick is closer to Charlie’s side of the couch (after all, he's left enough room for Harry to sit down on his other side, unfortunately). His arm is crossed across his chest in a self-soothing and containing gesture, trying to be as close as possible while still maintaining that little bit of space. Charlie actually seems less nervous, leaned back into the couch and loosely holding on to his drink while his face is turned to Nick. He’s thoroughly enjoying Nick’s company and closeness without too much worry.

When Harry approaches, Nick’s face conveys irritation and reluctance, while Charlie immediately starts scanning the group for potential danger, face closed off but eyes alert. When Harry sits down, Nick’s arm lowers next to Charlie, possibly to offer subtle comfort while someone so antagonistic toward Charlie is so physically close to him, possibly to prepare to stand up and get away from Harry if he gets too obnoxious. Either way, Nick is eliminating that space and allowing touch to happen for a caring reason; respect is still there.

The next few scenes are filled to the brim with nonconsensual, uncomfortable, or disrespectful touch.

Nick is clearly annoyed by, if not outright uncomfortable with, Harry’s yoking him and dragging him bodily away from Charlie and toward Tara. Harry’s always been a grabby guy and Nick usually puts up with it good-naturedly, but this is too aggressive even for Nick. He could fight back, of course, and push Harry away, but not without causing a bit of a scene; he looks almost ill by the time he’s finally in front of Tara.

Ben and Charlie collide fairly forcefully in yet another weird, random hallway, this one ominously dark. Ben starts with a disingenuous apology while Charlie backs into a literal corner, clearly signaling that he does not want Ben anywhere near him, much less any kind of touch. He even starts to walk away. But this is Ben, so of course he does the thing he knows will bother Charlie most in that moment and grabs Charlie’s arm. Ben regularly ignores, disrespects, and obliterates the space Charlie puts around himself, but this time, Charlie pushes back, literally and figuratively. While his strength here does him credit and takes him another step toward freedom from Ben, the fact remains that Charlie just experienced a very unpleasant, disrespectful, nonconsensual touch.

Imogen, though less negatively intentioned than Harry and Ben, also subjects Nick to touch he clearly does not want. He’s visibly uncomfortable—not nervous, not shy—but unwilling and reluctant. He tries to disengage kindly ("I can’t dance"; "I need to find a friend.) because he doesn’t want to hurt Imogen’s feelings, but she doesn’t take the hint. Or, if she does, she responds by grabbing even tighter, resulting in this massively distressing moment for Nick. [You have to wonder if Nick feels like his own neck even belongs to him after this party.]

Then, thank goodness, Nick gets to witness consensual, joyful touch between Tara and Darcy. Tara’s nod before their kiss is clear in the shot; obviously they’ve both agreed to this moment, and that agreement is what lends freedom and joy to their public affection. Not only are they bravely declaring their feelings in this intensely crowded setting, but they’re doing it with mutual, reciprocated care and respect for their individual feelings.  

So we now have a Nick who has Been. Though. Some. Things. in a very short space of time finally finding his best friend, his person, and settling in—close—to a Charlie who has also Been. Through. Some. Things. and wants nothing more than to be with his best friend again too. The space between them at this point is negligible. Nick once again leaves a good bit of room on his side of the couch in favor of being close to Charlie, their knees are touching, they’re turned in to each other, and neither of them are pulling away or displaying the need for a buffer against judgmental gazes as they did earlier in the evening. They both want comfort, and they want it from the person who they know has a caring understanding of them.

It’s in this safe, mutually (if silently) agreed upon closeness (read: lack of space) that Charlie tells Nick the truth, or at least part of the truth, about how Nick’s friends make him feel; Nick is clearly upset by this, not on his friends’ behalf but on Charlie’s. Nick returns Charlie’s honesty and validates Charlie’s feeling when he admits, out loud for the first time, that he doesn’t like his friends very much and says that he’d rather be with Charlie. This is Nick telling Charlie “I choose you” in a concrete way, even if he doesn’t mean it in a fully romantic way just yet. There’s an expression of hope, almost of expectation, on his face after he says it, hope that Charlie will understand. Charlie, being Charlie, doesn’t seem to entirely believe the depth of meaning behind Nick’s words, and changes the subject to his confrontation with Ben.

If Nick was ever going to cross not only the intentional touch divide but also the platonic-to-more-than-platonic touch divide in a public place, this moment of worry and protectiveness over Charlie facing off with Ben would be it. Nick clearly considers taking Charlie’s hand while Charlie is explaining what happened, but he doesn’t, and refocuses on Charlie’s face and words. Then, when the story is done, there’s a second of hesitation on Nick’s part as he glances at Charlie’s hand a couple of times—he’s extremely aware, especially after the sparkly hand hovering on Charlie’s couch, that this touch means more to him now than just a show of solidarity—but the hesitation is quickly overcome, and Nick commits to his intention. He is genuinely proud of Charlie, vastly relieved that the Ben situation wasn’t worse, perhaps a bit guilty that he wasn’t there to intervene this time, and wants a grounding touch to reassure himself Charlie is okay. Holding Charlie’s hand now is just as much about being his friend—his real, closest friend—as it is about romantic feeling or physical chemistry.

Charlie’s intense gulp, on the other hand, shows us that he really wants this to mean more. He stares down at their hands like he’s having an out of body experience (and for him, after the treatment he received from Ben, this considered and caring touch probably does feel that way). Notably, he does not pull away at all. Charlie has always been intensely aware of how any physical contact between himself and Nick would be perceived, both by Nick himself and by the people around them. The fact that Nick initiated this contact, likely combined with the lingering memory of the doorway hug and Tori’s speculation that Nick is not straight, plus Charlie’s hope outweighing his self-preservation instincts, keeps Charlie happily in what I’ll call the zero-space zone. Nick suggests finding somewhere quieter to hang out, and Charlie, looking again like he can’t believe it, agrees.

Nick keeps hold of Charlie’s hand, pulling him off the couch. This is in direct contrast to the way Harry pulled Nick off the couch earlier; Nick was verbally protesting and physically pulling back a bit, yet Harry still forced the issue, but here, Nick asks and receives Charlie’s agreement before he does anything to move Charlie. Charlie’s surprise increases as Nick maintains the hand hold even when they exit the pseudo-private bubble of the couch and move into the crowd. The zero-space zone is out in the open now. But this is Nick on a mission, fully realizing that he doesn’t want to be part of the melee anymore, that being with Charlie is what he wants; he’s unwilling to let Charlie go, partly because he just doesn’t want to, and partly so they won't be separated again. Nick proposes a race—all the quicker to get away—and lots of flirty running ensues.

Nick sits to catch his breath and Charlie, after a slight hesitation—whether from not being sure, even after the last few minutes, that Nick actually wants Charlie near him, or just to center himself a bit—joins him, but leaves more space than they had had between them on the couch. He needs that bit of space to prepare himself, to feel clear and steadied, for the conversation ahead. Because being truly alone with Nick for the first time in what have been some very confusing days for Charlie makes him simultaneously brave (he has to ask about Tara and get the answer from Nick, rather than secondhand) and frightened (he doesn’t really want to have his worst fears confirmed). He knows he has to get the question out, because not knowing is causing him pain. Again, the physical space between them represents emotional space for Charlie to maneuver.

Nick’s hand is on the floor during this entire conversation, but Charlie keeps his on his knees, possibly to resist temptation, possibly to preemptively protect himself from what he thinks will be more hurt. When he asks about Tara, Nick bodily turns toward Charlie, rushing to emphatically to deny any kind of attraction to her, seeming surprised that Charlie would even ask. Charlie takes a minute to reorient his thoughts around this new, or at least clarified, information, while Nick takes a second to acknowledge why Charlie’s question bothered him so much—both of them navigating their feelings in that shared, respectful space.

Charlie’s next question—so you don’t have a crush on anyone at the moment?—is even more personal (and takes even more bravery for Charlie), but could still possibly be construed as just friendly interest in Nick’s romantic life. It’s a fine line, but Charlie is both asking Nick a forthright question and giving him a little room to get out of answering it in any meaningful way if he’s uncomfortable. But that’s not Nick’s way, so of course he does answer, even if his uncertainty and fear keep him from naming his crush. “Well… I didn’t say that,” and “You’re just going to assume they’re a she.”

Nick is being brave too—each answer he gives is as honest as he can manage in the moment, and followed by a look of intense fear combined with an almost desperate desire for Charlie to read between the lines so Nick doesn’t have to name the thing that is scaring him so much . . . but he’s still answering. Charlie is so strong in this sequence, confronting his own fears, taking care of his own emotional needs, processing each monumental revelation from his best friend, while simultaneously guiding Nick gently through speaking out loud for the first time many of the conflicting emotions that have been wreaking havoc with his life. The emotional intuition and sustained nerve required to do this is frankly astounding.

Charlie asks, “Would you go out with someone who wasn’t a girl?” and even now this could just barely, the tiniest bit, be considered a question asked out of curiosity rather than from a point of personal attraction (after all, just because Charlie’s gay doesn’t mean he’s automatically attracted to Nick). But when Nick offers up the first “maybe,” you see Charlie visibly react. There’s just the slightest pull back of his shoulders as his eyes rove quickly around Nick’s face, assessing both Nick’s statement and his feelings while saying it. Charlie thinks for a moment, then starts to narrow that nurtured space between them. He does it carefully, moving one foot closer to Nick’s and placing his hand on the floor next to, but not touching, Nick’s. This is Charlie acting on his wishes while still giving Nick the room he needs, the time he needs, to think about what comes next, without any pressure or obligation.

Charlie’s next question—“would you kiss someone who wasn’t a girl?”—takes their conversation firmly out of the realm of friendly speculation and into that of romantic interest. It’s clear now what he’s getting at. He watches Nick’s reaction very carefully, probably on some level for signs of disgust because Charlie’s brain is always working against him, but mostly he registers Nick’s fearful excitement. He’s checking in on Nick every single second of this conversation. What Charlie sees propels him to carefully but very intentionally close that space and instigate romantic touch for the first time, understanding that it’s safe for both him and Nick to do so. Still, he keeps the touch absolutely minimal, continuing to watch Nick’s facial expressions, with the utmost care for Nick’s fraught emotions and respect for his right to pull away.

He doesn’t.

And we have Charlie the lionheart, putting it all on the line with one, final question. “Would you kiss me?” The physical space between them has narrowed, their shoulders closer together and pinky fingers touching, and the emotional distance has narrowed as well. Despite the way they both feel like they’re standing on the edge of a cliff, they’re reaching a clearer understanding of each other than they’ve yet had. Nick knows now that Charlie definitely feels attracted to him, and Charlie can see that there’s a chance that at least some of his feelings are reciprocated. There’s no going back from this moment for them, for their friendship, and both boys know it. But they’ve built this space of trust between them, so here they can both be brave. Nick gathers the courage he needs to return Charlie’s touch and twine their fingers together.

Charlie once again looks steadfastly at Nick’s face as he gives an almost imperceptible nod then pushes through his nerves to get out his answering “yeah” (accompanied by a very brief, very Nick Nelson-style frown of determination). Charlie waits . . . and waits, still making sure Nick is okay, before finally leaning in. And even when he does, his eyes stay open, locked on Nick’s eyes, not his lips, still watching even in this charged moment for any sign of discomfort or unwillingness on Nick’s part. It’s only when Nick’s own eyes close that Charlie allows his gaze to relax too. He can be sure, for the moment, that this massively important, life-changing touch, this kiss, is something Nick wants and that it is occurring within their shared space of safety.

They pull back, reinstating some physical space and trying to regain a bit of equilibrium. Charlie sees the panic-adjacent expression on Nick’s face and fears that maybe this went too far, while at the same time still feeling shocked that it happened at all, a bit dazed and overwhelmed. Nick uses this space between them to check in with himself, to make sure that what he felt was true, that he understands himself in this moment, and to decide what he wants to do next. While they figure these things out individually, their hands are still connected, grounding and reassuring—either of them could pull away completely, but they don’t. When Nick looks back over at Charlie, a magical little bit of rainbow reflected on his face, his expression conveys some surprise, some lingering fear and confusion, but also hope. Hope that Charlie is still with him in their shared space, hope that their friendship is still intact, hope that Charlie feels as strongly about this new thing between them, whatever shape it takes, as he does. Charlie looks back at him with trepidation, worry that Nick is going to pull away or put up walls or push Charlie away, but there’s also tentative hope in him as well. He doesn’t act on it, though—he’s still respecting the fact that this is completely uncharted territory for Nick.

But then Nick makes a completely unprompted, voluntary choice and takes Charlie’s hand with obvious intention (and a comforting thumb swipe). Now there is absolutely no room for misunderstanding or dismissing the gesture as anything other than what it is; Nick is giving truth to Charlie’s hopes and easing some of his fears with this touch.

They have once again established that they are still in the same space, still honoring each other’s fears and hopes and respecting each other’s desires. So from that place of assurance, Charlie leans into Nick again. Again, Charlie keeps his eyes on Nick’s for the entire time he’s closing the distance between them (he barely moves until he sees Nick look down at his mouth), doesn’t raise his hand to Nick’s neck until Nick’s desire for touch is clear, and again he doesn’t let his own eyes close until Nick’s do. Charlie’s hand on Nick’s neck is firm, but not restrictive, grounding and affectionate, but not pressuring. Charlie’s extreme and nuanced care for Nick is the exact opposite of how he himself has been treated in the past; he is making absolutely sure that there is nothing he’s doing that might hurt Nick, even in this moment that is just as charged and monumental for him as it is for Nick.

This kiss is much less tentative for both of them, a much clearer expression of their feelings and desires, as Nick also firmly but carefully grips Charlie’s shoulder and pulls him a bit closer, and Charlie hangs on to Nick’s shirt with his other hand. As soon as the kiss ends, they’re studying each other (and of course thinking about more kissing). Nick’s hand on Charlie’s shoulder loosens a bit and Charlie’s hand moves away from Nick’s neck to his shirt collar, giving each other just the tiniest bit of breathing room, but they both still want closeness as they acknowledge what just happened. Charlie sees Nick repeatedly glance back down at his mouth, something that gives him enough confidence for a small smile as he asks Nick if he’s alright. We’ll probably never know what Nick would have said here—there’s a good chance Nick himself didn’t know—but there is just the barest hint of a returning smile hovering at the corner of his mouth.

Until Harry. Harry’s voice reminding them that they aren’t truly alone, reminding Nick of all the ramifications of his attraction to Charlie, reminding Charlie that this is far from settled between them.

And suddenly that space between them that was safe and solid and contained is a yawning chasm.

For now.

[kinardsevan]

HC? Or something crossed my mind idk, Tommy volunteer as a big brother/or just to help in a group home, and have a special bond with one of the kids there since he sees himself in him..

because I messed up the responses, this is @thatmexisaurusrex's request for Buck & Tommy calling eachother on a slow afternoon at work.

This is m-rated, nearing explicit, towards the end. Nothing too graphic, but definitely suggestive. also, since we're just existing in previous universes of mine today, this one fits in the same world as the prompt for "bobby overhears Tommy call him his father-in-law".

-

Evan sighs, sinking down onto the ground on top of the firehouse. It’s beautiful outside, but the team is still on shift for roughly eight hours, and the shift has been…slow. They’ve only seen three calls so far, which feels a little ridiculous considering it’s a nice day outside, which usually means cookouts, bonfires, and generally reckless behavior when it comes to fire. 

Three. Fucking. Calls. 

He spins his phone on his knee briefly. He tries not to call Tommy too much on shift. They already live together and work in the same field. Granted, Tommy has never once complained about it in the past three years, and he always seems rather cheerful when Evan does call him on shift. But still. 

Any decision Evan thinks he has to make is quickly silenced when the phone starts buzzing in his hand, with the bolded text of “Husband” framed by two blue hearts pops up on his screen. A smile crawls its way across his face as he flips the phone into an upright position and clicks the little green phone icon, accepting the call. 

“Oh thank Jesus,” Tommy mutters with a groan. “I’m so bored.” 

Evan laughs. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“Are you guys doing any better over there?” Tommy whines. “I’ve been on two flights today, and they were both done within an hour.” 

Evan chuckles again. “Three calls so far. Last one was about four hours ago. Cap says everything coming in right now has been east of Pasedena or down in Panorama City. Too far out for us unless it goes three-alarm or higher.” 

Tommy huffs, leaning back wherever he is. Evan assumes he must be in 1701 because it looks like he’s on the floor of a chopper. 

“I have deep cleaned everything in sight, inventoried the helicopters and both planes, even helped with some of the inventory on the trucks,” Tommy says. “Checked up on current registrations and certifications. There’s not a damn thing to do.” 

Evan can only smile at his husband as the older man complains. For all the times they’ve complained to one another over Facetime while on shift, Tommy has never been one to actually complain about being at work with nothing to do. 

Tommy huffs, but after a moment, his eyes are on the screen of his phone again, and he furrows his brow. “Why do you look so entertained at my misery?” 

Evan smirks at him. “I like seeing you flustered. It’s kinda hot, honestly.” 

Tommy gives him that look; the one that silently tells him to tread carefully, unless he wants to find himself pressed into a mattress or countertop sobbing for release. 

“Hey, so what was that story Charlie was telling at the wedding,” Evan asks, referencing back to their discussion over cigars a few weeks back. 

“No, Evan,” Tommy replies, and the tone is there now too. Evan’s lips twitch with unfettered cunning, knowing he’s pushing Tommy’s buttons. 

“Oh come on,” Evan states, clearly egging him on. “Didn’t I hear something about a screwdriver down?” 

Tommy’s jaw clenches and he just shakes his head, although there’s no hiding the way the corners of his mouth are twitching, desperately trying to give in to the smile that he’s trying not to give his husband. 

“You know we’re going into a four day after this,” Tommy reminds him, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “You might want to tread carefully.” 

Evan raises an eyebrow at him, grinning lasciviously back at Tommy. “I think you assume that I didn’t consider that already.” 

Tommy stares at him from the tiny screen, and even though nothing about his expression changes, there’s a multitude of unspoken words shared between them. The smoldering in his eyes that tells Evan about nights pressed back-to-chest, nails drug across his chest and Tommy grinding with fervor, drawing sinful noises out of Evan like it’s his job. The slight twitch of his eyebrows suggests afternoons lost to ‘don’t move an inch or we’ll start all over’ . The way his tongue slips between his lips to wet them calling up memories of being chest-to-chest, teeth biting necks and shoulders, nails dug into spines, tongues lapping into mouths that swallow sobs like water in a desert. 

“If you’re not careful, you’re going to turn yourself up to eleven for the next four days,” Tommy warns, and the smirk on Evan’s face entirely suggests that he does not care. Turned up to eleven is the implication of total control turned over to his husband in the bedroom, whereas one is them meeting on an even field, usually when they want to take it slow and eject romance into things. 

But Evan just did that for a week and a half in Havana. He’s more than happy to turn things up to eleven. Let Tommy work him over. 

“Please, Daddy,” he replies softly, pulling the phone close to his face so that Tommy hears him but no one else does. His tone is just this side of breathy, barely moaning. Still, Tommy’s neck flushes, and Evan knows he has him. 

“When do you get off again,” Tommy asks, switching the subject. Evan pulls the screen down on his phone and then back up. 

“Like seven and a half hours,” he replies. 

Tommy nods. He’s up and moving again, and after a moment, Evan hears a door close, and the smirk reappears on his face. Tommy’s finding privacy. 

Evan pushes himself up from the ground, walking further from the door for rooftop access. It’s unlikely that anyone is coming up to bug him, given that Eddie was taking a nap last he checked and Hen and Chimney were locked into an intense game of Mario Kart. Athena was around for a visit, keeping Bobby entertained. 

Tommy’s phone rests on some kind of countertop and Evan grins as he sinks down into a chair. 

“So when you get home,” Tommy states, pulling at the zipper on his flight suit. He’s doing it slowly, and Evan can tell it’s on purpose. He gulps down the wave of saliva flooding his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he rasps.

Tommy reaches a hand in, pulling up the t-shirt he has on under the flight suit, although his hand stops halfway up his chest, only giving Evan the slightest sight of his abs where the zipper ends. Tommy leans forward then, pinning both hands on either side of the phone, out of frame. 

“You’re going to be a good boy,” Tommy states. It’s an order. Evan gulps, feeling himself starting to get uncomfortable in his pants. The slightest shift of his shoulder has Tommy lifting a hand, wagging a finger at him. 

“Ah ah ah,” he chastises. “No touching. Clock starts now and ends on Sunday.” 

Evan’s eyes go wide. They’ve never started something this early, let alone gone that long. Three days is about as long as he’s handed over control to Tommy, and even then, it usually begins and ends in their bedroom. This is a new layer, and he’s hot under the collar just thinking about the implications. 

Tommy stares at him for a long moment, that extends long enough that Evan realizes he’s supposed to respond. If he has any reservations against the ideas, now would be the time to say something. Granted, Tommy would never be upset with him if he decides to safeword out early, but he’s also silently asking if it’s okay to start now. 

“Okay,” Evan rasps, clenching his hand into a fist and resting it on his knee. It’s all he can do not to moan because he swears just by saying yes he gets harder. Tommy waggles an eyebrow at him, pulling his t-shirt. He adjusts it and fiddles it the zipper, clearly trying to play with Evan the same way the younger man was just playing with him. 

“I’ll be home an hour later,” Tommy reminds him. Evan nods. “I expect to find you silenced and waiting.” 

The slightest moan passes Evan’s lips. Tommy wants him gagged and on his knees, hands behind his back. 

“Sh-…C-can I prep?” Evan stammers, his voice husky with wanton. 

It’s Tommy’s turn to smirk now as he shakes his head slowly. 

“The only way mi amor gets to prepare is if it happens naturally. Everything else will be taken care of when I get home.” 

Evan shudders, and the heat in Tommy’s gaze, the grin on his face, is almost enough to make him feel like his heart is going to give out. He's not allowed to do anything to himself, but if he's aroused, Tommy expects it to happen without any assistance of his hands.

“Fuck,” he mutters softly. Tommy grins at him, and then a moment later, someone is knocking on the door of whatever room he’s in. Evan can hear Lucy’s voice briefly, asking questions but not clearly enough that he can make everything out. A moment later, Tommy glances back at the phone. 

“I have to go. I’ll see you at home in a while.” 

Evan nods, forcing himself to take deep breaths. “See you at home.” 

The call ends a moment later, and he has to stay in the chair and keep breathing. There’s no way he can go back inside right now; he’d be roasted for his unmistakeable boner. 

He checks the time on his phone again, and it’s all he can do to stifle a groan. Eight hours. Eight hours until he’s with Tommy in person again. He can hold on until then. He has to.

Eight. Long. Hours. 

[retrolvr4]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

Gal you’re on my mind

Darry Curtis x Female Reader

Summary: After spending the night with Darry, you help him make breakfast.

Warnings: implications of sex, some cursing, lots of fluff!

A/n Patrick Swayze is the loml 😩

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

You felt a soft kiss on your cheek as Darry pulled you in closer to him. Your eyes were still closed and sleep nearly overtook you again when Darry spoke tiredly

“Doll we gotta get up, I need your help makin’ breakfast and I can hear that everyone is up already”

You groaned and attempted to roll over but Darry’s arm wrapped firmly around you now wouldn't allow it.

“It's like 6 i'm not getting up this early on my day off” you grumbled

“It's like 9 miss grumpy, they let us sleep in” He mimicked you and poked your waist

You squirmed at the touch and smacked his hand away. “Darry I don’t wanna-” you started to complain but he quickly cut you off by rolling you over onto your back and tickling you. You shrieked through laughter as he lifted your shirt up and blew raspberries on your stomach.

“Okay, enough, enough, I'm up” you said through gasps and attempts to push Darry off you.

“Perfect, get up” Darry said and rolled out of bed, awaiting you to follow.

You crawled out of bed, still slightly out of breath, and dug through the drawer in Darry’s room that you had filled with your own clothes, since you began to sleep over so frequently.

You fished out a pair of shorts, having only worn one of Darrys shirts to bed, you needed pants.

“Those undies are cute honey,” Darry told you with a smile.

“Thank you, you told me that last night though” you smirked at him and a light blush dusted across both of your faces. The recollection of the events from last night crossing both of your minds.

You walked up to Darry and wrapped your arms around his waist, looking up at him “I’m sure everyone is starving, we should get out there”

The two of you walked out to the living room, greeted by a variety of good mornings and a “cute shirt” from Soda.

“What was Y/n hootin and hollerin about” Pony asked

You automatically assumed he was referencing last night and quickly uttered a “i'm gonna go make breakfast” and scurried off to the kitchen. Leaving Darry to deal with the situation.

“Well Pony, when two people really love each other, they sometimes-'' Darry started awkwardly, everyone's eyes now on him. But he was quickly cut off by Two Bit’s remark of “Damn Darry gets down” Followed by Dally hollering at you with a laugh and asking “is he any good y/n?”

“Yes, fuck you Dally” you yelled back from the kitchen.

“What- Christ- Ew, I meant like two minutes ago she was screaming and laughin’, I couldn't tell if you were trying to kill her or what' Pony cut in.

Darry’s face turned red over the misunderstanding “oh I was just tickling her trying to get her up so you hooligans can have something to eat” He desperately tried to change the subject, face burning from all the remarks, especially the one from you.

Darry cut his losses and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a pan and placing it on the stovetop then grabbing the carton of eggs from the fridge.

“I’m good huh” He quipped

“You know good and well you are” you said back in a hushed voice “I didn't know I was being so loud last night”

“You weren't doll, pony was talking about how I got you up this morning”

You worked on making pancake mix while Darry cooked the eggs. You hummed ‘corrina corrina’ by Bob Dylan as you whisked the ingredients together.

Darry watched you quietly, gazing with so much admiration for you. He loved every single thing about you. Body, mind, and soul. He knew how hard it was to only get occasional time with him due to his work, he knew he was stubborn and sometimes overbearing, he knew he loved you with everything in him. He loved how you were always willing to help his brothers and around the house. He didn't expect it of you but he always appreciated it. He loved the way you unconsciously swayed as you hummed, he loved how smart and how selfless you were.

“I love you so much my sweet girl” he said, still admiring you.

“Aw, Darry, I love you more” You cooed back and continued to hum.

“y/n, y/n, Gal you're on my mind” Darry sang out of tune, replacing Corrina's name with yours.

You gave him a crooked smile and flicked flour at him “you're a dork”

“Don't you start” he replied, moving over to you to give you a quick but loving kiss.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

I apologize if this is bad, i haven’t written in a while and need to get back into it!

I will write for pretty much any 80s or 90s movie so feel free to leave requests. Cobra kai and Top gun Maverick I will also write for!

I’ve seen a lot of movies so if you’re not sure about requesting something just ask!

I also love Keanu reeves and Paul Dano so feel free to send in requests of their characters!

I will write smut but nothing too freaky

Please do not request anything involving self harm, ED’s, domestic violence, etc . I am not comfortable writing about that.

I’ll create another post with repeated and further information about requests. 💗

[scary-grace]

Enough to Go By (Chapter 4) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 4

You think about Tenko more now, but you’re allowed to – he’s your patient, and if he was your patient at the clinic, you’d expect to see him for a follow-up on the four gunshot wounds you cleaned and dressed. You’re allowed to think about him, so you think about him. You think about him a lot.

The thoughts take two directions. One is just wondering about him – how he’s feeling, how he spends his days, what he’s thinking about, what he thinks of you, whether he’s thought about you at all. The other is thinking about the situation he’s in. His parents and grandparents and his sister are dead. He’s been missing for fifteen years. He’s got a quirk and he’s a villain, ambitious and strategic enough to target UA High and escape alive, albeit badly injured. His guardian is a cloud of mist in a suit with some kind of split personality. And there’s someone else in his world – two someone elses. The doctor he referenced, who wouldn’t help him, and the one he calls Sensei, who gave him his new name and a hand to wear over his face and set him up to fail.

You think about Tenko a lot, but you can’t think about him all the time, because now that you’re a nurse, you’re twice as busy as you were before. The doctors expect more of you, and so do the other nurses – and so do the MAs and CNAs and high school students who are starting their apprenticeships, since you now have three years’ experience to go with your reputation for smoothing things over with difficult patients. Your friends keep you busy, too. They might call Kazuo to find out if something’s wrong with them, but they call you to find out what to do about it.

“You need to get a scan,” you say to Yoshimi for probably the fifth time. “I know you don’t want to –”

“It’s weird!”

“Not any weirder than whatever Yoji does when the two of you are at second base,” you say, and in the background of the call, someone snickers. If you had to guess, you’d say it’s Mitsuko – she has the guts to bully Yoshimi into making the call, combined with the brass balls to feel comfortable eavesdropping. “It’s called a mammogram. You’d have to start getting them at some point anyway, just like we all do. It’s just to make sure there’s nothing weird going on.”

“Stop it. You’re freaking her out for no reason.” Yoji’s there, too. “It’s probably just an STD.”

You’re stunned into silence for a second by the sheer classlessness of saying that about one’s own girlfriend, but you bounce back fast. “First of all, they’re called STIs, genius. Secondly, there’s not an STI on the planet that gives you nipple discharge. Yoshimi, get the scan. I’ll go with you if you want. Just get it done.”

“Can I do it at your clinic?”

“Uh –” You glance at the Imaging queue. Things look quiet, but you can’t count on that to last – but if you report Yoshimi’s symptoms, which include soreness, nipple discharge, and what she describes as a weird rash, you’re pretty sure the doctor on call will bump her to the head of the line. “Yeah, come in now. I can’t stick around after my shift, though. I have stuff to do tonight.”

“Ooh, stuff. Let me see –” There’s some rustling, which you can only assume is Mitsuko grabbing the phone. “Is stuff tall, dark, handsome, way too serious, and currently working as a sidekick?”

“That would be stuff,” you admit. “It’s not a big deal. We’re just grabbing a drink after our shifts.”

For the first time since you and Kazuo broke up, you have a date, and it’s Kazuo’s fault. Or maybe it’s you and your friends’ fault, because you decided to throw Kazuo a twentieth birthday party and invited a few of his friends from UA. One of those friends is Sugimura Hiroki, who fits perfectly with your type of dark-haired boys who want to be heroes and who’s so painfully shy that it took him six beers and the entire party to talk to you. You were sort of weirded out by that. You’re not very intimidating, and you spent the first half of the conversation trying to figure out if he knew you were quirkless, since you learned the hard way that it’s something you need to disclose up front. But the two of you eventually worked your way around to the point, which was that Sugimura wants to get to know you better, and he tripped over his tongue so badly that you finally just asked him out to end the suspense.

It’s taken you a while to actually schedule the date, but tonight’s the night, and you’re sort of anxious about it. Luckily, work is busy enough to keep you distracted. Your lunch break ends while Mitsuko is still going into increasingly nasty speculations about Sugimura’s physical attributes, and you hang up the phone without saying goodbye.

There’s a message waiting for you on your computer, from the front desk. FOF. Can you take him?

It’s not Tenko. You know Tenko wouldn’t come here again. You send the same message you did when it was him. How F are we talking?

Jumpy, talking to himself, chainsmoking. He’s in costume.

“In costume” could literally mean that the patient’s wearing a costume, but it’s also code for when the front desk thinks the patient’s a villain. You’re used to dealing with villains by now. Send him back.

When the knock on the door comes, you’re ready and waiting, and the CNA ushers in a tall man in a black-and-grey bodysuit – so “in costume” was literal this time around – and a paper bag over his head. You’re momentarily transfixed by the paper bag, and more so when you realize that he’s bringing a lighted cigarette to his mouth while wearing something highly flammable on his face. The CNA shuts the door and bolts. You face your patient and introduce yourself. “Have a seat if you feel comfortable doing so. What brings you in today?”

“I’m not – whole.”

That’s concerning. “Are you injured?” Your concern grows when he gestures at his face. “It would really help if I could see the injury. Can you take the bag off?”

He shakes his head. Instead he reaches into his pocket and produces a torn full-face mask. You look at him, then at him, putting the pieces together. “How do you feel right now?”

He doesn’t answer – maybe can’t answer – so you default to the face chart you use when little kids aren’t able to express how they feel in words. Your patient points to scared, stressed, anxious, angry. Then he throws in happy, possibly to mess with you, or to distract you from the fact that the first four emotions indicate that he’s ready to snap at any second. “How about this?” you ask, after thinking it over. “I can ask the doctor to give you something that will help you calm down –”

“Please!” The patient bursts out. Drug-seeking? “No, I don’t need it, sister! I’m so calm it’s hard to believe.”

“Okay, then we’ll just have it here in case you decide you want it. As an option,” you say, keeping your voice smooth and calm. “Either way, this is a quiet place to wait. You’re safe in here with me. And if you want, I can sew up your mask for you. Would that help?”

“You can do that?”

“Easily,” you say. “Can I see it for a second? I need to make sure I grab the right thread.”

The patient hands the mask over, which is a good sign. You’ve established at least a little bit of trust. You examine the mask and decide that you’ll need the thinnest-gauge needle and thread you have. “I can definitely fix this,” you tell the patient. “It might look a little rough, but it’ll cover you up like it did before. And it should last until you get where you’re going.”

The patient nods. You stand up. “I’m going to get some supplies, and a little anxiety medication if you decide you want it. I’ll be right back, okay? Just wait here.”

The patient nods again. Given how labile his mood is, you need to be fast about this, and get back before he gets upset or decides to leave. You step out the door and shut it behind you, heading for the supply closet, but you’re waylaid on the way there by one of the doctors. “We need you up front. Now.”

“I can’t. I have a patient, and he’s –”

“I don’t care. We’ve got a hero coming to visit, and we need somebody to keep things calm,” the doctor says. Shit. “Figure out what they want, get them as little of it as you can get away with, and get them out of here.”

“Which hero?”

The doctor shakes his head. Great. “Just hurry.”

You can’t go just yet. “My patient’s got a lot of anxiety and he’s in costume. I need him to stay calm. Can you –”

“2mg diazepam. I’ll put it in the chart.” The doctor unlocks one of the medicine cabinets, extracts a prefilled dosage cup, and hands it to you. “Go.”

Diazepam is long-acting. Hopefully long-acting enough to keep your patient quiet while you get rid of the hero. You skitter back down the hall with the dosage cup and hand it over to the patient, along with a tiny bottle of water to wash it down. “I’ll be right back. Just finding the right thread.”

The patient downs the pill dry, which is both good and bad for you. You shut the door again and head for the lobby. You don’t make it there. A cloud of black mist boils up around you, swallowing you whole.

By the time your feet hit the familiar wooden floor of the bar, you’re already out of patience. “No. Send me back right now.”

“Shigaraki Tomura has need of you. You will assist him.”

“Not right now I won’t. You snatched me from work,” you say. You’re facing the wall and the All Might poster again, and you don’t want to turn around. If you see Tenko, it’ll make it harder to say no. “If I go missing, people will notice. Is he dying?”

“No,” Kurogiri says.

“Is he in imminent danger of dying?”

“No.”

“Then send me back,” you say. If Tenko’s asked Kurogiri to get you, it means he needs medical assistance – or follow-up. You’ve needed to follow up anyway. “I can come back later.”

“No, I need you right now!”

“How much later?” Kurogiri asks, ignoring Tenko’s protest.

You think it over. You can dispense with the hero situation quickly, stitch your patient’s mask, and sneak out of work early. They’ll have to give you the emergency time off. You’ve never asked before in three years of working there. “Ninety minutes.”

“That’s too long. Kurogiri, don’t let her leave!”

“Ninety minutes. I’ll be in the alley behind the clinic.” You ignore Tenko, too, in favor of focusing on Kurogiri. He’s the one who decides if you leave or not. “All right?”

The mist wells up around you again, which counts as a yes. You land on your feet in the hallway, reorient yourself, and head for the lobby again. Tenko wants you again – needs you, your stupid brain corrects – but he’s going to have to wait for you to sort this out.

The hero in the lobby is Uwabami, the Snake Hero, and she’s got two sidekicks with her. No, students. You recognize one of them from your limited viewing of the UA Sports Festival and feel a spike of guilt run through you. She’s from Class 1-A. The same class Tenko tried to kill.

You don’t need to think about that, and you don’t need to feel guilty, because you didn’t do anything to her. You force yourself to focus. Uwabami wouldn’t have brought high school students here if she was doing any kind of investigating, which means your patient and any others who might be nervous around law enforcement are probably safe. The question of why she’s here still remains. You step forward. “Welcome to Yokohama Free Clinic South. What can we help you with today?”

“We’re on patrol,” Uwabami says. “My interns gave some feedback that our patrol involved a little too much publicity –”

The students look unrepentant. Good for them. “So we’re engaging in some down-to-earth patrolling,” Uwabami continues. “Tell us about how heroes support your clinic.”

Heroes don’t support your clinic. Most heroes strongly dislike the free clinic network, and the feeling is mutual, for a bunch of reasons you’re more than willing to articulate. Then you think better of it. Picking a fight with a hero in front of hero students is a bad move if you want to get out of here any time soon, and if you’re going to keep helping Tenko, you need to stay completely off the heroic radar. You focus on the students instead. “You’re on internships, right? They’re supposed to show you what life will be like as a hero.”

“Yes,” the girl who’s not from 1-A says. “They’re supposed to.”

“We have a program like that here, too,” you say. You gesture for them to come forward, and they desert their supervising hero at high speed. “A lot of our nurses and techs started working here in high school. Let me introduce you.”

You’re on much more solid ground talking about this. This clinic and this program saved your ass – without their sponsorship, you’d never have been able to get around your quirklessness as a barrier to nursing school, and you started getting on-the-job clinical training while most other nursing students were stuck in the classroom. You catch yourself evangelizing a little bit, but you don’t think it’s the worst thing in the world to do. You’re proud of the work you do as part of the clinic. It’s nice to get to talk about it.

You clear the hero students out in half an hour, hoping you’ve impressed them even a little bit, then hurry back to your patient. The diazepam’s kicked in nicely, and he chatters away to you while you stitch the tear in his mask. You learn that his name is Jin, or Bubaigawara, or Twice, which you’d guess are his first name, his family name, and his villain name, in that order. He doesn’t say how his mask got torn and you don’t ask, but you send him on his way in a better mood than before. “Thanks, sister,” he says on his way out the door. “You could be worse. You’re a saint!”

Different tone, different pitch, completely different meaning between the first sentence and the second. It reminds you of Kurogiri. You know enough villains now that you can compare them to one another. You shake your head, bemused, then head back inside. Time to guilt-trip your boss into letting you leave two hours early.

Your guilt-trip is successful, mostly because of how you handled the hero situation, but as you’re trying to sneak out, Yoshimi arrives for her scan. After you cajoled her into the office, you can’t abandon her to some random tech. You do abandon Mitsuko in the waiting room, though – she says the words “nipple discharge” as loudly as possible, then starts picking on the scant amount of makeup you did for your date. You don’t feel bad at all for leaving her behind.

Yoshimi’s scan goes quickly, and just like you feared, it nets her a follow-up appointment at the main branch of the free clinic tomorrow. Tomorrow’s your day off. You promise her you’ll go with her – you, and not Mitsuko or Yoji – then talk the doctor into sending her home with a dose of a different anti-anxiety medication than the one you got for Twice. Then you check your phone for the time. Almost ninety minutes exactly. You race out to the alley.

The mist engulfs you almost the instant you set foot in the alley, and you’re in the bar a moment later, facing Kurogiri. Tenko’s nowhere to be found, and before you can ask the question, Kurogiri turns and sets off through a doorway, deeper into the recesses of the building. You follow him, wondering if this counts as being taken to a secondary location. Or maybe the bar counts as the secondary location, even though you’ve been here before. Either way, you’ve listened to way too many of Mitsuru’s true-crime podcasts.

Kurogiri leads you into an absolutely filthy room. The floor is covered – empty wrappers, empty cans, old newspapers and magazines, plastic cases for game disks and chips. You have a bad feeling about who lives here, and when Kurogiri clears his throat and speaks up, you’re proven right. “Shigaraki Tomura. I have brought the girl.”

The only semi-organized spot in the room is a desk with two monitors on it, a keyboard in front of it, and Tenko slumped down with his head pillowed on one arm. He looks up, and for a split second, you can see that he’s happy even behind the hand. Then his face turns bright red and his expression twists into a snarl. “I told you not to bring her in here! Get out!”

You don’t need to be told twice. You duck out the door and retreat about twenty feet down the hallway, listening as Kurogiri tries to placate Tenko. “You asked for her to be brought to you immediately, not for me to summon you when she arrived. I followed your orders to the letter.”

“I didn’t want –” Tenko breaks off, swears. Then he mumbles something, and Kurogiri chuckles. “Don’t laugh at me!”

You check your phone. You aren’t supposed to meet Sugimura until eight, but you’ve got no idea how long this particular encounter is going to run. You might need to tell him you’re running late. You’ve just sent the text and tucked your phone away when Kurogiri reappears. “We will return to the bar,” he says. “Shigaraki Tomura awaits you there.”

So Kurogiri warped him to the bar. You wonder what that was all about. Was Tenko embarrassed that you saw how filthy his room was, or just embarrassed that you saw his room at all? Or did he change his mind about wanting you here? The last thought upsets you. You follow Kurogiri back into the bar and find Tenko sitting at the counter. It’s an improvement from the last time you saw him, when he was sprawled out and bleeding from four gunshot wounds, but this time he’s got his arms crossed, clearly pissed about something. His face is still red behind the hand. There’s a bloodstained bandage taped to his right shoulder.

A pile of supplies appears on the bar as you come closer. “What happened this time?”

“It wouldn’t stop bleeding.” Tenko uncrosses his left arm to gesture at the wound. “This is the fourth one I’ve used.”

If he’s gone through four bandages, it must be pretty deep. “How long ago did it happen?”

“Two hours,” Kurogiri says. “Shigaraki Tomura sent me to retrieve you immediately.”

“Can you fix it or not?” Tenko snaps.

“I need to see it first,” you say. You come a few steps closer, sit down facing Tenko on the barstool next to his, and reach for the bandage. He doesn’t stop you from unwrapping it, and you detour to glove up before you start peeling the fabric of his shirt back from the wound. It’s oozing blood rapidly. It’s jagged at the edges, and deep – if you suctioned the blood away, you’d be looking at exposed muscle, and you’re so horrified by the fact that Tenko’s been badly hurt again that you ask a question you shouldn’t. “How did this happen?”

“Hero Killer,” Tenko says, and your stomach lurches. “I thought he might be useful, but he’s just like the rest of them. Obsessed with the precious Symbol of Peace.”

You don’t know very much about the Hero Killer, except that he kills or cripples heroes and he’s not in Yokohama any longer. Tenko’s still ranting. “Why can’t anybody shut up about All Might? Don’t they know –”

“That he’s not gonna fuck them?” you interrupt, and Tenko nearly chokes. “I guess they can dream.”

Tenko’s expression is contorting behind the hand. You’re pretty sure it’s not the result of your explorations of the wound, because you’re not touching it. You watch, concerned, as his shoulders shake and his mouth twitches, until awkward, rusty laughter finally issues from his mouth.

You always try to make people laugh. You’ve been in the habit since you were little. It’s an effective strategy for defusing tension, whether the joke is funny or not, and your jokes are usually at least kind of funny. But you always liked making Tenko laugh when you were kids. You were always just a little prouder of that than you were with other people. Tenko made people smile all the time. He deserved for somebody to make him laugh, too.

Tenko’s laughter is brief and uneven, because he’s trying to get it under control. “Stop it,” he finally snaps at you. His mouth is still twitching. “It’s serious.”

“Right,” you agree. But you can’t resist another joke. “It would be a novel strategy. If you can’t beat the Symbol of Peace, make him unfuckable instead.”

“I can beat him,” Tenko says, but his voice is strained to the point of snapping, and his shoulders are shaking again. “Can you fix my arm or not?”

“I can fix it,” you say, “but I’ll need a suture kit. And I’ll either need to cut your sleeve or you’ll need to take your shirt off.”

“I’m not taking my shirt off.” Tenko’s face is red again. “It’s ruined anyway. Just cut it.”

You cut his sleeve open from the neckline and peel it back, then go looking through the medical supplies. Kurogiri took your advice about additions to their supplies, and nothing turned up missing at work, which means they honored your request to steal from someone else. You’ve got local anesthetic this time, which is good, because you need it. You start numbing the edges of the wound, asking every so often if Tenko can feel what you’re doing. When he stops saying yes, you open the suture kit.

It’s a bit weird, but putting stitches in is one of your favorite parts of the job. You can get in the zone with it, even when the patient wants to talk. Tenko wants to talk. “People talk about the League of Villains out there. Don’t they?” he asks. You nod. “What do they say?”

“Um –” You’re not sure this is an answer Tenko wants to hear. “They’re wondering why the attack on UA happened.”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Like, if there was a message behind it,” you elaborate. You need to be careful, with the stitches and with this line of thought. “More than just killing All Might, because lots of villains want to do that. If there was a message, it didn’t get out. The police and UA haven’t shared much information – not even how the breach happened in the first place.”

Tenko scoffs. “They don’t have a clue. They won’t see it coming the next time we hit them, either.”

He’s planning something else. Your blood runs cold, and for a moment you’re torn about whether or not to ask. Tenko makes the decision for you. “What else do they say about the League?”

“Not very much, otherwise,” you say, and Tenko swears. “There are a lot of villains, just like there are a lot of heroes. People talk about the ones they see the most of.”

“Which heroes do you talk about?”

“I don’t really talk about heroes.” You tie off a stitch, trim the thread to the appropriate length, and take another. “One of my friends has this nasty crush on Endeavor, so we talk about him sometimes, but otherwise – no.”

“Your friend has a crush on Endeavor,” Tenko repeats.

“Like I said. Nasty.”

You’re conscious of Tenko staring at you, and you will your face not to heat up under his gaze. You don’t even know why he’s staring, and you’ve got stitches to do, so it doesn’t matter. Your phone buzzes in your pocket – probably Sugimura, probably confirming your date. A date you’re not sure you want to go on anymore. Did you ever really want to go on it? Or did you just say yes because –

“You look weird.”

You look up from the stitches, startled. “Huh?”

“You look weird,” Tenko repeats. “Your clothes are different and you’ve got stuff on your face.”

Tenko and Mitsuko feel the same about your makeup skills, apparently. “Sorry.”

“Why do you look like that?” Tenko presses. You tie off his next stitch. “Are you going on a date or something?”

You answer without thinking about whether it’s the smart thing to do. “Yes.”

It’s quiet for a long stretch of seconds. “Go on your date, then,” Tenko says. His voice is flat. “I don’t need you.”

It stings. You don’t want it to, but it does, and you look down at the cut on his shoulder so he won’t see it on your face. “You still need a few more stitches. At least let me finish them.”

“No. Get out.” Tenko jerks out of your grip. You barely have enough time to cut the hanging thread on your last stitch. “I don’t want you here. Kurogiri –”

“Shigaraki Tomura, I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“I didn’t ask you!” Tenko swats at you open-handed and you leap backwards. “Get out! I don’t –”

You don’t hear the end of that sentence. Kurogiri warps you away too fast, and possibly saves your life. He drops you back in the alley behind the clinic, holding half a suture kit and still wearing bloodstained gloves. You peel them off and dump them into the garbage, furious with yourself. You shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t have talked about your life at all, and above all else, you should have remembered that you were talking to a villain, not your best friend – that whatever’s left of your best friend isn’t enough. He’s angry with you, and he’s been having you followed. Just how angry is he? Angry enough to hurt you? Or angry enough to never talk to you again?

You’re sickened and more than a little scared to realize that you’re more frightened of the latter possibility than the former. It’s entirely possible that you’ve never been in less of a mood to go on a date.

But you do go on the date, because you said you would, and it’s – fine. There’s nothing to complain about, but there’s nothing to be excited about, either. You and Sugimura hug to say goodbye, and you promise to text each other about setting up another one, and then you walk home. Mitsuko texts you, wanting details, or DETAILS, but you’ve got nothing to share. It was just a date, and no matter how many times you try to tell yourself otherwise, you’re angry about it.

Not because of Sugimura asking you out, not because you agreed, not because you went. Because you told Tenko and gave him a reason to get rid of you. Why does this keep happening? Why do you keep finding him and losing him, over and over again? What is it going to take for you to hold on?

“So how was the date?”

The voice emanates from the alleyway on your right and you nearly jump out of your skin. Tenko’s there, hand down from over his face, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He hasn’t changed his shirt. “I didn’t think heroes were your type.”

“They aren’t.”

“Then why were you on a date with one?”

“He asked.”

“And you just go with whoever asks?” Tenko looks half-incredulous, half-disgusted. You shake your head. “Forget it. Come with me.”

You shake your head again and take a step back – away from the alley, closer to the street. Tenko looks frustrated. “Come with me,” he repeats.

“What, so you can kill me?” You take another step back, well into the glow of a streetlight. You see shock flicker across Tenko’s face. “I don’t have a death wish.”

“Well, I don’t want to kill you,” Tenko fires back. He looks surprised at himself for saying it, but only for a moment – then he repeats himself, with more conviction. “I don’t want to kill you. You’re supposed to be my sidekick.”

Your jaw drops. “You remember?”

“I don’t remember everything.” Tenko takes the hand called Father out of the back pocket of his pants and studies it for a moment. Then he puts it away. “I remember that.”

Some kids played a different game every day. You and Tenko always played the same one, with a rotating cast of classmates at your side. All the heroes in the world were working together to fight one big villain, the worst villain the world had ever seen, and Tenko could never decide which hero he liked best, so he played a different one every day. But no matter which hero he played, no matter who else was playing with the two of you, you were always his sidekick. You reminded him every day that you didn’t have a quirk, and he always said the same thing in response, no matter which hero he was pretending to be that day, even though he didn’t have a quirk, either: You don’t need a quirk to be on my side. My quirk’s enough for both of us.

“Come on,” Tenko says again. He holds out his hand, three fingers and his thumb folded down, his pinky finger extended towards you. “Are you coming or what?”

You’ve never seen the world in black and white, but some things are unmistakable: There’s a line here, not visible to others but clear as day to you. On one side of it is Tenko and the darkness that’s swallowed him, the evil that surrounds him, the terrible things he’s done and is planning to do. On the other side is everything else – your dreams, your friends, your family that’s always loved you but used you anyway, a world that’s punished you time and time again for being born without a quirk, the knowledge that the world is so much crueler to so many others. You don’t think Tenko’s planning to kidnap you, to never let you leave. You’ll come back here, physically. You’ll go home and go to sleep and wake up early on your day off to take Yoshimi to her appointment at the main clinic, but you know instinctively that if you cross this line within yourself, there’s no coming back. Tenko was your best friend when you were five years old. Is he worth it?

You hate yourself for asking the question. You leave the light behind and link your finger with Tenko’s. “Where are we going?”

The black mist rises and wells up around you both. “You’ll see,” Tenko says, and for the first time since you found him again, he smiles.

[rosyronkey]

hi! i wrote an essay about rosy ronkey and her clothes, and i hypothesized what time period i think shes from/inspired by ^^ below if you wanna read more :))

ive been fixated (or had a special interest or whatever you want to call it) on rosy ronkey for a YEAR today. i've always been pretty interested in her outfit from an aesthetically pleasing point of view, but recently i wanted to see if i could find any trends and time periods in the inspirations of her clothes, which is what this essay is about! it’s going to be an explanation of most of her clothes, top to bottom, from what i can assume with the research i've done. i say research, but i probably don’t have the best sources? they’ll be linked below, but it was really more cross-referencing than anything else lol

i reached out to annie montgomerie for comment/criticism, but she’s obviously very busy and i enjoyed my research from a subjective point of view :)

basic specs on rosy (no one else but me cares): looking at rosy, the only zoomorphic, or animal looking, aspect of hers is her head. judging by proportions and cross-referencing, she looks to have the body of an american girl doll. this is just what i’ve noticed, but annie’s most recent stuff is way less anthropomorphized compared to rosy and the group she was made with. looking at annie’s most recent exhibit, hand me downs, every single piece is completely animal, with hand-sculpted claws, paws, wings and hooves. some of these dolls legs still look like american girl doll legs, but most everything else is animalistic. this isn’t important, but i just thought id mention it because artists’ growth over time is cool!

starting with her coat, it looks like a double-breasted red childrens’ coat with two rows of two buttons each. these kinds of coats are still available today, but i could find the closest matches by looking at 1920s childrens’ coats, specifically rothschild coats. the rothschild family has a long and complicated history, but all that’s important to know is that they are new york based (which doesn’t totally fit my assumptions about her; in general i assume all of annie montgomerie’s dolls are british because of her nationality) and they’ve been in business for over 100 years. by cross-referencing the growing style of double-breasted coats in the 1920s, and the style of rothschild childrens’ coats in ads from the time, i feel like it’s easy to assume rosy's character has this coat, or at least was very heavily inspired by it.

a theory i’ve seen before is that the ticket on her coat is a luggage label. these were used during WWII to evacuate british children during the blitz. the history press site says luggage labels listed “name, school and evacuation authority,” and is also where i got most of my information. i want to tentatively deny this theory. i'm pretty sure the ticket is an annie montgomerie staple opposed to a part of rosys' character. she's shown with the tag in the yorkshire sculpture park video, and on gerard way’s website, but she’s missing it in all the photos posted by annie montgomerie herself on facebook and instagram. almost every single annie montgomerie piece on display or for sale has a tag as well. i love this theory, and it’s probably what got me interested in researching her outfit in the first place, but i don’t think i could prove it if i tried.

other than the ticket, she has white roses on the left side of her coat and some smaller twigs? sticks? pinned to her collar. white roses symbolize purity, youthfulness, innocence, and in some contexts, respect for the departed. i couldn’t find any historical photos of children with roses in their outfits, but across the board that was the result i got for their meaning. i can’t discern what she has on her right collar for the life of me, if someone else can figure this out, PLEASE tell me

her dress is pink, with a cinched embroidered waist and a peter pan collar. peter pan collars became popular in the 1920s, and have been a staple of childrens’ dresses since (sources for this one were a few blogs and wikipedia, but also some ads, so i feel pretty confident with it.) some ads for girls’ dresses in the 1920s had the same soft pleats and embroidered waist as seen on rosys’ dress. i don’t think there’s a meaning behind the color, except that it compliments the red coat and her fur.

her stockings are standard, I couldn’t find much special meaning behind them, british children have been wearing stockings forever, and for girls especially, stockings became more popular in the 1920s as dresses got shorter. usually they were sheer and nude, and rosys’ look like the gray kind kids wear today, but i think it’s still period appropriate to an extent. her shoes look like red mary janes for american girl dolls, just more scuffed and dirtied. mary jane shoes themselves have been around for a while (called “bar shoes” originally,) but they got their name in 1904. in one of the first drafts for this, i read the fairy tale “the red shoes” to see if it offered any insight. i thought it’d be fun to relate, but it’s just a popular danish fairy tale, and it was hard for me to entertain the idea for long.

TLDR: i think rosy ronkeys outfit is inspired by british 1920s fashion!

that’s all I have! i apologize if this was underwhelming or overwhelming or whatever, i had no model to base this off of and the only tumblr essays i read are from my friends <3 i hope you enjoyed! i love rosy ronkey!

link to my dumbfuck google doc with all the links and braindump on it :)

[serendipityandbenevolence]

I gotta say, when I passed out last night after writing this post, I didn't expect to wake up to people actually liking it. but hey! thanks for the support. As per my little footnote (if you didn't read it then sucks to be you ig) the people who commented got first choice of which characters im going to write. love y'all by the way <3 which means that first up is... Dottore! (as requested by @amber-sekio and @gallantys)

(I am not playing rn when I say that I spent a large amount of time reading Dottore x reader fanfic so I could figure out how the hell to write him and this is probably still ooc but i did my best)

Contains - Yandere behavior (kept to a minimum though) dottore being a charming ray of a human (he mentions enslaving other countries), discussions of blood and injuries

"Dottore?"

The silence from the hallway was almost deafening. The sudden intense quiet was broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire, a welcome reprieve as your words hung in the air. Perhaps it was stupid, to call for a person who may not be there and who, of all the Harbingers, might be the most likely to still attempt to kill you. A foolish whim, but nearly dying does funny things to a person's rational.

Your door slid open silently, revealing the Doctor himself peering in at you. He did not appear to be wearing his mask, but with the low light and strands of blue hair covering his face, you couldn't make out his features well.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

Something was wrong. His voice was too soft, his words too gentle, the whole demeanor was wrong. You knew he had segments that acted differently, but you couldn't imagine Dottore ever being that kind sounding. But you were in too deep.

"Can you come in here, please? I need to ask you a question."

A few murmurs struck up behind him, but Dottore simply nodded and stepped into the room, turning his back to you as shut the door.

"You know..." he mused as he clicked the lock shut.

Ah, there it was. With the door closed, his voice changed, with that hint of cruelty and mania that you had come to associate with him lacing his words. His blood red eyes bored into you, a sly smile creeping across his face.

"Oh, what's with the expression? You seem a little scared of me, Divine One. Am I not as nice as you assumed?"

He didn't allow you to answer, pacing closer to where you lay, buried beneath the pile of blankets.

"There's really no need to be scared of me. After all, I was the one who nursed you so lovingly back to health when you were brought here out of the cold. Aren't I so generous?"

"You healed me?"

You didn't bother hiding your concern. You kicked off your pile of blankets and assessed your body, trying to see if any of your organs were missing.

"My my, do you have such little faith in me? I am a doctor after all. One of the best I'll have you know."

He leaned against the wall by your bedside, giving you a rather unnerving grin.

"Well, you have my undivided attention. What was it that you wanted to ask me?"

You were starting to think that it was a very bad idea to ask for Dottore, but you also suspected that saying you wanted to talk to someone else would go over even worse.

"Yes, I just...wanted to know what I missed while I was asleep. You know, with the other nations."

"Ahh, of course! Well, upon some reflection they seem to have come to the conclusion that you are the actual creator and not a 'fake' as they so cruelly labelled you. Needless to say, quite a few letters of apology have been sent begging for your forgiveness for their dreadful ignorance. Including-"

He reached over to you, laying a shockingly gentle hand upon your bandaged side.

"-the one who nearly killed you."

"You know who it is?" you asked in surprise.

"But of course! Simply assessing your wound, I could tell the weapon and the particular style of it, which made it rather easy to cross-referencing that with the time and location that you were attacked and deduce your attacker with little difficulty. "

"Really?"

He scoffed. "No, of course not. They mentioned in their letter that they were the one who harmed you."

Dottore stepped away from you, pacing towards the door as he pulled a crumpled note from his pocket and tossed it onto the end of your bed.

"You should read it sometime, it is truly a delightfully pathetic read. They only made one mistake."

"Mistake?"

He turned to look at you and you saw that all of the cruel humor that had covered his face was gone, replaced with an infinitely scarier coldness.

"They signed their name. So now, I know exactly who will be my next experiment, when we invade the other nations."

There was silence for a moment, before his features softened and he let out a soft laugh.

"You should sleep. It's the best medicine after all. We can discuss this more in the morning."

Dottore went to turn from you once more, but paused as you opened your mouth.

"Dottore, burn the letter. I don't want to read what they have to say."

A wicked grin flashed across his face as he snatched the letter back up and strode towards the fire.

"You know, I think-"

He tossed the letter into the embers and watched as it instantly caught alight.

"-that you and I will get along very, very well."

Dottore pulled the door open and gave you one last comment before leaving, not even turning his head.

"Sweet dreams, Your Grace."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That took me so long to write guys 😭 but anyway i hope you liked it! like i said earlier, i struggle a bit with dottore because he has all his different segments with different personalities but i think this turned out okay.

Also, the order for the next few harbingers will go as such

Tartaglia- requested by @gallantys and @followingyou247

Pierro - requested by @mistresssasori

Capitano - requested by @moonlite-drabbles @megsthings and @legendarysacrificer-blog (yall really love him clearly)

If you guys want to help me pick the order after that, go ahead in the comments!

also tagging @heizoubeloved in this because you mentioned wanting to see more!

[sabbathbloodysabbeth]

I wrote this a while ago but I fell back onto it while I was warming up on writing and decided to revise it and post it on ao3!

Ao3 link

Eddie skimmed the books on the shelf in front of him, there was no use in trying to find one he was interested in. He would forget about it somewhere in his room anyway and choose one of the Lord of the Rings books to read again. Instead, he lets himself wander through his thoughts, lost in some random DnD scenario he had made up that involved him fighting a group of dragons. Letting his body go on autopilot as his fingers gently brush the spines of every book in his reach mindlessly. He furrowed his eyebrows as he made a mental note to include this scenario in one of his campaigns later. He was sure the boys would enjoy it, especially Gareth, who had anger issues and loved releasing some of that energy onto a fictional dragon.

He should be in gym class, but he isn’t. The consequences of skipping were far better than those of actually showing up. The last time he went (over a month ago now) he ended up walking out with a chipped tooth and black eye. And he can’t forget about the bruised ego. That hurt worse than being hit in the face. Physical Pain he could handle, but his poor innocent ego could not handle the abuse.

Walking at the end of one aisle, he carefully turns and moves himself into the next. He prepares to loop through the next aisle but nearly jumps out of his skin when he almost falls over another person sitting down with their back pressed to the shelf.

A croak-like noise comes out of the back of his throat as he nearly tumbles face-first into the carpet. He stumbles forward a bit and catches his balance on the shelf to the left of him. His heart races as he secretly prays to everything holy that he didn’t somehow knock the entire shelf over. That would be his luck and land him in an infinite amount of after-school detention.

“Jesus H Christ.” He spits out, a hand pressed against his chest as he dramatically breathes heavier than normal purposely putting on a show for whoever nearly killed him. Turning around to face the culprit he jumps back again startled.

Sitting, pretty pathetically Eddie would say, was a beat-up Steve Harrington. Who looked like a horror movie had a crossover with reality. His eyes, or singular eye, were glossed over and wide as he started stuttering over his words.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to trip you up like that.” Steve visibly cringes at his words, as if he was also aware he seemed pathetic. If that's not the case, Eddie would assume Steve had been cringing at his words slurring together. That was the only logical answer as there was no way Steve Harrington was cringing at him.

“Eh- it’s alright. Not the first time a king has tried taking me out.” He grins, before faltering a bit as he remembers that the other wouldn’t understand that he was referencing DnD and not something gay. But for all, Eddie knew Steve probably correlated Dnd with weird faggots anyway.

He begins to walk away, wanting the awkward interaction to be over so that he can move on and cringe at the whole situation on a random night in the future. But he can’t help but be a bit nosy as his eyes glance down at the book in Steve’s lap. It probably had been open at one point, but it was now closed and Eddie is secretly thankful he can read upside down.

“Head injuries huh?” He points out. “Didn’t take you for a reader King Steve.” He drags the other’s name out a bit longer than he has to as he crosses his arms over his chest and cocks a hip out. He has an unreadable smile, his teeth showing in a weak attempt at being somewhat civil with the other, but he still wanted to have his guard up just in case.

He didn’t personally enjoy talking with asshole jocks, but what he did like was to know some things. He liked having some lore for the people around him for backup reasons aka blackmail.

“I’m not.” Steve snorts as he lifts the book. “Just trying to do some research, I don’t know if you have eyes but my face is pretty smashed in right now.” He retorts back with a little bit of sass. Eddie notes how his words slur like he is drunk. Eddie could spot a drunk anywhere and Steve Harrington seemed a hundred percent sober and fully aware of his surroundings. (Besides the possibility of tripping someone up by sitting on the corner of a damn shelf but that is beside the point)

Furrowing his eyebrows, just a bit concerned he doesn’t let up the banter. He purposely forces his eyelids open with one hand and jokingly presses a fingertip against his eye before pulling back. Blinking the tears out of his slightly agitated right eye he brings two thumbs up and comments, “We are in the clear I, Eddie Munson, let the record show, have eyeballs.” He grins dramatically.

“Want a gold star for that poncho.” Steve snorts not wasting a second to retort in response to the other as he shakes his head amused. His body tenses up a bit as he goes pale for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut with shaky breaths as his fists tighten around the book he is holding.

“Yes I do in fact want a gold star-” Eddie mumbles out gently, face scrunching up a bit more worried now as he moves his crossed arms off his chest and takes a few steps closer to the other.

“Hey Harrington, you alright? You don’t seem like your typical charming self.” He comments as he hesitates for a moment before he crouches down. He makes sure to leave a few inches between the two of them, far enough to not be to close but close enough to catch the other if he slumped over.

Steve gives a weak nod of his head before he adjusts himself. “Yeah- just moved my head too much. Happens sometimes you know?” He chuckles gently. Eddie did not know what he meant, didn't know how to respond, and when he didn't know how to react he normally shot off an awkward quip or two.

“Oh thank god, you were looking a little green. I Was worried you were about to hulk out on me buddy.” Eddie jokes a little, trying to lighten the mood a bit. He then lifts his hand and runs one of his rings against the bottom of his lip (a nervous tic of his) before glancing back down at the book.

“Find anything good in there, or are you just holding it for show?” Eddie asks gently, trying to come off a bit more teasing rather than concerned. The longer he stayed around this guy the more he was convinced that he needed to get the book read ASAP.

Steve snorts again, sounding a bit stressed as he nearly shakes his head no again but stops himself before making that mistake again. “No, couldn’t even make it through the first page without wanting to throw up.” He groans as he quickly adds. “Not because I don’t want to read it, it’s just the words won’t sit still and it hurts my eyes which then hurts my head.” He groans as he opens his eyes back up fully and looks down at the book with a little huff. Where Eddie was crouched he could see the other boy's eyes watering.

“Could always get a nerd to do your homework for you,” Eddie jokes, slightly hinting towards Wheeler. “Heard that girlfriend of yours had a decent brain on her, she seems like the type to understand that you’ll need help.” He tilts his head to the side as he looks at the other.

Steve makes a noise that Eddie can’t even place, it sounds like the mixture of a laugh and a snort combined. “Can’t, I’m pretty sure she cheated on me with Byers and wants nothing to do with me now. And I don’t want to feel any more stupid around her.” He mumbles the last sentence out.

Eddie looks a bit surprised, he hadn’t taken Mrs Priss to be a cheater. He furrows his eyebrows again in thought. “If you give me a twenty I’ll read that book for you and try answering any questions you have.” He spits it out before he can fully think about it. He was an impulsive person who didn't like seeing people struggle what could he say?

But Eddie didn’t want to seem completely like a sweetheart to the other as he still had doubts about the other. Plus he had to keep up the image he had going on or people wouldn’t take him seriously during deals around here. And he didn’t want to ruin said image by helping Steve Harrington of all people.

Steve squints his good eye at Eddie suspiciously, “I’ll pay you a hundred if you don’t mention this to anybody else.” Good, at least Eddie wasn't the only skeptic here.

Even though he was very skeptical Eddie still felt a little shitty for doing this but an image had to be kept and money had to be made somehow.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Harrington.” His grin isn’t fully authentic as he takes the book from the other before he does a playful salute and stands up fully. he hesitates for a moment longer tempted to ask the other if he needs help from the nurse but Eddie decides he is already giving enough charity as is and begins back on his path of slaying dragons and saving damsels in distress.

[milkweedman]

Supported Spindles: A Beginner's Jumping Off Point

I'm trying to put together an easy mostly-video post of how to learn supported spinning for my partner, but of course am publishing it for everyone. It's starting from the context of having some drop spindle experience, so that's what I'm assuming for the purpose of this short guide. I'm including some text information for easier referencing as well.

First--you might ask "Why spin supported at all?" That's a fair question. It's not the tool for everybody, but it fills some niches that drop spindles (and any other tool) don't, so it may be what you're looking for without you even knowing it. If you're not familiar with the wide variety of spinning tools and methods that exist, you probably don't know a ton about supported spindles. They can have many shapes and sizes, but the one thing they all have in common is that they must be in a bowl (or a spinning spoon, or some other similar curved, smooth item) to spin.

Each method and tool of spinning is suited to one thing or another, and supported spinning is suited to the following:

1) thinner yarns. While it's entirely possible to spin fine yarns on drop spindles, wheels, or what have you, supported spindles are MADE for fine spinning, and largely cannot deal with spinning thicker yarns. This makes supported spinning great for people who want to spin for 3 or 4 ply sock yarns, lace (normal lace but also the truly fine lace like wedding ring shawls), etc. However, even if you don't tend to use thin yarns, there are larger supported spindles that can handle a thicker single, so the boundaries can vary a lot.

2) sitting down and/or being stationary. drop spindles are notable for being able to be used while walking or otherwise on the go, but supported spindles, since they must be in a bowl, are best used sitting, laying, or standing at a counter. I have read about them used walking via a spinning spoon tucked into the belt, but cannot attest to how practical that is myself. This makes supported spinning great for car/train/bus rides, waiting in line, watching tv, laying in bed, or anything like that.

3) small spaces. The most ergonomic way to spin supported is sitting comfortably cross legged or in a chair, with your elbows tucked in and your hands up. Your spinning is contained entirely to your lap, and (depending on your spinning style) you don't need to extend your arms out or do anything fancy. I've spun supported on a very cramped train without bothering the stranger sitting next to me all that much, which I've never been able to do with a drop spindle. For me this makes it much more suitable for public transit than drop spindles, but I think that comes down to how you use each tool rather than the tool itself.

4) low energy. Supported spinning doesn't take much energy, because you are doing very little moving (mostly your hands and forearms). It can be a great activity for when you're sick, or before bed when winding down. It's also worth trying if chronic illness or disability is stopping you from spinning on your other tools--I had to give up the drop spindle as my primary spinning tool because my shoulders are wrecked, and I can only treadle a spinning wheel on good days, but I can usually spin supported no matter what. (If supported isn't accessible for you, an espinner is your next best bet).

5) cool sound. Can't overstate this one. A wooden spindle in a wooden bowl sounds so good. Skip the metal or ball bearing tip if you want to hear it.

Without further ado, here's some videos I've compiled that covered things I thought were helpful. As a disclaimer, I seem to learn exclusively by doing things myself, so if these videos don't work for you, try looking up "supported spinning for beginner" or something similar. There are a lot of videos, and almost every single one has a different technique. Anyway, best first:

Video: Supported Spinning Tutorial by Lori Rhone (link)

Key things from this video:

get used to flicking the spindle without any fiber (just as you should with any spinning tool). try forming an O with your fingers to trap the spindle tip so it has something to fall against, flick as close to the tip as you can manage, etc.

they show a good variety of spinning bowls, especially objects that aren't intended to be spinning bowls (salt cellars, egg bowls, etc). if your spindle spins well in it, it's a spinning bowl. try out lots of stuff if you're having trouble finding a good one.

good posture and positioning--stay comfortable and keep your arms close to you, try to stop yourself from doing weird contortions, etc.

they discuss the importance of building a balanced cop, and show on another spindle how the cop they built maintains the general shape of the empty spindle. this isn't necessary, but it's good practice and certainly good to keep in mind. with drop spindles the added weight of the yarn is usually what determines a full spindle first, but with supported spindles the shape and size of the cop (or your own patience for spinning endless fine yarn) can be what does it instead.

+++

Video: The Basics of Supported Spindle by Amy King (link)

Key things from this video:

the variety of different shapes of supported spindles (there are even more shapes than what they've shown as well)

that you need to pair spindles and bowls--they don't all work with each other equally well or at all (purple--don't worry, I tested the spindle with the bowl I sent you, they like each other)

another method to park and draft on supported spindles, which is essentially the same as on drop spindles

their sweater is fantastic

+++

Video: Supported Spindles--a few tips for beginners by Nikolai Meriadoc (link)

Key things from this video:

if you have a good bowl to spin in but it's unstable, try putting it in another bowl or nestled in a blanket or something else. this can stabilize it a lot.

pre-drafting very finely can help. i forgot to go into it in the video but multiple passes where you go finer each time is usually the way to go if starting from roving or another commercial prep, in my opinion. you could also diz your fiber if you're going for a more worsted prep.

picking a fine fiber like merino, bfl, rambouillet, etc. can help you draft finer as well.

the angle at which you hold your fiber/yarn is important. it should be almost vertical while spinning, and horizontal while winding on.

+++

Hopefully that can get you all started ! There are also articles on the subject although I didn't include any as they weren't relevant for who I'm making this for, so be sure to look into them if that's something that would be helpful for you.

And remember:

This post isn't for radfems. It was made by and for trans people who love men <3

[motherloads]

Right Side of My Neck

Pre! Identity Reveal. Alt. timeline of my first Tim Drake fic ◡̈

Me when me when I see readers fawn over my other fics, asking for pt. 2 but what I give is this: Tim Drake and Spider-Woman! Reader *cheering noises*

Summary: The reader is a new hero in Gotham City, known as Spider-Woman. Despite knowing of the no-meta rule, she continues to patrol the city in broad daylight.

What's to say that the bats are allowing this? At every meeting, they try and stop the unknown woman from fighting their battles. With no idea of who she is, they are struggling to maintain their no-meta rule.

Unknowingly, she forms a friendship with Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown. Shameless flirting ensues when she starts to connect the identity of the bats.

Who is she but not a Spider who captures her prey?

-> Pairings: Tim Drake x Reader

-> Marvel/DC Crossover

->Warnings: None!

not proof read! oops,,,

⋆｡°✩

You looked back at me once.  But I looked back two times.

"At some point, you need to realize that maybe, just maybe, you need to start advertising the no meta rule?" Stephanie Brown questions Bruce Wayne. She taps her feet impatiently, watching the man skim through the news reports of Spider-Woman. His separate file regarding the woman is on his other monitor.

"I do not have a no meta-rule,"  Bruce grumbles as he cross referencing similar heroes who tried to debut in the past. None match up and it was as if Spider-Woman did not exist before. Not in any city, town, or country was she ever sighted. It was as if she was a ghost.  

"Technically you do," Duke shrugs, "You always growl about no meta's being allowed in Gotham. I was the exception, remember?"

"I do not growl," Bruce points a glare at Duke who shrugs shamelessly. "Aren't you supposed to be out patrolling? Go find the new hero, only god knows what she's up to."

Duke ignores his comment, deciding to suit up for patrol to escape Bruce's ongoing investigation. 

"I thought we agreed to not use feminine pronouns," Steph reprimands, "They haven't revealed their identity. We can't just assume they go by she and her." 

"I'm too old for this," Bruce sighs, "But fine. Can someone atleast try and follow their tale? I have meetings back to back today." 

"I'll get Tim on this," Stephanie agrees, "But, before that. I think Alfred sent us his grocery list for the week." Stephanie waves goodbye to Duke and Bruce. 

⋆｡°✩

"Spider-Woman is a menace!" Her coworker reads out loud, "A menace to society and for the vigilantes in black. God! Jameson is one hell of a woman to be blasting the new hero out this way." He throws the newspaper away, shaking his head in annoyance, "I think they're pretty cool! Their helmet matches perfectly with the Red Hood. I wonder if they have some sort of alliance."

"I don't think so." Another coworker pipes up, bagging the groceries for her customer, "I don't think they have the ability to kill villains the same way Red Hood does. They probably have some moral code? I think they'd match Nightwing the best."

"Definitely not Robin. He's too...aggressive for Spider-Woman to deal with. Plus, he's a kid, so they'd probably argue." Her final and third coworker shrugs, "I honestly like that they're a solo hero."

"What if there is more like them? Like a Spider-Society where they protect the multiverse," She spoke out against her coworkers, grinning shamelessly at her reveal, "Spider-Women in the Spider-Verse."

"Now where do you get that idea from?" A new voice muses. They all turn their heads to see Timothy Drake. His eyes, as tired as ever, make eye contact with the girl. He smiles at her in response to her staring, "Seems like a far-fetched idea." 

"I know them," She grins, leaning against her counter, looking at Tim from beneath her lashes. She senses him squirm in response to her look, "Might even know their identity." She teases. 

"Care to share? I'd love to know, for research purposes." 

Her grin widens at his response, cocking her head innocently at Tim who continued to squirm in her gaze. "Why? Want to ask them out on a date?" 

"No-No. I'm just curious! Does that mean you don't know?" 

She pushes herself off the counter, continuing to check Tim out. She noticed the array of coffee flavors and things that are normally on her customer's grocery list. She assumed he was doing his own for his butler, Alfred. 

"Of course not. I'm just a college student." She shrugs, "50.42. Will that be cash or card?"

Tim mumbles his answer, passing her his card for the transcation. His face still felt hot from her onslaught, but he decided to ignore how fast his heart was beating. Instead, he focused on her hands. Her hands were a light shade of purple as if she was healing from a bruise. 

"Hey wha-" He gets cut off when she passes his card back to him. She tilts her head at him, making his heart stop again. 

"What?" She asks.

"Nothing, Nothing. I-See you later?" She nods in response, watching Tim walk away from her counter quickly. She felt a laugh bubble up from inside of her.

"God, you're shameless." Her coworker sneered. She only laughs in response. 

⋆｡°✩

"If I were a villain, where would I be?" She hummed, moving across the rooftop she was on. Her helmet's eyes furrowed, zooming in on a robbery in a nearby bakery.

"Gotcha," She whispers, moving down to the bakery. She notices the baker being held at gunpoint as customers run out of the store. She paid no mind to the customers who tried to push her aside as she stepped foot into the scene.

"Hey! Mr. Big Bad Wolf! Has anyone ever told you not to huff and puff in a bakery before?!" She paused at her words, suddenly realizing her mistake, "Sorry, Sorry. I think I mixed up my fairytales."

The robber immediately drops his gun and himself to the ground. Shaking like a leaf, the robber immediately starts blabbing out an apology. "I swear I had no bullets! I swear- I just need money! My kid's in trouble! He's sick and I-" She cuts him off, webbing the gun and bringing it to her.

"The shelter across the streets offers monthly emergency grants to 20 lucky folks each month. Luckily, the application opens tomorrow. I'd recommend you apply to it instead and-" She pulls out her wallet, free from any sort of identification. Counting silently, she slides a hundred to the man. "This should cover the medicine until you receive the emergency grant. If not, just tell the clerk Spider-Woman sent you."

The man nods frantically, taking the hundred and running out of the bakery. The baker sighs in relief, sliding down the wall hazardously, "I thought today was my last day, genuinely..." "Not your time yet, I suppose," She begins to skim through the selection, humming to herself as she reads the items out loud, "Lemon Pie sounds good. I'll take a slice." The baker immediately stands, rinsing their own hands from the dirt on the floor. In the blink of an eye, they were packaging a whole lemon pie.

"I said one," Spider-Woman frowns as the baker pushes the box to her. She could smell the lemon wafting off of the pie from where she stood.

"It's a thank you. Also on the house," The baker responds instead, "I'm Felicia by the way. Felicia Hardy."

"Nice to meet you, Felicia," Spider-Woman nods as Felicia smiles warmly. Her smile disappeared when the door jiggled. A person came into the bakery.

She felt no reaction with her spider senses. No imminent danger was presented. When she looks, she is immediately face-to-face with Nightwing, "Funny seeing you here. I swore just yesterday you were at Bludhaven, Mr. Wing!"

"Had some business to take care of here," The man easily grins, nodding at the baker in return as she stares in awe. "A little bird told me you were sighted in a bakery. Wanted to see the situation." The minute he ended his sentence, she felt another presence in the bakery.

"Little Bird? Does it happen to be Robin?" She questions casually, leaning against the countertop. She rested her hand on the bag with her lemon pie.

"How do you always know," A younger voice scoffs. The occupants in the bakery turn to the corner shrouded in darkness. There, stood Robin in his little mighty glory.

"The spider in the corner told me so," She responds instead, "Now...are you both going to take me in?"

"That's the plan," Nightwing grins, "Want to put your lemon pie on the side?"

"No, it's fine," She tightens her grip on the bag, "Got places to be, Mr, Wing. You'd understand, right?"

"Answer our question first," Robin spits out, stepping forward into the light. His katana, held menacingly and glinting from the lights was pointed at her. "Why did you let the robber go? He could have been lying and you let a man go. He could kill someone!"

"Listen, kid," She sighs, "I don't have to tell you anything- We aren't teammates and in no way, do I want the Bats in my business." She pauses at her words, feeling her nose wrinkle from under her helmet. Stepping closer to Robin, she takes a long, deep breath.

"You have a dog?" Both Nightwing and Robin tense at her words, "A smell lingers from you. You live on a farm?" She turns her head to Nightwing and does the same to him, "Do you like swimming? You have chlorine in your hair." When both of the vigilantes stayed rooted in their spot, both from equal shock, she continued. "You smell like someone I see around here. Are you in contact with Tim Drake?"

With that, she shoots four simultaneous webs at the duo's feet. Rooting them to their spot, she salutes them and runs out of the bakery.

⋆｡°✩

At this point, the constant meetings with the Bat's made her realize the similarities they all hold with one another and a particular person she loved to tease. Nightwing and mini Robin were not the only ones who had that particular scent.

When she met Black Bat, she noticed how the smell was not as intense but still lingered on her person. Specifically to the gadgets she had on her self, they had a combination of metals that had created it and everything that screamed Tim.

When she met Signal, it wasn't the same. He had more of a scent on him compared to Black Bat. Specifically his hands and shoulders, although she wasn't sure why. When she began to do her research and find blurry photos of Signal and pictures she had taken of Tim, she realized Tim stood shorter than the vigilante.

Batman himself never strayed close enough to where she can smell him. He always maintained a distance, as if he knew what she had been researching. But he had no clue, right?

Tim's scent lingered on Red Hood and apparently they likely had many fist fights with one another because of how strong it stayed on the older man's fists. Hell, if she was near him close enough (which was almost always never) she can catch a hint of blood.

Spoiler had the second biggest scent out of all of the Bat's. Tim's scent was everywhere to her hair, skin, suit, and shoulder. This had made her go crazy, but don't tell anyone else that it was embarrassing when she had stumbled into Spoiler's arms to make sure there wasn't anything apparent on her face.

But doing so made her realize how similar she smelled to Stephanie.

Red Robin had been the one who easily dodged her efforts to get anything off of him. If she thought Red Hood was hard, then she was in for quite a shock when Red Robin kicked her helmet, knocking her back a notch.

"I know what you're trying to do!" He shouts at her, "The others have told me you have been taking big sniffs at them, what are you even planning?"

"I'm testing a hypothesis," She grits out, adjusting her helmet's lenses as Red Robin kicked them out of place, "I just need to confirm something, just hold still!"

"No!" He calls out, taking out his grappling hook in a quick motion. He makes no sound of a goodbye as he shoots away. Scoffing under her breath, she easily sticks a web onto the mans shoulder.

Pulling herself back, she launches herself onto the vigilante's back. He yelps in shock, not expecting her to latch on around his waist. Her arms wrap around his neck as she tilted his head back. Taking a hard sniff, her senses went into overdrive when she realized how familiar his smell was.

Sighing in relief, she leans her head further into his shoulder, she is interrupted from her thoughts as he lands on a rooftop. Trying to remove her, he grabs at the arms that would not budge. Then, he tried her legs. It was the same outcome.

"Come on!" He growls, "Get off!"

"No," She spits back, "You're an asshole!"

"I didn't even do anything! You're the one smelling the entirety of all the Bats! What next? Going to sniff Joker?!"

She steps one foot down but immediately goes to kick the back of his legs. Red Robin falters as he falls to the floor. Above him, she sits on his lap. They both stare at one another.

"I was wondering why every single Bat had this one recognizable scent," She begins, her frown masked by her helmet, "It drove me crazy, Red. Absolutely crazy that I thought the person I knew was being stalked."

She sees Red Robin's mask furrow in confusion. Still, he made no effort to move her off of him. "Even smelled the clothes he let me borrow. To see how similar it was."

Removing her helmet, Red Robin stares in shock as the spider's eyes were revealed. A familiar color he couldn't help but feel a blush rise from his face and around his ears. He noticed her eyes shift to his neck, that was most likely red as well.

He could not see her lower half, she had it covered with a mask the same color as her suit.

"Tim, did you know that cologne never truly washes out?" She leans close to his face, brushing a strand of his hair away from covering his mask. Tim felt his breath hitch at the name unroll from her tongue. One syllable and one identity reveal. "I think you need to prioritize washing the smell out." She tilts her head, her eyes crinkling as she smiled under the mask.

"How-" Now, Tim pushed her off of him. Doing his own move, which she made no effort to stop, he landed between her thighs. She was on the floor, staring up at him. He was on his knees as his breathing became uneven.

"Right side of my neck always smelled like you," She muses, "Whenever you gave me a hug, it would always linger. I liked it a lot."

Without a second thought, Tim pulls off the woman's mask.

He stares at a familiar face, who smiles at him. The cute smile he always felt shy about and guilty that he constantly lied to them. The cute smile that was apart of his profile picture of her.

The cute smile of the person who he would have never thought was the vigilante they were chasing after.

He breathes out her name.

"Hey, Tim."

[aftgficrec]

My favorite fics are soft andriel, and teen andriel.

Here’s my recs:

Raised on little light by maqicien

Falling is a lot like drowning by chaoticas_hell

This wasn’t in the prophecy (series) by Arirmis

(Account locked) Raise me up so you can watch me fall by Yes_No_ofcourse

And this last one is angst and dark but I do love it

Hiding scars under exy gear By rinz

Wow, that’s a lot of recs in one submission!  Usually we just get one or two 🤣. - S

You can find some of those fics here:

‘Raised on Little Light’ here (since updated)

‘Falling Is A Lot Like Drowning’ here (since updated)

‘Raise me up so you can watch me fall’ here (locked, now complete)

This wasn’t in the prophecy by Arirmis [Rated T/M, 73294 words, incomplete, last updated Feb 2024]

Percy Jackson AU where all of the foxes are demigods, Andrew meets Neil shortly after his mom dies, and joins him on the run instead of going back to camp. Part one spans from their first meeting to their first kiss; Part two will take place a few years later, when certain circumstances force them to return to camp, and Andrew has to deal with what he left behind, on top of their current problem. While both fics should be able to be read individually, it does make more sense if you read them in order :)

Part 1:  Cross your fingers, here we go (T, 25037 words, complete)

Millport is a horrible, dry as fuck little town in the vast nothingness of the dust hole that is Arizona, and Andrew hates it with vigor.  He has been tracking a horde of Manticores for weeks now, and isn’t that something? A half-blood having to chase after the monsters. He is starting to feel like one of Renee’s hunters, when Andrew is pretty sure the nasty scorpion-cats should want to kill him more then he wants to kill them.  Or, Andrew expected to find all sorts of things on his first quest. He didn’t expect a twitchy, blue-eyed half-blood with monsters on his heels, and he surely didn’t expect to fall in love with him.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death

Part 2: Mortal Bodies, Timeless Souls (M, 48257 words, incomplete)

„Minyard! Get your ass up and put some armor on! Abby, Greene, get the infirmary in shape, border control just spotted a motherfucking Drakon in the woods!“ As if Wymack’s order triggered it, a ear grating screech echoes all the way to the big house. The camp counselor curses. „Move it people, there are half-bloods out there that need to get to safety!“  Or, for two and a half years, Aaron has been grieving the brother he buried, only to learn now, that Andrew is very much alive. He also has a scarred little shithead in tow, that Aaron wants to punch in the face regularily. Life is fun like that.

tw: blood, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death, tw: vomit

Hiding scars (under exy gear) by rinz [Rated M, 34309 words, incomplete, last updated March 2024]

Juggling a mobster serial killer household and high school is harder than Neil had anticipated. and that goth kid on the roof really needs to mind his own business. OR a high school AU where neil and mary never run from nathan and neil meets the foxes in private high school instead.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: imlied/referenced torture, tw: graphic violence

[ezziefae]

Thoughts while reading The Prisoners Throne Excerpt

Here's a rushed annotation of some parts of the excerpt that really drew my attention. Jurdan fans be ready for many surprises.

"Imagine you have a weapon. They had been in Vivi’s second apartment, standing on a small metal balcony. Inside, Taryn and Vivi had been fussing over Leander, who was learning to crawl. The Ghost had asked about Oak’s training and been uninterested in the excuse that he was eleven, had to go to school, and couldn’t be swinging around a longsword in the common space of the lawn without neighbors getting worried."

(this is a flashback) Taryn’s child makes their first debut!! Taryn named the boy Leander. (I’m assuming its a boy name) Since the Ghost is in Vivi’s apartments could that be a hint that he’s romantically involved with Taryn? Or it could also be that he’s accompanied Taryn to protect her. It's super cool to see The Ghost and Oak training together.

"Oak had actually liked making his own sword. It was huge and black with a bright red hilt covered in demonish faces. It looked like the sword of someone in an anime he’d been watching, and he felt like a badass, holding it in his hands. The sight of Oak’s blade had made the Ghost smile, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he started moving through a series of exercises, urging Oak to follow. He told the prince should call him by his non‑spy name, Garrett, since they were friends."

Love that Holly is still referencing anime in the Elfhame series. Can we also talk about The Ghost’s character development? In TFOTA series he always kept to himself, and now he’s letting his closest friends call him by his real name.

"The prince has been imprisoned three weeks, according to the tallies he’s made in the dust beneath the lone bench. Long enough to dwell on every mistake he has made on his ill‑fated quest."

THREE WEEKS??? What the heck have Jude and Cardan been doing for three weeks??? I honestly expected for him to be rescued asap. If anything Jude and Cardan have been carefully planning to save oak and I guess that takes a lot of time. 

"His family must be in a panic right now. He trusts that Tiernan got Madoc to Elfhame safely, no matter what the redcap general wanted. But Jude would be furious with Tiernan for leaving Oak behind and even angrier with Madoc, if she guesses just how much of this is his fault."

I really want to see someone from Elfhame’s POV on Jude finding out on Oak being taken prisoner by Wren. I want to see a raging Jude. I’d be terrified to be in Tiernan’s place, since it was his job to protect Oak, and he failed that.

"Possibly Cardan would be relieved to be rid of Oak, but that wouldn’t stop Jude from making a plan to get him back. Jude has been ruthless on Oak’s behalf before, but this is the first time it’s scared him. Wren is dangerous. She is not someone to cross. Neither of them are."

OHH??? OHHH???? So many things are thrown at us here. Oak has a reason to believe that Cardan doesn’t like him??? To the point where Oak believes Cardan would even be RELIEVED to get rid of him? That was SUPER unexpected. Oak finally takes it in that neither Wren or Jude are people to cross. As much as I hate saying this, I want a Jude and Wren fight. That would be amazing. Not saying I want either of them to die, or get hurt, but that would be an intense scene. 

“I can do better,” he says. “And perhaps you might bring me a little gossip to cheer the chilly monotony of my days.” “You’re very silly, Your Highness,” she says after a moment, biting her bottom lip a little.

Oak is using his most dangerous power, seduction. Screaming. 

"He remembers Oriana’s warning to him when he was a child. A power like the one you have is dangerous, she said. You can know what other people most want to hear. Say those things, and they will not only want to listen to you. They will come to want you above all other things. The love that a gancanagh inspires—some may pine away for desire of it. Others will carve the gancanagh to pieces to be sure no one else has it."

I'm so glad holly is diving deep into this, We know that Locke also had this power, and how he was wielding it in TFOTA series. 

"That night, he wakes to the sight of a snake crawling down the wall, its black metal body jeweled and glittering. A forked emerald tongue tastes the air at regular intervals, like a metronome. It startles him badly enough for him to back up against the bars, the iron hot against his shoulders. He has seen creatures like it before, forged by the great smiths of Faerie. Valuable and dangerous. The paranoid thought comes to him that poison would be one straightforward way to solve the problem of his being held by an enemy of Elfhame. If he were dead, there’d be no reason to pay a ransom."

Oak sees this snake, and he immediately thinks it was sent from elfhame to kill him. Which is insane for him to believe that. 

"He doesn’t think his sister would allow it, but there are those who might risk going around her. Grima Mog, the new grand general, would know exactly where to find the prince, having served the Court of Teeth herself. Grima Mog might look forward to the war it would start. And, of course, she answered to Cardan as much as Jude."

"Not to mention there was always the possibility that Cardan convinced Jude that Oak was a danger to them both."

WHAT IS THIS DISAPPROVAL CARDAN HAS ON OAK?? The fact that Oak believes Cardan sent the snake to KILL HIMM, that's absolute madness. Like what the helll did this man do to Oak to make him feel this way?? Cryingggg. 

"It yawns widely enough for him to see silver fangs. The links of its body move, and a ring comes up from its throat, clanging to the floor. He leans down and lifts it. A gold ring with a deep blue stone, scuffed with wear. His ring, a present from his mother on his thirteenth birthday and left behind on his dresser because it no longer fit his finger. Proof that this creature was sent from Elfhame. Proof that he was supposed to trust it."

THIS IS THE RING THAT'S ON THE COVER!! Now we know what the ring means to Oak!!

“Prinss,” it says. “In three daysssss, you mussss be ready for resssss‑cue.” “Rescue?” Not here to poison him, then. The snake just stares with its cold, glittering eyes.

Okay so Jude sent a snake as a messenger to Oak, to let him know that they're coming to save him in three days. Cool….coool.

“Give me longer,” he says, no matter that it’s ridiculous to negotiate with a metal snake and even more ridiculous to negotiate for his own imprisonment, just in order to get a chance to speak with someone who refuses to see him. “Two more weeks perhaps. A month.”

THIS STUBBORN BOYYYYYY. Oh I know Jude would be absolutely furious for that.

"Oak slides the ring onto his pinkie finger, watching the snake as it coils its way up the wall. Halfway to the ceiling, he realizes that just because it wasn’t sent to poison him doesn’t mean it wasn’t sent to poison someone."

BIG MISTAKE MISTER SNAKE, BIGGGGG MISTAKEEEE.

He jumps onto the bench and grabs for it, catching the end of its tail. With a tug, it comes off the wall, falling against his body and coiling around his forearm. “Prinsssss,” it hisses. As it opens its mouth to speak, he notes the tiny holes in the points of its silvery fangs. When it does not strike, Oak pries the snake carefully from around his arm. Then, gripping the end of its tail firmly, he slams it down against the stone bench. Hears the cracking of its delicate mechanical parts. A gem flies off. So does a piece of metal. He whips it against the bench again.

Oak really said “oh hell no, you're not killing the women i love, nah uh,” and then proceeds to kill it in a very violent unsettling manner. Everyone was right when they said that Oak was like Madoc.

Straun spits on the floor in front of the prince’s cage. “No amount of gold or gems will save you. If my winter queen wants you to rot here, you’re going to rot.” “Your winter queen?” Oak repeats, unable to stop himself. The falcon looks a little shamefaced and turns to go back to his post. He’s young, Oak realizes. Older than Oak, but not by so very much. Younger than Hyacinthe. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Wren made such an impression on him. It shouldn’t bother Oak, shouldn’t fill him with a ferocious jealousy.

THE JEALOUSY HAS ME CACKLING. He was imprisoned, neglected in his cell by wren and yet he's jealous whenever someone else has lovey dovey eyes for wren. This man is so down for wren, and I don’t blame him. 

The Ghost taught him how to move stealthily, but he’s never been very good at it. He blames his hooves, heavy and hard. They clack at the worst possible times. But he makes an effort, sliding them against the floor to minimize noise.

Super cool to see how much The Ghost has impacted Oak's skills. The court of shadows in general has been a huge part in Oak’s training and it shows.

Oak moves fast, jerking Straun backward and covering his nose and mouth with the cloth. The guard struggles, but inhaling blusher mushroom slows his movements. Oak presses him to the floor until he’s unconscious.

THERE WE GOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Welp, The excerpt ends in Oak escaping his cell…..after all thar chaos i've become too impatient. Just 3 Months until this book comes out !!! 

[aroaceleovaldez]

how do you reach the askblog demographic you want?? Me & a friend recently started one and we have very little interaction despite trying to tag relevant things, advertise on our main blogs, etc. Also just tips for starting one in general would be appreciated lmao

I've gone over tips for how to start an askblog [here], but as for the rest:

A.) Make sure that you actually are an askblog and not an RP blog. Some people will use those terms interchangeably or call their RP blogs askblogs and those are not the same thing. This is actually a very common problem. If you are doing RP stuff but calling it an askblog people will not send you askblog asks because they will assume you are a mislabeled RP blog. Sometimes also vice versa. Making sure it is labeled appropriately will make sure people are going to interact more because they can identify your blog more clearly. If you're unsure about the difference, I have a rough definition:

A tumblr askblog is generally defined as any tumblr blog in which there is a subject/focus on a “muse”/character to whom followers/the audience can direct questions to via the blog’s inbox. The “mun”/mod/admin(s) of the blog will respond to these questions in-character. This is different from a roleplay blog, in which the audience always plays the role of characters the blog’s muse will interact with directly, usually providing a narrative prompt to reply to/continue off of. Askblogs can be of a variety of formats, including illustrated/“drawn-response” askblogs, text-response askblogs, cosplay askblogs, voice acting askblogs, and more.

B.) Be careful when you tag things - if you are cross-tagging too much (i.e. posting about one character but tagging another character not referenced) people in those tags may actually block you, or tumblr may flag you as a bot. You can usually tell if your blog accidentally got flagged because your inbox and messaging icons will disappear when you look at your blog's dashboard preview. Do not crosstag! It is never a good thing on tumblr and will never help you. Only tag stuff that's strictly and entirely relevant. In PJO-sphere the only real exception to this is tagging anything PJO related "Percy Jackson" because that is both the series and the character, so people will not get on your case for that. That one is fine, nobody really cares. "Riordanverse" is the common all-encompassing tag for all PJO-universe series and etc though.

Other than that, making original posts frequently and having original posts on your blog that people are more likely to reblog (ex: normal fanart outside of askblog asks, shitposts/memes, etc) will help people find your blog more. People are not likely to reblog advertisement posts, but will reblog general fanart and memes. Try not to reblog too much stuff to your blog especially at first because that clutters it a lot and people will have a harder time figuring out what your askblog is like when you're actually answering asks (also only original posts count towards your blog appearing in tag searches and etc).

C.) I actually have a dedicated blog for this exact type of thing - @askblog-index. The format there is basically people submit an index of their askblog and that gets posted so people can filter for specific fandoms or other criteria to find askblogs they might be looking for. Because looking for askblogs can be difficult in the tumblrsphere. I usually post indexes pretty quickly so if you submit one I will absolutely get on that.

As some extra tips, make sure you enable your blog's custom theme (you don't have to do much setting up for the theme itself, though if you want it is really easy to do so. Recently I've quite enjoyed the theme Vision, though particularly for askblogs you can never go wrong with good ol' Redux). Double and triple check your inbox is open. And in your blog settings there is a "featured tags" thing that you can edit - edit your blog's featured tags to whatever the subject of your askblog is. Fandom, main character(s) of the blog, the terms "askblog"/"askblogs," etc etc all that jazz. This feature literally tells tumblr how to recommend your blog to people.

[justimajin]

The Profit & Love Statement » Pt. 21

↠ Pairing: Seokjin x Reader

↠ Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Angst

↳ 4.5k / CEO AU

↠ Summary: Through hours of endless training and hard work, Kim Seokjin is finally the CEO of Kim Electronics. He has everything at his hands - status, money, power. He owes it all to you, his rigid and sarcastic mentor who overseed his entire training. But as he steps into the shoes of becoming the CEO, he can only wonder what it means for your relationship now.

↠ A/N: If anyone would like to see the clip referenced in this chapter for research purposes, here it is.

↠ Next Update: Tuesday, November 21 (series masterpost here)

Jin is hunched over, features screwed shut. 

You’re currently inside his office, keeping a hand on his back and watching as he curls up in pain. 

A huff leaves you. “I told you not to overdo it.” 

“And I told you I had to!” He protests – only to immediately regret it and deeply wince. 

A defeated sigh leaves his lips. “I just wonder how long I’ll be like this.” 

“By the looks of it, a good week.” You retort, “Why didn’t you just take the day off?” 

“I’m the CEO…” He mumbles, opting to plant his face against his desk. 

You let out a long drawn-out sigh. In this case, the single person responsible for his dilemma was simply himself. 

Planting a hand against your hip and cocking up a brown, you’re extremely blunt with him. 

“Well, this is what you get for karaoking so hard.” 

Jin glances at you, a pout on his lips from your choice of wording. But you don’t budge, knowing exactly how this all conspired. 

The whole concept of the evening came from one person. 

“Karaoke?”

“We should go!” Jungkook exclaims, speaking with you as he makes his coffee. “I already asked everybody.” 

“I don’t know,” You bite your bottom lip, “I’ve never done it before…” 

“It’ll be fun,” He insists, slipping a card out from his suit’s pocket. You peer at it, noticing the words ‘brand new location’ at the top, which happened only a street away from your workplace. “Bring Seokjin along too.” 

You snort, “Are you sure the two of you won’t start fighting?” 

“No promises.” He says with a sly smile. 

You had decided to bring it up to Jin after work – who to your surprise is extremely onboard with the whole idea. He surprises you even more by mentioning that he actually loves doing karaoke and that he even dragged Namjoon down with him one time, to which you could ask him just how talented he is at it. 

Ultimately making the decision to go, you’re not quite sure what exactly to expect when you open the door to your assigned room. 

Your irises round at the pure chaos. 

The very first thing you notice is how cramped the room is, an abundance of both snacks and alcoholic drinks littering the humongous table in front of the karaoke machine. The second thing would be where all your friends are situated – Hoseok and Taehyung are loudly cheering next to the machine as Jimin sits on the bench sheepishly with Yoongi, slowly clapping his hands as the latter holds an amused smile with crossed arms. 

The last thing you notice is Jungkook holding one of the mics in his hand, abruptly switching from singing softly to straight up rapping, leaving you astounded. 

Behind you, Jin glances around with a huge smile and you slip in next to Yoongi on the bench. 

“Having fun, I assume?” You shout a bit loudly over Jungkook’s vocals. 

He grins, appearing to have had a drink or two. “You came at the best part.” 

Jimin shuffles closer to Yoongi, making eye contact with you. “Jungkook’s pretty good, Y/N!”

You hum in agreement, watching him continue to rap as Hoseok takes the other mic, hyping him up with background sounds. Taehyung reaches over, smiling as he offers you some fries they had previously ordered, something that you gladly take. 

Your eyes widen when Jin slips off his suit jacket, tucking it next to you. 

“You’re going?”

He cheekily winks. “Of course, I have to show you how talented I am.” 

After a couple more lines, the song ends and everyone claps for Jungkook. He wipes some sweat away from his temples and Jin leans over to Hoseok, presumably asking him for the second mic. 

Jin smirks, rolling up his sleeves. “I bet I can rap better than you.” 

“Is that a challenge?” Jungkook inquires. 

Your gaze nervously darts between the two of them, already seeing the brewing tension. However, you fail to acknowledge the playful look in Jin’s eyes as the music begins and Loner by Outsider starts to play. 

Your mouth draws wide open when Jin starts rapping. 

You’re not the only one with the stunned reaction, the friends surrounding you are all instantly struck with awe with how effortlessly he raps – even Jungkook, who quickly pitches in with hyping him up. 

At one point, you, Jimin and Yoongi start bobbing your heads to the beat, fascinated with his good flow. Hoseok chuckles when he skips over some words, but still claps for him nonetheless as he continues. 

But then you’re leaning against Yoongi, attempting to stifle your laughter when he starts sounding angry, almost like he was reprimanding someone instead of karaoking. 

After speeding through the words but still managing to stay on beat, he draws towards the end of the song and Hoseok quickly encourages him to drop the mic, to which he does. 

Everyone practically roars with a cheer, loud enough to alert nearby rooms. 

Jin appears absolutely exhausted, but gets tackled by Hoseok and Jungkook, who are still cheering for him. Even Yoongi shouts, clapping his hands with a proud smile. 

He stumbles over to you, grabbing a drink from the table. Your eyes are glued to him, still staring in awe. 

“I didn’t know you could do that!” You exclaim over the song Taehyung begins to sing. 

“Do what? Rap like a genius?” He quirks up a brow, clearly amused from your reaction. 

“Well, yeah!” You profess, “You were amazing!” 

He grins, leaning down and pecking you on the cheek. “Just wait till you hear me sing.”

Putting his drink down, he heads over to Jungkook for the mic. The latter looks up at him with bright eyes, whispering something along the lines of ‘we need to do a song together!’ to which Jin fondly nods at. 

A warm smile stretches on your lips. 

***

Jin wasn’t lying. At all.

After Taehyung finishes his song, he takes the microphone and puts on a balled, before handing Jungkook the second mic. 

The soft music plays and you are thoroughly shocked for the second time of the day.

His voice is both beautiful and melodious, akin to being angelic. Jungkook joins him after one line, harmonizing effortlessly and their voices mix together, resonating throughout the room. 

As Taehyung hugs Jimin who giggles at the action, Hoseok raises his drink and sways side and side while Yoongi hums along, a small smile on his lips. 

You are left with simple staring – being impressed once again by him. It’s something he practically thrives on, darting his gaze over at you consistently and fishing for compliments, which you gladly give to him.

The rest of the night flashes by – more songs being added to the queue and empty cartons and bottles scattered all over the table. Everyone ends up being either drunk out of their mind or utterly exhausted with the strain on their vocal cords. 

You were forced to wrench off Jin from the karaoke machine once the clock struck midnight, but he had continued to sing, running high on energy as he bounced up and down. Hoseok ended up helping you, turning off the machine as you grabbed Jin’s hand and brought him outside with everyone else. 

Which segways into your current dilemma – aka Jin managed to karaoke to the point where his back gave out.

“I’ll need to leave.” You inform Soyou, eyes downcasted. “I have... bit of an emergency.” 

“Of course, Y/N.” She immediately responds, “Please keep me posted about it.” 

You nod, thoughts running astray. 

About my boyfriend’s karaoke condition? Of course. 

Turning to head towards your cubicle, Yoongi peeks out from his side. 

“Is he alright?” 

“Not really.” You mutter, “He’s been in pain all day and refused to call in sick, so I forced him to take the rest of the day off.” Taking your bag, you sling it against your shoulder, “I’m leaving too, he needs someone to look after him.” 

“Well, he did put on quite the show yesterday.” He points out, voice soft. “I hope he gets better soon.” 

The corners of your mouth lift, and you leave, waving at Yoongi as you do. Heading down on the elevator, you find Jin at the front, still hunched over against the wall and waiting for your arrival. 

To your shock, he’s with someone else. 

“Your back is giving out?” The man throws his head back, laughing loudly. 

Jin scoffs, “How come you’re fine and I’m not?!” 

“Because you’re old and I’m still youthful, of course.” 

“Yah!”

Jungkook childishly snickers and you’re stunned to see Jin begin to protest more against him.

“Jungkook?” You question, watching him whirl around with crossed arms. “What are you doing here?” 

“What does it look like?” He gestures to Jin, “Someone had to make sure our lovely Ahjussi made it to the elevator.” 

Jin’s eyes are boiling in rage and you’re speechless as Jungkook grins, like he knows he’s said something to tick off Jin. 

“How dare you call me that?!” 

“That’s what you get for being old!” He calls out. “I’ll leave him in your care, Y/N.” 

You playfully roll your eyes, “Get back to work already.” 

His eyes crinkle and he spins on heels, lightly jogging back. 

Leaning down, you take one of Jin’s arms and place it around your neck, letting half of his weight rest on you. 

“I didn’t know the two of you were so close.” You sing-song, walking outside with him. Rummaging through your pockets, you locate your phone and call for a cab. 

“He’s such a brat.” He remarks, “But I suppose he’s not so bad...” 

You chuckle, setting your phone down. 

“Says the person that was jealous of him.” 

“Hey, that was before I got to know him!” He protests. 

You let out a sigh, recognizing and waving the cab driver closer. He stops right in front of the two of you by the curb, and you help Jin inside the car. 

“So sorry.” You smile cheekily in his direction. “You’re right, I won’t say anything else about your new best friend.” 

A deep pout mars his lips and you giggle, slipping into the car with him. 

“You need to stop moving around!”

Jin grimaces, features twisted up. He keeps shifting around, attempting to stagger forward towards your apartment on his own. 

A pained huff leaves him, “How else am I supposed to walk then?!” 

“I told you already, just lean against me.” You chide, attempting to support his weight. He walks rather lop-sidedly, another wince running through him. 

You finally arrive at your door and jam your keys in, turning the lock. 

Entering inside, you let the door close behind you and trudge towards your couch, to which Jin plops down on quite dramatically. 

You let out a huge exhale of relief, spinning on your heels into the direction of your bedroom. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s still early in the afternoon and that Yuna wouldn’t be home anytime soon, still being at school. 

Returning to your living room, you emerge with a blanket and toss it onto Jin. 

“Don’t get up.” You state. 

He recoils on the couch with a laugh, “I wasn’t planning to.” 

Lightly shaking your head at that, you swiftly pace over to your kitchen and place a heating pad in the microwave. After a couple of minutes pass by, you take it out. 

Stepping back over to the couch, you help Jin into a seating position and assist with tugging off the suit jacket he adorns from his broad shoulders.

“Ow.” He loudly winces when you pull too hard on one arm, and you remorsefully grimace. 

“Sorry.” 

You manage to yank the article of clothing off, much to Jin’s protests. He lies right down on the heating pad you give him, with it positioned underneath his back. You unfold the blanket you had given him earlier, covering him entirely. 

“I think that should be okay for now.” You huff, glancing in his direction. “Are you comfortable, Jin?” 

Instead of his voice, silence greets you back. Curiously, you get up and peer over at his face, only to see his eyes fluttered shut and small snores already beginning to leave him. 

You softly smile, taking that as his response. 

***

A deep breath leaves your lungs. 

Your eyes are squeezing shut as your heart races in your chest, fingers trembling. 

Opening them up, you let the feeble confidence take over. 

You take a step into your kitchen. 

The plan was simple – Jin had been dozing off on your couch for a couple of hours. In that time, you had gone to the grocery store and picked up a handful of ingredients, arrived back home and checked on him, and then proceeded to change out of your work clothes and into your pajamas. 

Jin hasn’t said anything to you yet, but the tension in movements and the fatigue radiating from his eyes are enough to tell you how well work has been going for him. Coupling that with the spiking pain he’s now having to deal with and the deep slumber he’s plunged in, you made the assumption that he would awaken around when it was time for dinner. 

To put it in short and simple words, your plan is to essentially make your boyfriend a nice home cooked meal the moment he wakes up. 

Sucking in a harsh inhale, you take out the chicken, broth and rice, hoping to make something that is both filing and delicious. 

You first begin to preheat the oven for the chicken, before proceeding with taking out two pans. In one, you heat the broth to make soup and in the second, you put the rice into a pot of oil. After that, you douse the chicken with layers of oil and salt, to then begin cutting giant chunks of vegetables for the soup. 

You pause for a moment – heavily considering if perhaps consulting a recipe would be the best in this type of situation. 

You wave the thought off, firmly believing that your hard work will be enough. 

Sweat gathers at your temples as you focus on cutting pieces from the veggies, dunking them straight into the boiling soup. The oiled and generously salted chicken goes into the oven as the rice soaks up all the oil in an instant. 

Two hours pass by like seconds. There’s a giant soup filled with broth and floating with humongous vegetables, and chicken that’s simultaneously flaky but oily. It’s accompanied with crispy rice, something you’re especially proud of. 

It’s not long before Jin stirs. 

“Hey,” You softly call out from the kitchen, “How are you feeling?” 

“Better.” He blinks his sleepy eyes, grasping onto his shoulder. “I still feel the pain, but it’s less intense.” 

“That’s good.” Your eyes avert, landing on the meal displayed on the kitchen counter. “Say, do you have a minute?” 

He grins, “I always have time for you.” 

You recoil at the mushy statement. “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.” 

“You know the normal response is to call something like that romantic, right?” He stands up from the couch and you hurriedly rush over to him, resting your hand on his arm. 

“Don’t strain yourself.” 

“I’m not, don’t worry.” He chides, eyes landing right on your display. “What’s all this?” 

“I…um, cooked for you.” At his inspecting gaze, you look the other way. 

“Wait, what?” He looks touched, voice dropping into a whisper. “You cooked for me?” 

You shyly nod, feeling squeamish underneath all the attention. His eager eyes are sweeping all over it, as if trying to memorize the food before him. 

He takes a pair of chopsticks right away, digging in. 

Your irises are large, attached to his words and surveying every hint of emotion that arises in his expression. 

He chokes. 

You simply watch as he abruptly bursts out into a chain of coughs, before he’s pounding a hand against his chest, as if forcibly trying to keep the food down. 

Once he swallows, you blink. 

“W-Wow, it has such…unique flavor…”

His tone is too sweet, unlike his regular humorous one. 

You deeply sigh, all too familiar with this type of reaction.

"Is it bad?" You quietly ask.

"N-No, of course not!" He accidentally coughs again, clamping a hand against his mouth. 

“Jin…” You sincerely whisper, reaching out and holding onto his other hand, "I'd rather you tell me the truth instead of just letting me poison you." 

There’s something that flickers in his expression – the realization dawning that you’ve caught on and he can no longer bluff. 

He remorsely looks at you. 

"So…I can be completely honest?" 

"Yes.” You state, encouraging him.

He sucks in a deep breath, and the Jin you’re very familiar with emerges.

"It's horrible.” He states, before a cord finally snaps and he’s unloading everything, “Like really horrible. It tastes like the rice’s been deep fried and the chicken’s been covered with oil and way too much salt. The soup is also so bland, like it barely has flavor–" 

"Hold up!" You snap, "Can’t you be a little nice in giving criticism?! I’m not going to just improve overnight!” 

He nods, voice dipping into an overly sweet tone, but somehow the deeply rooted sarcastic bits don’t go unnoticed by you.

"Alright, so rice isn't supposed to be crispy and the chicken doesn't need to be salted so much. It also doesn’t need to be cooked for that long so next time, make sure to set a timer. The soup needs more salt and pepper in it, but don't go crazy with it, okay?" 

A pout lines your lips, his words actually being kinder and quite informative. “Okay…”

“Good,” He kisses your cheek, hand already lifting the dish. “Now let me handle this.” 

“Wait, no!” You spin around, tugging on his shirt. “Jin, I wanted to do this for you. I just can’t have you cooking again, I–” 

You grimace, acknowledging that you would just have to profess your shortcomings and simply ask.

“I-I want to learn.” 

He raises a brow at that, and you can see it all unfold. 

There’s a huge smug smile on his lips. Almost as if he’s aware of the skills he has. 

“If you want to learn,” He taunts, crossing his arms and arching up a brow. “You have to say the following – ‘Kim Seokjin is the best cook in the world.’” 

“Are you serious?” You snap, “How childish are you?” 

He turns around, beginning to clean up the counter and sweeping the dish away. Your hands shoot out immediately, grasping his wrist. 

“W-Wait!” You deeply exhale, willing every fibre in your body to not roll your eyes. 

Sarcasm weaves in as you repeat his words. “Kim Seokjin… is the best cook in the world.”

Your voice quiets down in the end and Jin leans in. 

“Sorry, what was that?” 

“Jin!” You whine, and he laughs loudly, squeakiness echoing through the kitchen. 

“Okay, I’ll teach you.” He announces. “But listen to me carefully.” 

You eagerly nod. 

Jin crosses his arms, a heavy gaze to his eyes and a scowl lining his lips. 

“You need to measure it out first, Y/N.” 

“Measure out the salt and pepper?” You spin around, bewildered by his instructions, “I just dumped it in.” 

An annoyed ‘tsk’ leaves him. He scans the contents of the broth, before grabbing a spoon and tasting it. 

He cringes. 

“Now it’s way too salty.” He offers the spoon to you and your reaction is the same. 

A deep exhale leaves you. “I’ll just start over.” 

“You don’t need to start over.” He grabs some pepper and a glass of water, “You just need to correct the overseasoning.” 

You observe as he pours water and seasons it with pepper, stirring it carefully as it boils. Lowering the heat, he dips the spoon into the mixture and brings it up for you to taste. 

You’re stunned. It’s not per say incredible, but it tastes so much better than before. 

“Your measurements have to be precise, and that includes your timing too.” He preheats the oven, showcasing the time he was setting it up on, “I think you heated it properly, but you left it in for too long.” 

You hum and he moves, filtering around the kitchen as if it was his own. 

He brings over a board, knife and vegetables. “We also need to seriously work on your chopping skills.” 

Taking up the challenge, you grab an onion and start obliterating the vegetable. 

“Woah, woah, hold on!” Jin takes the knife away from you in an instant. He brings it to the board, slowly cutting the vegetable and coming into a natural rhythm with it. 

He catches your gaze. “See? Gently. No need to murder the poor onion.” 

You scoff as he pauses and hands the knife back. 

You attempt to mimic his actions, but he nearly shrieks when a slice of onion goes shooting out and your knife slides against the board.

He latches onto your hand, whispering underneath his breath. “And here I thought no one could be worse than Namjoon…”

You swivel, “What?” 

“Nothing!” He sings-songs, chuckling in a high tone. Deciding to come up behind you, Jin’s hands gently reach over to envelope your own shaky ones. 

He proceeds to swiftly cut the onion, following a rhythmic motion. 

Much to your complete surprise, you’re actually able to cut a few decent chunks. “I-I can’t believe it…” 

“It just takes time and practice, Y/N.” Jin smiles, stepping back and letting you continue. He spins around, checking in on the chicken inside the oven. 

However, a painful sting abruptly emerges, and you’re forced to set the knife aside. 

“Ah–” You rub your eyes, regret filling you in an instant when it burns even more. “Oh my god.”

Jin turns around with a frown at your words, only to see thick tears streaming down your eyes. 

He hurriedly abandons the chicken, grabbing onto your hands, “What happened?” His gaze darts all over the cutting board and then back to inspecting your hands, “Did you hurt yourself?” 

“No, I just–” You squeeze your eyes tightly, “I-I think it’s something in the air.” 

Puzzlement crosses him at that, but then his field of vision lands onto the cut up onion and suddenly everything makes sense. 

“Hold on–” He brings you closer to the sink and turns on the faucet. Reaching over, he helps to splash water onto your eyes until the burn finally begins to subside.

The coolness of the water lets you see again, and you blink in disbelief towards him. 

“What was that?” 

He smiles lop-sidley, “It's what happens when you cut a lot of onion. You have to be careful about them stinging your eyes.” 

You’re flabbergasted at the notion. Not only did you not know crucial information about the blasted vegetable, you hadn’t even cut them properly enough to notice. 

It all boils up, the tension merely amplifying your frustrations towards cooking. 

“This is so hard!” You proclaim, planting a hand against your temples, “How am I supposed to know all this when I’ve never done it before?” 

You huff and Jin leans back, attempting to hold back the amused smile on his lips. He doesn’t do a great job though, and you’re glancing at him perplexed from the reason, but then it dawns on you– 

He’s smiling like the once very annoying intern he was. 

“It’s okay.” He tenderly pats your back, a presumptuous grin on his features. “I still think you can do it.” 

You loudly scoff as he snickers. 

***

The hours churn by easily and with Jin’s much needed assistance, you are successfully able to cook the chicken and create a broth that doesn’t want to make your insides recoil. He ends up cooking the rice, deep distrust running through him when you genuinely thought cooking it in oil was the right way to go. However, you observed the way he carefully shimmers it in water until it’s completely soft. 

There’s an entire meal presented in front of you and he flops down onto a chair near the kitchen counter, long overdue for his back to act up again. 

“Wow.” 

You whisper, staring at it all in amazement. 

Glancing over, Jin grimaces a bit and you smile gratefully. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“I still mean what I said before, you know?” You sway side to side sheepishly, “Cooking isn’t easy, but it’s a good skill to have.” 

Jin softly grins at that and you curiously take a bite, eyes widening. 

“It tastes so much better!” 

“See what happens when you don’t drown stuff in salt and oil?” He teases and you chuckle, “Now next time, make me something like this instead of trying to kill me.” 

“I was not trying to kill you.” 

“Are you so sure about that?” He glances at the previous dish, the crispy rice meeting his gaze. 

He raises a brow and you stare at him silently – before the two of you are bursting out in laughter. 

The door to your apartment widens. 

Yuna stands by it, throwing intrigued glances at the sounds resonating from the kitchen. She walks in to see you standing by the counter with Jin seated on a chair facing you, alongside the entire buffet displayed on the counter. 

At the sound of her footsteps, you swivel. “Yuna!” 

You embrace her and she looks around, “What happened here?” 

“I cooked!” A shudder runs through her spine immediately, and you quickly try to ease her thoughts, “It wasn’t just me though, Jin helped too!” 

Curiosity runs through her at that and you spin around, filling up a plate for her. Yuna sets her bag down, sitting on a chair next to Jin.

“How was school?” He questions, her eyes brightening up. 

“It was fun, we’re working on our next play now.” 

“I look forward to seeing it.” He grins, and she smiles back at him. There’s a plate of food landing in front of her, and she pokes her fork at it in wonder.

You tightly grasp onto Jin’s hand, breath hitching as you watch her raise the spoon to her lips. As she slowly chews, your heartbeat seems to grow louder and louder. 

A deep frown crosses her features – making you tense, but then it’s replaced with utter confusion, and she stares back at the plate you’ve given her. 

It’s when she goes for another bite that you freeze. 

“I-It’s good…” She whispers, as if she was suspended in disbelief. Her gaze lifts, staring at you in awe. 

“It is?” You question in astonishment, despite having already tasted it yourself.

Yuna nods, before breaking out into a wide smile. 

You are absolutely ecstatic, watching her eagerly go for more bites and humming in content. 

Jin practically yelps when he’s tackled into a hug, surprise flickering onto his features to see your arms wrapped around him.

Although he slightly winces from the sudden weight, he merely just chuckles and hugs you back.

[loserharrington]

i’d like to preface this by saying i am not an expert on religion (or non-religion) this is simply information i’ve learned over the years of research and talking to those who do practice satanism. if i’ve got anything wrong feel free to correct me

with that being said, i’ve always had this idea that The Munson Doctrine followed the rules of the church of satan. be it the 9 satanic statements or the eleven satanic rules

eddie has a laveyan cross patch on his vest so he must practice satanism to some extent. Especially since it’s a pretty large patch in an obvious place.

it’s sort of complicated because it’s not really a religion but it’s still a practice. (one of personal freedom and rationalism.) it’s basically things he lives by to better himself and the way he interacts with others. the “rules” don’t need the approval of any deity because satanism rejects the idea of all gods. (it goes hand in hand with atheism) it simply encourages individuality, skepticism and living your life the way you want to no matter how “sinful” it may seem to others.

i think it’s safe to say eddie resonates with this. he’s seen blatantly rejecting and criticizing societal norms and questioning why he and his friends are seen as freaks and targeted because of their interests

now here’s where i start inferring things about how he practices

i’m sure he’s added to these rules (hence the name Munson Doctrine instead of a direct reference to the rules of the church of satan) but i think it still loosely follows those rules. eddie just seems like the sort of person who’d take something like this and make it his own, which is essentially what satanism is. (again, it’s not a religion so it doesn’t require specific rituals to be done)

or, he misunderstood or interpreted some of the rules given to him differently than others might’ve, which lead to the quote that started this whole rabbit hole i’ve fallen down.

Quote: “I just couldn’t accept the fact that Steve Harrington was actually a good dude. … No way man, NO WAY, that like, flies in the face of the laws of the universe, and my own personal Munson Doctrine.”

i’m leaning toward the idea that he added his own rules and beliefs to the list because satanism encourages freedom and self expression, so he can essentially do whatever he’d like with his practice as long as he’s not infringing on the rights of others. (again, this would explain the name Munson Doctrine)

he might have added things (such as bullies/bystanders never changing. i.e: steve harrington now being a good dude when, in eddie’s eyes, he wasn’t before) because of his own experiences with people like that. [read here for more on that]

regardless of what he might’ve added or why, i do think that the Munson Doctrine is something he actively lives by. (ignoring the fact it could have just been a joke he threw in there to express his shock on how much his perception of steve had changed)

now here’s the fun part. my head canon i built off of this head canon.

i like to think that eddie didn’t come up with the munson doctrine on his own. his mother might’ve been a big influence in why he practices laveyan satanism.

now here’s why i think that:

1. it’s obvious eddie has some sort of ill feelings about his father, going as far as to say he told himself he didn’t want to “wind up like he did”.

this could just be him referencing the fact his father has been incarcerated for various crimes or it could be him referring to his character as a whole including his religion

this ties into fact that we see Wayne (who we assume is Eddie’s father’s brother due to their last names) is actively religious — at least enough to have religious decor around the trailer so it’s safe to say the munson brothers grew up religious

2. we know absolutely nothing about eddie’s mother which means i can make it all up !

eddie referring to his personal beliefs as his “Munson Doctrine” could imply that he’s not the only munson who follows these rules. he does say it’s his “personal” doctrine so i will choose to believe that is in reference to the new things he’s added as he’s grown up and experienced more things in his life

but before then, his mother could have instilled rules into him that he still follows to this day. rules such as these:

i just love the idea that eddie still has some connection to his mother and this is just one of the ways he honors her, but the idea of eddie finding comfort in satanism later in his life due to feeling alienated by the people of Hawkins because he’s different is just as good

in conclusion:

i choose to believe the munson doctrine wasn’t just a silly throw away line, and it ties into the religion he seems to practice

[s-brant]

Cherry

As Harry and Y/N spend more time together, untold secrets from her past come spilling out and catch him by surprise. But, in the end, it only brings them closer to one another. (or hitman!h part six)

18k (18+)

Warnings: strong language, detailed conversations about childhood sexual abuse that may be highly triggering to some, referenced pedophilia, violence/threats of violence, referenced murder/threats of murder, past self harm, substance use, referenced drug overdose, prostitution, post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, and implied sexual content.

-

The day after Harry came home to her, Leo called them to complete another hit.

It felt different this time, to say the least. Knowing the full truth about him after meeting Garrett left her shaken as she drove, her hands gripping the wheel with enough force to turn her knuckles white. And through his typical look of hardened indifference on nights they're forced to work for Leo, she picked up on his feelings of apprehension too. As of late, he hasn't bothered to mask his emotions from his face in her presence, and when he got the call while they were sitting on the couch, watching tv in silence, she caught the slight grimace on his face when the burner phone rang.

It's not as if it was a difficult one. It wasn't anything near as dangerous as when they thought they were sneaking into enemy territory to get revenge on one of "Perez's" men sent to kill Leo. Yet, it was harder than any job they'd worked on together. It was palpable in the little moments, like when she started getting in her head about it and he reached over to settle a hand on her bouncing knee. Or, when he got back in the car after finishing the hit and leaned back against the headrest with an exhausted sigh. Knowing which people he's having them silence would take a piece of them every time.

That was a week ago, however, and they've given their heightened emotions on the subject time to settle down through a myriad of distractions—most of which being sex and baking. Well, she bakes and he stands in the corner of the kitchen with a book flipped open to a page he pretends to read while observing her out of his peripheral vision.

It's about time that Leo calls them to work for him again, though, and it has had them both on edge. Depending on how eventful the week has been for their boss, they get anywhere from one to three jobs to complete per week, but it's frequently just one. Nevertheless, Y/N's anxiety was noticeable whenever they crossed paths in the apartment, and he decided for the two of them that her unspent anxious energy could be devoted to productivity instead of further agitating her with rumination.

She asks, "What are we doing?"

The car—his Escalade, not the precious Cobra—is parked in a front spot in front of the nearest gun range. It took him promising to take her to her favorite diner where she and Alanis frequently meet up to get her out of bed at two in the afternoon on a Thursday. Being the habitually early riser he is, that simply would not do.

Harry offers a blank stare.

"It's a gun range," he says, and when she doesn't say anything in the long pause that follows, he takes it as his opportunity to elaborate. "What else would y'do at a gun range other than learn to shoot?"

What else should she have expected from him? Whenever he feels tired, sad, angry, or anything of the sort, he must either come here to shoot and put all of his frustrations into the paper target or go to the gym to hit a punching bag for hours on end.

"If this is your idea of fun, I seriously might start to question your sanity."

He unbuckles his seatbelt with a soft click and asks, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Start to?"

That's all he leaves her with before he hops out of the car and slams the door shut behind him, reaching in the backseat for a small backpack she can only assume contains guns and ammunition. It takes less than two seconds for her to follow him up to the front doors of the building, pinching his arm in retribution for how he left her behind there. To that, he pinches her ass with one hand while the other opens the door for her. To the employees waiting at the front desk, he appears as a gentleman. To her, he's the same twisted, pervy murderer she knows and adores.

"Two people for an hour. Private range," he says and holds out two fifty dollar bills the second they teach the desk. "We don't need to rent anything."

Any of the tenderness or manners he has when speaking to her in the privacy of his apartment are nowhere to be seen with strangers. It amazes her, actually. His ability shut his emotions on and off at will, depending on the company he keeps and the stakes of the situation. For the sake of practice, he keeps the mask in place every time he steps out in public. It's already harder for him to shut it off as it is with him allowing her into his life more day by day and not having to hide his feelings from her. Perhaps if he weren't a hitman, he could find success as an actor.

The woman behind the counter plasters a fake smile on her face that anyone can see right through. It's the kind of smile that says, "Fuck you," with the sweetest voice you'll ever hear. Y/N offers an awkward wave as he takes her hand and drags her off down the hallway to the private range he's been likely familiar with for years now. If that smile the employee gave him revealed anything, it was that he's well-known and hated here.

Well, she thinks to herself and visualizes every enemy they've made along the way in the forefront of her imagination, get in line, lady.

His hand doesn't drop from hers for the entire walk. In fact, it squeezes tighter once they reach the room as a way of saying sorry before letting it go in favor of pulling the backpack off of his shoulder. Ripping open the zipper without a care, he reaches in and pulls out a pair of new ear muffs for her, which she takes without hesitation.

She breaks the silence, "I'm assuming I'm here to learn to shoot because of...you know...Garrett."

Much to her surprise, he shakes his head.

"Fuck no, he didn't tell me to teach you to shoot," he says, voice deep and scratchy from the joint he smoked on the drive over. "I'm teaching you because y'need to know how to protect yourself. Sooner or later, someone is going to try to hurt you, it's in inevitable in this line of work, and even though I try to be with you to stop that from happening..." He takes a heavy breath in. "Y'just need to know."

It's something she has yet to talk to him about, if she ever will: his obsession with protecting her. It never made sense at the beginning of their relationship, and though it makes more sense to her now, the reasoning behind it is still beyond her understanding. He said himself that killing people is as natural to him as breathing at this point in his life, so what made her different? What made him go so far in the opposite direction of his nature to continually save her life? Asking him to put his seatbelt on after he held her captive?

If he feels nothing for her other than sexual attraction, and, she suspects, minor platonic fondness, then why does he act the way he does? For the sake of keeping him in her life, she doesn't complain, but the mixed signals have begun to dizzy her. What fuck buddy leaves thoughtful gifts, gives forehead kisses, and makes breakfast every morning.

Speaking of which, she has been pretending to enjoy pancakes for the past few weeks she's spent living with him. That morning after she was drugged at the club, she assumed she'd never have to have breakfast with him again in the span of her life, let alone every single morning.

Around seven o'clock each day, there's a knock on the bedroom door and a head poking on to say, "Breakfast is out there if y'want it." It hasn't changed her stance on pancakes anymore than her opinion on the shifting from disgusting to tolerable due to the constant exposure. But, the thing is, it's the nicest thing he consistently does for her. The gift-giving is kind too, but she finds meaning in the little things, and when an otherwise closed-off, cold-hearted man makes her pancakes every morning and cuts them up for her, what else can she do but accept them?

She steps up beside him without him having to instruct her. The gun he pulls out of the backpack is the same make and model of the kind she attempted to use the night they met Garrett, so there's at least some familiarity established already. What she did with it that night was guesswork, however, and today is when she learns how to handle it properly.

"First rule," Harry starts, holding the semi-automatic pistol out on display for her. "Y'have to treat every gun like it's loaded, even if it isn't."

Leather-wrapped hands handle the weapon with the utmost care. He touches it the way one would a lover, in soft caresses and squeezes full of unspoken understanding. On the side of the hand grip, there's a small button, and when he presses down on it with the tip of his thumb, the magazine ejects from the bottom and into his waiting hand.

"When the magazine is empty, y'can press that to get it out and replace it with a loaded one. This one is already fully loaded, though, so, just push it up like this"—the heel of his hand guides the magazine back up into the hand grip—"until y'hear that click." The hand he used to push the magazine back in settles on the top of the gun. "Then, for the first round, y'just rack the slide once, and you're ready to shoot."

She nods along throughout his brief lesson in loading and unloading the pistol, but, at the tail end of the explanation, she plasters a sardonic smile on her face and says, "I have a question."

The silence that follows serves as her permission to continue as he stares at her.

"When you say to treat every gun like it's loaded, does that apply during sex too? 'Cause I kinda get turned on thinking about you having your gun to my head when we fuck."

When he first got her out of bed and make pancakes midway into the day, they followed it up with a lazy round of sex on the living room couch. It wasn't the typical situation of her teasing him into it or him bending her over the nearest surface in a frantic need for her, it was actually quite benevolent. Soft, even. She was still sleepy, and he had little energy as well, so he ended up pushing her onto her back and taking her like that. At one point, her hands were pinned above her head, but that was the extent of it. He thought she felt well satisfied, but apparently not if she's hellbent on teasing him now.

He won't do anything with her here. Although she'd likely pout about it, there are security cameras at every corner of the private range, and he doesn't have the power to go back and erase the footage this time. Like he said the other week, he doesn't like to share. The mere thought of another man touching her the way he does fills him with an irrational amount of rage. He has no doubts that he would find them and kill them. If that makes him a monster, so be it. She knows good and well that she belongs to him.

Harry doesn't give in to her siren song. Yet. Instead, he hands the gun off to her and gives her a pointed look she doesn't need to delve deep into to decipher.

"Show me you can do it, then we'll get started."

She takes the gun from him with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, but right when she turns in the direction of the target, she is halted in her tracks. One of his hands is squeezing her throat just enough for her to feel it without cutting off her oxygen supply, and he uses it to pull her into him, her chest hitting his with a gentle force. The surprise is evident in her eyes as he looks down at her with his authority over her shining through in his expression.

The heat of his exhales can be felt on her face with less than an inch left between their lips, and her stomach flutters with butterflies at the close proximity. If she manages to push forward against the strong force of his hand around her neck, their lips would touch. But, they've never kissed without it being a prelude to sex, and knowing him, he probably has refrained from it to make himself feel safer in being with her, so she won't push it on him.

He says, "If you roll your eyes at me again, you won't come for a week." When her brows raise at him, as if to question how much he means it, he squeezes down on the sides of her neck harder. Still, he's careful not to press on her windpipe.

When he opens his mouth to speak some more, something stops him.

Y/N's face scrunches up in confusion at his sudden silence, as well as how his arm falls back to his side shortly after as though he was burned by touching her skin. Any of the dominance burning in his stare has fizzled out, and he takes a short step back from her.

"Fuck," he mutters, shaking his head, "M'sorry. That wasn't..."

"What are you saying sorry for?"

Something inside of him breaks a little when she asks that. Did she really not regard it as a breach of their agreement? A breach of trust? Don't get him wrong, he enjoys the side of their relationship that indulges in kinks without shame, but what he just did wasn't that. It wasn't appropriate, and while he normally wouldn't think twice about it, the look on her face when she was having a panic attack in the closet those weeks ago flashed in his mind when he squeezed her neck harder.

She never explained what happened that night, and, despite his usual affinity for annoying the living shit out of her, he didn't want to poke at the apparent bruises that presented on her that night. By the nature of her reaction to being locked in a dark room, not recognizing that it was him she was with, he assumed it was too personal to share. He didn't wonder about it any further, though. If he let himself imagine the types of things that must have happened to elicit that response from her, he'd fly off the handle.

His gaze softens.

"I said I wouldn't touch you if y'didn't ask me to. Actually, I promised you I wouldn't." After a beat of silence, he says quietly, "I know how it feels, y'know? Having panic attacks like that, thinking I'm in the past when m'not. I feel that way every time someone touches my hand, so I don't wanna make it happen to you."

With how she sighs in relief and relaxes, one would think he said something far different than what he actually did. What he finds in her eyes isn't agreement. If anything, it seems like she's embarrassed, or, at the very least, shy, and he hasn't known her to be that way around him. Not at the beginning, not now, not ever. She reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ears with her eyes averting to the floor. Everything about her demeanor is so drastically different from how she acts, it begins to unnerve him.

She shakes her head.

"It's really not that big of a deal. Honestly, that was kind of a dramatic reaction. I just get a little anxious in confined spaces because of, um," she stumbles over her words, still not looking at him, "just because of some stuff that happened when I was little. You know."

No, he doesn't know. Whatever it is she has assumed about his childhood, it isn't true. His mother loved him fiercely, and she did everything in her power to make him feel the extent of that love from the moment he was born until the moment he lost her. His father, granted, came in and out of his life whenever he was sober from alcohol and subsequently began using again.

He leans back against the wall separating them from the shooting lanes and looks at her closely, in the way people study impossible puzzles and foreign species rarely seen by humanity. For once, someone has managed to throw him off balance.

"I didn't have that bad of a childhood. My mum ran herself into the ground trying to raise me on her own. My dad was kind of shit, and a drunk, but he never hit me or touched me or anything. So, no, m'sorry, I don't really understand what it feels like."

This causes her to go quiet and still unlike anything else he has seen.

A heavy sorrow is veiled over her face as she chews on her bottom lip in thought as if debating something within herself and weighing the options ahead of her. At last, she looks up at him. Decision made.

"I don't really think about it that often." A lie. He can tell just from the way she says it that it's a bold-faced lie. Whenever he says that about anything he's been through, it isn't true either. "I've actually never really talked to anyone about it because it never seemed like that big of a deal to me, but sometimes I get nervous in small spaces, especially with men."

His heart drops.

Slowly, carefully, he asks, "What do y'mean?"

It goes without saying that if she told him to drop the subject and never ask about what happened again, he would comply. He better than anyone knows how it feels to have people questioning and prodding at details of your personal life. Everyone he knows knows little about him, and the air of mystery that surrounds him only prompts them to dig their noses where they don't belong to uncover more.

After a deep breath, she says it.

"My friend's older brother. He always picked on me, and we went over there all the time 'cause our dads were close friends." A shrug. As if the words about to leave her mouth won't knock him to his knees. "He took me into the closet. It was just one time, and I try not to think about it. Honestly, I forget it ever happened a lot of the time."

On the inside, Harry is panicking. Not only because that fight or flight mode often set off by feeling like he can't protect her from something, but also because he hasn't had to deal with anything like this in a decade. When people tell him troubling things, he doesn't care. It rolls off of him like water, exactly like the lives of the people he takes and could care less about. But she isn't just anyone. Hearing her say something like that, something that sounds awfully a lot like one of the worst things that can happen to a person, awakens a fear he never knew existed in him anymore.

It's hard to fight the tears begging to form in his eyes. He tries his hardest for her sake to not show any signs of the distress roiling like a hurricane from the inside of him. He hates overwhelming displays of sympathy, and that's all he can think to keep himself from rushing over and hugging her. Telling her that she's safe, that he'd do anything for her, anything she asks.

There's nothing else for him to say but the obvious. A statement, she shortly notices, not a question.

"He molested you."

She lets out an awkward scoff and sets the gun down on the table.

"No, I mean, I don't even think it counts. It's not like he tried to have sex with me. People who were abused had it much worse. He just pulled down my pants and said we were playing a game. He just stood behind me the whole time."

It occurs to him as he listens to her that she isn't saying this for the sake of saying it, she believes it wholeheartedly, and he thinks this is what breaks him. This is what lands the killing blow and makes the tears finally well up in his eyes no matter how many times he tries to blink them away.

"Baby..." he trails off with a waver in his exasperated voice.

A warning fires off in the look she gives him. It tells him to cut it out. It begs him, "Please, don't," but he can't control it. After ten years of hiding behind a mask of numbness and cruelty, he can't force his emotions away no matter how hard he tries. Because he does try. He knows how terrified his reaction must make her feel because he's felt that way too and knows she has refrained from reacting to the details of what's happened to him to curb that feeling, but he can't. The silent tears are already rolling down his face.

"It's really not as big of a deal to me as you think. I don't really think about it."

The utter refusal to call it what it was...

"How old was he?"

She looks off to the side, needing to avoid the sight of his tears and frustration to keep herself from acknowledging it. The anxiety burns hot inside of her and emanates out to her skin in a tingly heat that seems to pulse with every beat of her heart. There's a sense of wrongness felt whenever she speaks of it aloud. This has always been the one topic from the past that she pushes away the second it comes to mind. There's always a voice, a finger-wagging side to side to scold her, saying, "We don't need to think about it. It doesn't matter."

"Um, like fifteen, I think."

He has to take a deep breath to prepare himself for the question he doesn't want to ask but must.

"How old were you?"

At this, she turns quiet and looks down at the ground, allowing her hair to fall around her face and protect her from the eyes she feels burning into her. That tingling heat has made its way up to her head, and she has to lean against the wall to keep herself steady amidst the strange sensations of her anxiety.

She says after a half moment of waiting for her mouth to follow the repeated instructions from her mind to answer him and not allow her throat to close up, "Five."

Harry's eyes shut as soon as he hears the word, his jaw clenching hard enough to give him a toothache as he tries to shut out the voice in the back of his head screaming at him to do something, anything, about it. All at once, he imagines holding her through the worst of it, kissing away her tears, and giving her a place to talk it out without judgment. But, at the same time, he also imagines what he'd like to do to this man she's talking about. He fantasizes about the different methods of torture he would gladly subject him to before ending his pathetic, worthless life. He doesn't care what it means about him if it'd be the first murder he'd enjoy rather than resent. For her, he would become the monster everyone believes him to be.

Don't, he tells himself. Don't do it. Please, just pull yourself together. Don't, don't, don't—

Fuck it.

He allows every emotion he feels to hit him when he opens his eyes to see her standing there with her arms hugging her body like a scared little child. If she was being this vulnerable with him, he would allow her in, even if it's just for a moment, to see the full effect her pain has on him.

"Tell me his name," he says, minding his tone but still allowing her to understand how serious he is about this. "Tell me his name and let me kill him."

Her eyes widen in surprise.

"No! What"—she takes a step back to meet him again and rests her hands on his arms—"You won't even be able to find him. Their family moved away after that, and I never knew where they went. It wasn't that bad—You can't, I can't—"

She is interrupted mid-sentence by him sinking down onto his knees, laying himself before her feet with his hands coming up to grab both of hers. His head hangs down, his forehead pressed into her navel, and she can feel his body jerking gently with his stifled cries. It makes no noise, but she senses it in his movements and the tears wetting the front of her shirt.

"Please," he breathes out, voice broken in a way she has never heard it before, "Let me do it."

When she tries to shush him and pull away to get him to look at her while she dissuades him from his current plans, he shakes his head and holds onto her hands harder.

"Baby, please." At this point, it has gone from asking to begging. "Tell me his name. Tell me I can do it. I need to do it."

Y/N wrenches her hands from his grip, and he assumes it is the blunt end to this conversation. A way of shutting him down and refusing his pleading without having to say anything. That's what he assumes until he feels her taking his face into her hands, guiding his head to tilt back to look at her. How this has turned into her comforting him, he has no clue, but when he tries to say something, she presses her thumb over his lips.

"Hey," she whispers, "I'm fine. I can handle myself, okay?"

"How are you not angry?" he asks. "Y'didn't deserve that. You were five. People like him deserve to die."

The thing is, she knows he won't do it unless she tells him he can. With something as serious as this, he won't go against her word and do it anyway, he has to treat it delicately. He has to treat it with as much care as he treats her. As much as he would delight in torturing the sick pedophile that preyed on her all those years ago, it's her trauma to seek retribution for, not his. Not unless she gives him the okay to make it his problem too.

She gets down onto her knees until she is face to face with him, not giving a shit whether the people sitting and monitoring the security cameras take notice of it or not. At this angle, he can now see her eyes shining with the threat of tears as well.

"I can't let you kill him." Then, there's a long pause, and she strokes the side of his jaw with the tip of her thumb. "Not right now. Okay?"

The last part places a kernel of hope inside of him. Not right now. Not right now, but eventually, right? Someday, even if it's ten years from now, she'll tell him his name and let him do what someone should've done to him years ago.

He mutters, unable to help himself, "When?"

This is where it gets tricky for her. Is there a right or wrong answer? Can she morally condone herself giving him a timeframe on cold-blooded murder when she herself hardly regards what happened to her as the assault it was? Every murder she has aided him in committing has been against her will, with the threat of harm toward those she loves should she not comply. The only person she's willing to help him kill is Leo. After what he did to Harry, she would gladly be the one pulling the trigger.

"You can do it before we do the job for Garrett. Whenever that is, you can do it." She takes a deep breath and says, "I promise you can do it someday, but not now. It'd be stupid to risk Leo finding out or having to pay off the cops for you. We need to be careful until his brother is out of the way, then we can do whatever we want. We can go anywhere."

And even though it hurts him, he nods.

That's a fair compromise. It's obvious to him that she disagrees but is meeting him halfway due to how distraught he is over it. She has no idea what it means to him for her to do that for him, though. She would be well within her rights to refuse and call him a psychopath for even suggesting anything of the sort, but she knows him now. She knows most of his kills give him no pleasure, in fact, late at night when he can't sleep, they haunt him. But this is different. This would be for her, and she knows how thoughtless he becomes when it's her he's concerned with.

"I should be the one comforting you," he murmurs. "M'sorry I go crazy sometimes. It's hard to stop it."

She shakes her head.

"Don't be. No one's ever cared about me enough to do something like that. Not even my parents. I know it's kind of fucked up, but so am I. I think that's what makes us work so well together," she says softly.

Part of her is afraid to feel anything about what she just told him. She fears that if she rips the wound back open and allows herself to dwell on it, to truly consider the memories she has and make the effort to work through them, she'll come apart at the seams. But one thing she knows is that she feels safe with him. With him, she knows nothing like that can happen to her again, not without them getting through him first. The night at the club proved it to her. It erased any fear she had in his presence and replaced it with solace.

She clears her throat, sniffling and trying not to let herself cry.

"So, are you gonna teach me to shoot or are we gonna stay here?"

A soft chuckle leaves him at this, and he smiles with tears in his eyes. Like this, he doesn't look intimidating or commanding as he usually does. He looks scared. Unsure. Out of control in the way a person is when there's something they desperately want to fix but cannot.

"No," he says, "I can't focus on anything but wanting to kill that asshole. M'gonna have to get high or something."

She smiles.

"Well, we can make that happen."

-

The trip they made to the grocery store was interesting, to say the least.

Harry isn't touchy outside of the frequent times they have sex, but the whole time he pushed the cart up and down the aisles in search of what she needed, he had her tucked under his arm, her arm bent up to hold the hand hanging off of her shoulder. It was so strange, she didn't know whether or not to say anything about it. She's never known him to be the clingy type in the month they'd been "together", but she suspected it had something to do with what they talked about at the gun range.

Other than that, it was relatively uneventful. There was an old lady who gave them a nasty look for the constant display of affection, but they both ignored her. If anything, it made his arm tighten up around her and bring her in even closer. The only times he let go was to let her grab the baking ingredients she needed, and when she put them into the cart, he was quick to pull her back in. It was a grocery store on Garrett's territory, so they didn't have to worry about any of Leo's workers spotting them and putting a target on her back for what they'd assume is a relationship between them.

She said to him—not asked—that the rest of their night was going to consist of nothing but laziness, baking, and watching movies. To make up for the bomb she dropped on him without warning earlier, she told him to pick one she hasn't seen before that he loves. Considering his previous dream profession of being a director, she has high expectations set already for whichever one he picks.

Now, the kitchen is filled with the scent of the chocolate brownies baking in the oven. The idea came to her as they were leaving the shooting range, walking past the confused woman at the front desk a mere ten minutes after they first came in, that she could use him wanting to be high tonight as an excuse to bake. Once they got in the car, she was already looking up recipes for pot brownies on her phone.

"Y/N," he calls out her name from the living room. "I'll do the dishes later, just come here."

The movie has been up on the television for at least fifteen minutes now, and he's been trying to lure her over ever since she put the brownies in the oven.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming, but I'm gonna have to get up for the brownies in like ten minutes anyway."

Her footsteps make a soft tapping sound on the hardwood as she hurries over to the couch with an overflowing bowl of popcorn in hand for them to share. On the top left corner of the screen, she squints to read the text written there without the glasses she never wears despite getting the prescription when she was sixteen. It isn't until she's settled into place beside him with the bowl balanced on her lap that she can see it.

"Titanic? Isn't that a romance?"

She turns to look at him with her eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," he says, then asks, "Have y'seen it already?"

Actually, Y/N might be the last person on the face of this earth that hasn't seen it. She somehow went through every movie night with Alanis and Peter unscathed by the list of "classic" movies anyone born before the end of the millennium would demand she watches immediately. Seeing that Harry was born in '94 to her '01, that observation checks out.

"I haven't, but I never would've pegged you for that genre. I expected you to show me something like..." she stops and ponders it for a second. "Saw."

If she looks closely enough, she can see the apples of his cheeks flush a hue of deep pink. He shifts in his place to face her better, one leg crossing over the other at the knee and his left arm coming down to brace against the couch behind her head. It ends up making their bodies touch, the curve of her hip fitting into the side of his waist, and he reaches down with his free hand to pull her legs up over his lap. Somehow, the popcorn sitting on her stomach makes it through unscathed, short of a few pieces that fall onto her shirt.

Quicker than she can register the spill, he scoops up the stray pieces and pops them into his mouth. It isn't until he's almost through chewing them that he responds to her.

"Believe it or not, I used to be a bit of a romantic."

His face is stoic when he says it, as it always is whenever he does anything, and she has to force herself not to laugh. If she didn't know him as well as she does, she'd think he was being sarcastic.

"I have a hard time imagining that," she says.

Harry scoffs, then, an instant later, moves his arm from around her shoulders to reach for the hem of his shirt. When she asks him why the hell he's taking off his clothes, he gives her a murmured, "Be patient," and proceeds to tug it over his head. It's discarded to the side in seconds, sitting in a pool of worn cotton fabric on the hardwood floor. In its absence is an expanse of tattooed skin she knows better than her own at this point. In the times they've spent wrapped up in each other's arms in throes of euphoria, she has mapped out every ridge and soft curve of him beneath the palms of her hands.

She remembers the first time she saw all of his tattoos. It was the night after Tate drugged her, when they were playing that game to get information out of one another. Her fingertips slid down the tattooed musculature of his chest, inspecting everything from the swallows facing each other beneath his collarbones to ferns disappearing into the waistband of his pants. It still takes her breath away to see him like this, even after all this time.

When his shirt is out of the way, he grabs her hand and pulls it up to his chest. The cool leather of his gloves chills her skin to the bone, but the warmth of his bare chest, speckled with dark hairs that tickle her palm, makes up for it. He guides her touch up until her fingers are splayed across one of the matching swallows.

"These were my first tattoos. I got them right before I started working with Leo," he says, his face hardened with a feeling she can't quite place as she looks down at the tattoos. Their faces are a few inches apart. "My mum is one who put it all into m'head. This was her favorite film, and she showed it to me when I was a little boy. Since then, it was my favorite too."

His thumb rubs the back of her hand in soothing caresses.

"She used to take me to this lake near our town when I was really little, like five or six, and in summer, the swallows would be there. They migrated up from Africa every spring, and we'd have picnics on her days off work, she'd bring binoculars f'me, and we'd just watch them."

The whole time, her hand doesn't leave his chest. His deep breaths can be felt beneath her touch, a dramatic rise and fall that goes much slower than her own, and she almost stops breathing entirely. She's afraid that if she makes too loud of a noise or reminds him of her existence, he'll stop telling her about his mother and the birds they used to watch when he was a young boy. In his face, she sees the childlike joy and vulnerability he once had peeking through again as he speaks of it.

"Anyway, she'd tell me all these facts she knew about them. I got these for her too, but I mostly got them because I liked what she told me about them," he says. "Swallows mate for life. When one of them dies, the other stays with them until the end. When I was younger, before everything, I thought that was nice. The idea of someone staying until the end." The way his throat bobs with him swallowing the lump that has formed there catches her attention. "I got these on my birthday at some cheap place, but they did a nice enough job."

For a little while, all she can do is stare at his chest amidst the silence and savor the moment. There's a part of her that wishes she could bottle this feeling, the feeling of being allowed to look behind the curtain enveloping his heart that so few ever get close to touching, let alone pulling aside. It stuns her, to be honest. Just last month, she thought he wanted nothing to do with her except for her driving ability and meaningless sex. But, this...this is different, and while she wants to talk about it with him, she's too afraid of scaring him off to risk it.

Her hand slides down from the swallows, tugging his along with it, and she keeps going until she reaches the ferns peeking out of his pants. The tip of her pointer finger traces each leaf, memorizing the pattern and burning it into her mind until she could retrace it in her sleep.

In return, she says, "I've been wanting a tattoo for years but I just have never found the time or money to do it. First, it was Peter running through our parents' inheritance. Then, it was me not having enough money to feed myself, let alone go spend over a hundred dollars or more on a tattoo. Not to mention, my mom and dad would've killed me if I got one when they were alive. They were kinda strict like that."

"Strict enough to keep you from getting a tattoo, but not strict enough to stop you from learning to drive a race car?"

"Yes, exactly."

She rolls her eyes at their backward logic, even now, even when they aren't here to scold her for doing such a thing, and runs her finger along the fern tattooed over his other hip to match. Never having done it before, she starts to get curious about the logistics of being tattooed. She knows the general idea—needles dipped in ink puncturing the surface of her skin repeatedly—but she wonders how much it hurts. Surely, anyone with as many tattoos as him must be a closeted, or proud, masochist.

While her eyes are focused south, he allows a slight smile to cross his face as he watches her. The softness of her touch never ceases to amaze him. How she could ever treat someone as reprehensible as him like a creature deserving of care and warmth, he doesn't know. But she does it regardless. Despite everything she knows and has yet to discover, she touches him like he's deserving of it, and he doesn't know how to thank her without it turning into an uncomfortable conversation he's been trying to avoid at all costs.

Before he can stop himself, he says, "I'll take you to get y'first tattoo right now."

Her head pops back up to allow her to meet his eyes, and when she finds him void of any deception or sarcasm, she lets out a confused laugh.

"Are you serious? What about the movie?"

"Fuck that, we can watch it later. I know a good place that does walk-ins."

It's impossible for her to contain her excitement at this. A wide smile makes her eyes crinkle at the sides, the hand resting on the waist of his pants frozen in place. During every wasted conversation she has had with Alanis about finding a tattoo parlor and getting one on a whim, she never imagined her first would be with anyone but her. But, now that he's in her life, it could only be him. It feels right that he's going to be the one sitting in a chair beside her, holding her hand because she's a wimp, while she gets artwork etched into her skin for eternity.

She places the bowl of popcorn onto the coffee table and stands with a giddiness she hasn't felt in years, extending her arm and making grabby hands at him.

"Let's go," she says.

He grins.

"Yeah?"

His lip is bitten between his teeth as he looks up at her, and she could swear that the look in his eyes could almost be mistaken for love. Of course, she chalks that up to her protecting emotions onto him. He made it more than clear last month that he isn't interested in an actual relationship, but the way he treats her tells a different story entirely. It may be pathetic and tragic, but, recently, he treats her better than any man she entered fleeting relationships with. What good is a title if a man doesn't do any good with it? She knows she's his. She doesn't need a label to know that he'd do anything for her.

With her nod, he reaches for the t-shirt discarded on the floor and pulls it back down over his head, his favorite movie forgotten on pause for the foreseeable future. Well, until they're back from her spur-of-the-moment tattoo appointment. The keys to the Escalade are still in his front pocket, along with his wallet in the other, so there's nothing standing in the way of them rushing out right away.

"Oh, wait!" she exclaims, dropping her arm and turning toward the kitchen. "The brownies."

Harry reaches out to grab her hand before she can walk away. He's standing up from the couch when she turns back around under the guidance of the gloved hand molded perfectly to hers, making her tilt her head up to see what he wants from her.

"One condition," he says.

She should've known.

When it comes to him, there's always something unexpected hidden up his sleeve. There's always another shoe waiting to drop. But, rather than getting annoyed as she used to, it brings a flushed heat to her face because it's so irrefutably him that she can't bear to hate it. When she remains quiet, he takes that as a strict command to elaborate, and who is he to disobey?

"I'm picking what y'get."

-

The tattoo parlor is a tiny, run-down building with dead grass and chipped paint on its exterior walls, but if Harry says they do a good job, then they do a good job. With how much ink he has on him, she can't be one to judge seeing that she hardly knows anything about it. For how unpromising its curb appeal is, however, the reviews online were stellar when she stuck a peek at her phone on the walk to the parking garage.

But, before they went inside of the parlor, she stopped him from unbuckling and looked up and down between his eyes and the pot brownie sitting in the cup holder, one small bite taken out of it for the time being, until she worked up the courage to ask.

"Can I try it?"

At first, she thought he might say no. The look on his face was one of skepticism, and even as he picked it up and broke a sliver of a piece off of it for her, he eyed her up suspiciously the whole time. Before she could take the piece from his fingers, he yanked it back from her reach and put his hand down on her arm in a silent order to pay attention to him.

He asked, "Have y'done this before?"

Beneath the question laid a deeper, more prodding one he didn't dare ask: Are you okay doing any drugs after what happened to Peter? It hadn't been something as tame as weed to claim her older brother's life, but between her experiences with him and what happened at the club without her consent, he wanted to be sure. The last thing he wanted was to have her panic and not be able to bring her down until time allowed the substance to make its way out of her system.

She shook her head.

"I haven't, but, I mean, Alanis does it, and she seems to like it a lot. You seem to like it a lot," she spoke softly. "Plus, I feel safer doing it with you. If I freak out, you're the only one who can really calm me down." She pushed her bottom lip out and batted her lashes at him for a second before breaking and begging him through a laugh, "Come on, it'll be a really memorable night. The first time I got a tattoo and the first time I tried pot."

He watched her for another few seconds with narrowed eyes, then placed the tiny piece of the brownie in her waiting palm.

"Fine. But only that much, dosing homemade edibles is sort of guesswork, so I don't wanna give you too much."

There was an undertone of an herbal flavor to it, but it was mostly hidden beneath the heaping amount of chocolate baked into it. Not particularly fond of the taste of chocolate, she had to take a swig of from the water bottle sitting in the cup holder from earlier in the day to wash it out of her mouth.

Now that she's sitting face-down on the chair with her shirt raised to expose her lower back, twenty minutes from when she first ingested the piece of his pot brownie, she doesn't feel anything.

Harry is sitting in a rolling chair he snatched from one of the other closed-off rooms designated for tattoo artists and their patrons right beside her head, watching the same artist who he frequently requests placing the two stencils on the lowest points of her back and triple-checking to ensure they're lined up correctly. After all, they'll last forever.

That was another surprise she hadn't seen coming. The tattoo is technically two of them. He said they had to go together with the idea he had, so she simply rolled her eyes and told him he could do anything except tattoo his name on her back. Or a dick. With him, she could never know what to expect. To that, he just laughed and told her to wait until she sees the finished product. He and the artist walked off to discuss the idea quietly in the next room over. Since he's a friend of Harry's, or as close to a friend of his as anyone but her can get, he was game with the surprise idea after pulling her aside and asking multiple times if she was sure.

When the tattooist leaves the room to go get something, she reaches out and pokes him on the arm a few times to gain his attention.

"Why hasn't it hit yet?"

All he does is continue scrolling through the news on his phone and say, "Don't worry, baby, it will."

Before she can say anything, Rhett, the artist, walks back into the room and asks, "Alright, ready to go?"

"Yup!"

In actuality, she's sort of freaking out internally about whether or not it'll be too painful, as well as what the actual design he chose will end up being. The arm hanging off the side of the flattened chair reaches down for his hand without hesitation, and he doesn't think twice before entwining their fingers—hers bare, his wrapped in leather. Unlike the first time they held hands the night she got drugged by Tate, he doesn't tense up and resist her touch. He distracts himself on his phone and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze at the sound of the tattoo gun being turned on.

Harry watches her over the top of his phone, noting how she taps the fingers of her free hand on the chair to dispel some of the pent-up nerves. Right before the needle touches the skin of her lower back, she tightens up the grip of her hand around his as though preparing herself to endure the worst pain of her life. As it is most of the time, though, the anticipation of the event is worse than the reality of it, and when she feels it puncture her skin, her tense body gradually sags against the chair until he feels her hand fully relax around his.

"Oh," she mutters.

He leans forward a bit and rests his other arm against his knee, clicking off the screen of his phone to put his undivided attention on her sweet face.

"What?"

She looks up from the ground at him, a soft, second-long huff of laughter falling from her lips. As soon as he gets a good look at the uncontrollable grin spreading across her face, he knows exactly what she means.

"I think it just kicked in," Y/N whispers so the man leaning over her exposed back cannot hear, but she's a tad louder than she wishes to be.

Nevertheless, his friend doesn't stop or kick them out. Harry has gotten countless tattoos while high out of his mind because they know he overpays and never comes back around when he's sober demanding to know why anyone let him get anything tattooed in that state of mind. Given how many times she expressed her consent before the edible kicked in, he doesn't blink an eye at their little side conversation.

The sound of her giggling to herself, suddenly finding her vision blurred around the edges when she moves her gaze from one place to another or moves her head with too much haste, has him fighting a smile. His free hand comes up and brushes the hair from her face, and she nudges the side of her face into his hand with a sedated happiness taking hold of her.

"My girl."

It is said so softly, she almost misses it. His lips move just enough for her to catch that he's saying something, and she knows she isn't meant to hear it. Or, perhaps, he doesn't even know he was saying it outside of the impenetrable walls of his mind. In the current state of mind she's in, she doesn't have any filter to what she's saying. Well, that isn't necessarily true. She does have full control, but she's less inclined to care at the moment.

"My man," she says back to him with a gentle sigh.

It takes a few seconds for him to understand she's just responding to what he didn't realize he said out loud. Most of the time, people don't get as affected by weed as she does, but, since it's her first time trying it and on an edible at that, it makes sense. It's a lovely change of pace in his eyes. To see her relaxed, carefree even, is something he's only seen a few times in the duration of their partnership, and, to be honest, he expected her reaction to getting high to be one of panic more than anything due to her brother.

For the majority of the time it takes her to sit through the process of being tattooed, she doesn't say or do much other than rest her cheek on the headrest of the chair and look at him. Their hands remain intertwined, the buzzing of the machine serving as background noise alongside the few times they strike up conversation to pass the time. Other than that, there's a playlist playing faintly through the overhead speakers, but she doesn't pay it any mind.

It's relaxing, in a way. The steadiness of the pain that reminds her of a dull scratch, the sound of it is like a drum, and the hazy bliss she feels from the drug in her system keeps a smile on her face—she could fall asleep from it. The only time it genuinely hurts is when he goes back over spots he's already punctured a few times already for the sake of shading. Now that she's familiar with it, she can understand why he's covered in them from head to toe.

After what feels like hours but is actually just one and a half, she hears Rhett set down his tools and looks over her shoulder to see him pick up his phone to take a picture. He wipes away the excess ink with a paper towel soaked in what she assumes is sterilized water or a disinfectant alcohol of some kind. It stings her tender skin, but she considers it a price worth paying for something she's been looking forward to for the past few years.

Rhett asks, "Wanna see it?"

She looks up at him with pure happiness alight in her eyes.

"Is that even a question?"

When he hands the phone off to her, her reaction to the image displayed on it is delayed due to her altered state of mind, but once she registers what got tattooed onto her lower back, her face goes blank. It keeps Harry on edge the whole time. He wonders while she zooms in on the small design to inspect it if she is disappointed, or if he may have taken things too far this time, but she doesn't say anything to give her feelings away yet. Rather, she stares in awe at the picture of herself she hardly recognizes.

The woman on the screen isn't a broken girl who can barely hold herself together anymore. She's proud. She's strong. She looks over her shoulder at the camera with a certainty she never knew she could possess and, on the other side of the photo, if one were to look closely, she and a man cut off from the frame of the camera hold hands. Over a month ago, she wouldn't recognize the person she's become, but she doesn't resist this change. Not anymore. When she met him, she was seconds away from losing herself forever. But, now, she's been reborn. No longer does she look for any excuse she can to tear herself down or scar her skin in a punishment blossomed by her own self-loathing, by her frustration at being the only one who survived her family's downfall.

"Y/N?"

Hearing Harry's voice has her head snapping up from the screen. For a moment, she forgot the two men were standing there on either side of her. All that existed in the world was her and the picture. Her and the realization of all that has changed in her life, and the surprising sense of acceptance she feels surrounding it.

Before saying anything to him, she looks over at Rhett and smiles.

"It's amazing, thank you so much." There's a heavy pause, then—"But, um, could we have a minute alone?"

"Sure, let's just get it covered up first."

It's difficult for her to keep her words to herself as he takes his time cleaning off the tattoos to the best of his ability, applying a moisturizer, and sticking the clear bandage over them one at a time. He explains the aftercare to her as he does it, but it goes in one ear and out of the other for her. She spends this time looking at Harry, studying the knowing expression worn on his face. It appears to her that he's studying her right back, egging her on in her exploration of him.

This is how it has always been between them—too much power and passion housed in their respective bodies to allow them to exist without butting heads—but she finds that that too has been changed in the time they've spent together. Now that they know how to work with one another, how to work around the sheer size of their personalities that beg to go to war whenever they're placed in the same vicinity, she realizes that he isn't her opposite. He's her mirror.

The hellish void she has crawled her way out of is the same one he was created in. Not from birth, but from rebirth. People like them start one way and, then, somewhere down the line, something happens. Something defining and despicable happens, something they don't expect to escape from unharmed, and they come out of the other side made anew. There are few people in the world like them, made with the resilience and natural understanding of suffering built in, but the few who exist attract each other with a magnetism stronger than anything. And, right now, something she's been waiting for her whole life clicks into place.

Rhett bids them goodbye the second she's covered with her bandages and ready to leave whenever they decide to, and she shifts around in the chair so she sits normally in it. Her legs dangle off the side, her fingers curling around the soft cushion to keep herself steady, and he stands up from the rolling chair to meet her there.

They don't do or say anything yet, instead, he settles between her legs with no ulterior motives and gives her the opportunity to speak up first. His lips twitch with the urge to smile at her, but he forces it away just in case she's infuriated with him and demands he takes her to get it removed in a month or so. Based on the way she begins to smile up at him, however, he's willing to bet that none of that will be happening.

She shakes her head at him.

"You're trouble."

It's the only thing she can think to say. The second she was shown the picture, every thought that had been floating around in her addled brain was whisked away.

Harry just smirks at her, his hands sliding around her waist and descending until they reach the two bandaged tattoos etched into either side of her lower back, right above the hand of her pants. His fingertips caress the matching swallows he chose for her as he nudges his nose into hers affectionately.

"Swallows mate for life," he whispers.

-

Thanksgiving passes with little fuss.

As per their tradition since her family passed, Y/N and Alanis spend the holiday together a few days after she went with Harry to the tattoo parlor. After they got home, they spoke nothing of it, and she preferred it that way. She didn't want things to get muddled the way they used to whenever they tried to talk about what they were to each other at the beginning. His explanation for the choice of putting his first tattoos on her was more than enough.

Since he isn't too fond of holidays, Harry had no qualms with her celebrating it without him. Before she left, dressed in her Sunday best to meet her best friend for a homemade dinner at her parents' house in Baton Rouge, he shrugged and told her he hasn't celebrated many holidays in the past decade.

He did make her take a gun, as well as a thigh holster to hide it in, just in case anything happened. Weeks ago, she would have laughed and asked what possibly could go badly enough for her to need a gun at her friend's Thanksgiving dinner, but, after everything, she took it and thanked him. The next day after she got her tattoos to match his, he took her straight back to the gun range and gave her a beginner's lesson. By the time the hour was up, she managed to wrap her head around the basics and hit the target a few times, so he felt confident enough in her to not ask to tag along. Besides, it's not as if Alanis can know about whatever is going on between them anyway.

Much to his delight, she returned without a scratch, nor a single bullet fired, and set both the gun and holster down on the coffee table for him to take back before walking off in the direction of the bedroom. When she later emerged from the shower in her pajamas, she relayed her night to him with equal amounts happiness and frustration. Happiness because she got to spend another holiday with her dear friend. Frustration because Alanis's parents get under her skin unlike anyone else can. They were harassing her for details about being her roommate—at the college Alanis doesn't even go to—and she could hardly handle it for ten minutes before she needed to go to the bathroom and take a breather from the secondhand helicopter-parenting stress.

Harry made up for it by going down on her right after she finished telling the story, though, and she writhed against the couch cushions with her fingers tugging on his hair as she came undone.

Unfortunately for her, nothing as thrilling has happened yet today.

The frequency of the jobs she and Harry have been called upon to complete on Leo's behalf has risen out of control in the week following the holiday. What used to be two or three hits a week at least jumped to six, and every single time they got a new call, they became increasingly more alarmed, wondering what has happened to necessitate Harry killing so many of his enemies. And though neither of them wanted to, they found themselves calling Garrett up as soon as they got home from the sixth late last night.

That's what brought them here—to the address Garrett texted Harry after he called to let him know that something, though he didn't know what, was going down with Leo this week. It's a private, five-story warehouse building long since emptied out for the purpose of serving as Garrett's base of operations. As soon as they arrived they were escorted upstairs until they reached the door to the rooftop and left there to wait until he arrived.

Harry is the first to break the silence.

"They're smart."

She turns her head around to look over her shoulder at him. He stands to her left, leaning against the wall to the rooftop and breathing out a large cloud of smoke through his nostrils with his vape pen raised in his hand. His hair is messy from when he woke up on the couch late this morning, too exhausted from last night's work both emotionally and physically to bother with his rigid morning routine. When she follows his line of sight, it's locked onto the closed door to the stairwell they arrived from.

Y/N walks the few paces left between them to get a better look from his perspective, their shoulders bumping with the movement of her standing back against the wall by his side.

"Not that I disagree, but why do you say that?"

He holds the pen out to her in a silent offer that she rejects with a shake of her head, then gestures with it in his hand at the door before slipping it back into his pocket.

"They've got us trapped," he says. In response to her raised brows, he continues on, "M'serious. That door is locked from the inside. If y'look closely, there's a man guarding it." Now that she is straining to see past the small window pane placed above the doorknob, she catches sight of someone's shoulder poking out from the center of the door. "The only way out is to wait for them to open it and kill them all to get past or to turn our guns on ourselves. Either way, we'd be fucked 'cause they outnumber us. It's exactly what I would've done too."

"You don't think they're gonna try anything, do you?"

He scoffs, turning to face her with a look he hopes will settle her obvious nerves. Just in case that alone does not work, he reaches out and rests his right hand on the forearm she has braced against the short wall. Whenever words have failed them in their relationship, touch has never led them astray. At one point, it was the only way they knew how to communicate with one another, but, nowadays, new paths have been traveled too.

"Fuck no, they need us too much. We're worth more to them alive than dead," he says. "But, I want y'to stay close. Keep your guard up. I trust him more than Leo, but I don't trust anyone aside from you. No one in this world keeps you safe unless they want something from you, so keep him wanting."

Morbid yet true, she finds. If it weren't for her being an asset to Harry as his getaway driver when they needed a person to fill the spot, she would've been tortured, dismembered, and fed to gators at the start of October. The only person she's met in this line of work that saved her without personal gain to be had was Harry. Even now, there's little she can do to understand why he let her live if he didn't originally intend on keeping her as his driver. It would have been smarter to kill her and dump her body in the lake he dropped her off at. A lesser man would have.

Her asking him to put his seatbelt on wasn't her giving something of value to him. Unless, perhaps, what he sought out from everyone and never received in the ten years he worked for Leo was kindness. Her chest aches at the thought, but, in that case, the advice he gave is the truth. Everyone wants something. As does she. She had multiple chances to dispose of him when he put himself into positions of weakness in front of her, but she didn't. In part, it had to do with her morals, but she wanted something from him too. She wanted it so badly, she was willing to sacrifice her good heart for it.

The sound of the door to the rooftop opening breaks her from her thoughts.

It causes Harry to side-step in front of her on instinct until he's confronted with the sight of Garrett approaching by himself. No guards, no backup short of the man watching the door. Either he's the bravest man they've ever met or the dumbest. Both of them are armed, and one of them is the most experienced murderer in the country. All it would take is one wrong glance in her direction and Garrett would be on the ground bleeding out with a round from Harry's pistol in his head in seconds.

They stand side by side and wait until he stops across from them, leaving a safe bit of distance for the sake of the man acting as her personal guard dog at the moment. The threat of death is imminent should anyone touch her, which everyone here has been briefed on time and time again.

"I had my guys look into what might be happening," Garrett says by way of greeting.

Much better than Leo and his rambling theatrics in her opinion. Short, straight, and to the point. She wonders in response to this thought if living with Harry groomed her to be more curt and intolerant of people's minor quirks. Is his "no bullshit" attitude contagious?

He asks, "What did y'find?"

Although the day is mostly warm in late November, there's a subtle chill in the air that bites at her exposed skin with how high up they are. It makes her tuck her arms closer to her body to conserve the heat emanating off of her skin, wishing she could lean up against Harry's side for comfort. Unfortunately for her, their agreement to keep their fondness for each other under wraps extends to Leo's enemies too. Simply because they're working in harmony with Garrett now doesn't mean things can't change, he reminded her before they left, so, even though it was made obvious the night they met him, they keep their distance.

Garrett turns his head to look out over the city's skyline rather than meet either of their stares.

"More people in power are taking notice of him, and he's getting sloppy trying to keep his tracks covered. Hence the increased amount of jobs for you. The only thing keeping that asshole from being sentenced to life is his brother. Soon enough, he's gonna be ordering you to kill people in congress," he says with a heavy exhale. "You know better than anyone that he won't give in. Ever. He'd rather die than give himself up, and he'll take both of you down with him."

She assesses him closely as he speaks, searching for any sign of dishonesty and finding him utterly truthful. Knowing Harry has given her a masterclass in reading people, and there isn't a person in the world, save for him should he decide to shut her out again, whose face she can't read.

"So, what do you want from us?" she cuts Harry off before he can be the one to ask it.

Garrett's gaze hurries back from the skyline to find her staring daggers at him. Keep him wanting, keep him on his toes. A soft huff of laughter leaves him, shaking his head at how the two criminals mirror one another with their glares and impenetrable masks of calculated indifference.

"The hit has been moved up. We're aiming for the days between Christmas and New Year's," he explains. "Tonight, I've arranged for you both to go undercover at a gentleman's club that Ryan"—Leo's snake of a brother, she gathers—"is meeting Leo at."

The mere suggestion of it has her stomach churning with dread, and she can already picture Alanis restrained to a chair with a knife to her throat exactly like what was done to her. The alarms sounding off in her head beg her to resist for the sake of saving herself but also those she cares for. Picturing the things Leo would do to Harry should they be found out...It would make the burns on his hand look like a mercy by comparison.

Before she can even think about rejecting it outright, Harry steps forward and says, his tone deep and unflinching, "No. Absolutely not." His jaw clenched tightly enough to make his teeth ache. "He'll recognize us both."

"Do you think I don't know what I'm doing?" Garrett counters with blood rushing to his face. "You are going to be in one of the private rooms where he can't see you. We'll have a live camera feed on the tables at all times for you to watch while she plants a recording device on one of them for us." He holds up a hand to stop the anticipated interruption and moves closer to them. Harry takes a step closer too, guarding her and sizing the shorter man up should he try anything. "Settle down, we have a wig to disguise her and we'll try to make sure they're well distracted when she visits the table."

At this point, Harry doesn't care who the man is, federal agent or not, he knows he bleeds the same as every other man he's killed. The look on his face is nothing short of lethal as he warns him, "If she gets hurt, you and every one of your men is dead. Y'got that?"

Y/N stands by and watches them go head to head from around the side of Harry's back. Where no one else can see it, she rests a hand on his upper back in the hope that it'll calm him down. Beneath it, she can sense the tension evaporating from his muscles upon her making contact. She knows him better than she knows herself, though, so she doesn't risk it. Rather than give him the opportunity to do something they'll both regret, she steps around him and places herself in front of his body.

"Just tell us where and when," she says. Her commanding nature leaves no room for further questioning, and Garrett can hear the underlying message telling him to get lost without her having to speak it. "We'll be there."

-

"I don't like this."

The dressing room of the club is nicer than she thought it would be. For some reason, she thought it'd be dim and dark and filled with workers doing drugs like every other strip club she's seen in movies or TV shows, but this is surprisingly nice. As soon as they walked in the back entrance, it became clear to her that this is an upscale club, although, the first sign of it should've been Garrett calling it a "gentleman's club". The high-class aspect does little to overshadow the debauchery, though.

She sits in front of the mirror and stares at her reflection, scarcely able to recognize herself with how they've directed her to get ready for the night. Two of the other girls helped her with the wig since most of the women, whether they're servers or dancers, wear them to prevent repeat customers from being able to recognize them out in the real world. It's a shade of pale blonde, cut with wispy bangs in the front to further conceal her features, and the makeup she applied takes it a step further. With the dim lighting in the part of the club she'll be serving, they can afford to get away with more drastic methods of altering her features. For one, her eyes are hidden behind contacts to change the color, as well as dramatic false lashes decorated with gems serving as her eyeliner to alter their shape.

Harry stands against the table with her products scattered atop it with his arms crossed over his chest. He's said the same thing roughly five times since they arrived, and she refuses to give him a different answer no matter how many times he brings it up.

She shrugs.

"Listen, I don't like it either, but what other choice do we have? It's either this or jail, so, if you don't mind, I'd like to keep us away from that option."

Tonight is his worst nightmares all wrapped up in one—being unable to protect her, risking her life, being forced to do dangerous things against his will, and, of course, having other men look at her when she's hardly wearing anything. The uniform here would offend even the worst of feminists. All there is to cover her breasts are a pair of star-shaped nipple pasties covered with gems that glitter in the light galling the mirror like a field of stars. Mercifully, the club's owner, paid off by Garrett for the night to allow her to step in for a sick server girl for the night, would have allowed her to wear a thong that matches rather than go bottomless as the other women do, but she refused.

"Please, just wear the fucking underwear," he says. "I don't want either of them to see y'like this."

The sound of her sighing again has him shutting his eyes in restraint. It's taken multiple moments like these to keep himself from throwing her over his shoulder and bringing her home. The audacity of Garrett to force her into something like this, to walk around nude for hoards of men to leer at and hit on like she's a piece of meat, almost drove him to the point of murder when the other girls briefed her on what she'd have to do to cover their friend's shift.

She shakes her head.

"You know that if I stick out or act different than any of the other girls, it'll attract attention. You said that earlier, not me, so I'm just doing what I was told."

With that, she pushes the chair away from the vanity and stands with the intention of following the other ladies out of the dressing room, but he stops her. He reaches out and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her around until she's pressed against the table and forced to hear him out. This whole time, she's been thinking single-mindedly about the job they have to do without considering what he's been saying. She never stopped to wonder that it wasn't a matter of him being in control, but instead something that truly bothered him.

He presses his forehead against hers, his eyes shutting again to savor the moment before she's to leave him and potentially risk her life for the cause.

"Don't go."

It's a phrase spoken so softly, so weakly, that she can't help but melt into his arms with concern visible on her face. She cannot lie to herself and say this is something she's comfortable doing. It isn't. If anything, it triggers memories and feelings she wishes she could repress forever, and the last thing she wants is to allow any other man to look at her in this state, but it isn't as if they have a choice. Whatever Garrett or Leo says is what goes.

Her hands reach up to cradle his face between them, her thumb caressing up and down the edge of his cheekbone.

"It'll be okay. I won't be in there for long," she says softly enough that only he hears, "just a few minutes to bring them drinks and plant the recording device. They'll hardly notice me."

"Trust me, everyone notices you."

She doesn't understand how he manages to do this, to turn her bashful and giddy and hot in the face like she's experiencing her first crush again. In the time it took her to do her makeup and get her wig secured to her head by the other girls working tonight, she promised herself she wasn't going to cave and bend to his demands. But, looking at him now, she can't help but want to give him whatever he asks. Not only because of his compliment but because of how much it must mean to him if he's asking this kindly. Now that they've gotten familiar with one another, he knows which ways are most effective in getting her to listen to him, and plainly asking for what he wants is the one he has found works best.

The sound of music playing through the walls fills the gaps of silence in their speech, thumping with enough bass for it to be felt beneath their feet. She tries not to pay it any mind. Instead, she pulls her face back from his and tries to memorize every one of his features in case something goes south tonight.

He mutters, his face overcome with a sadness few ever see him have, "You've been taken advantage of too many times, baby. Wear them for yourself."

When they first met, she would've assumed this to be a manipulative act aimed to get her to do what he wants, but not now. The ability to tell when he's being genuine or not is ingrained in her, and her heart aches as she watches him walk off in the direction of the doors to the club. Ultimately, she knows it's her choice, and that if she wanted to, they could argue about it when they get home, but it clearly means a lot to him after the past week or so they've spent together. Not to mention, he wasn't wrong in what he said. None of this is her choice, and if there's a chance for her to take back any of her power and agency, why shouldn't she?

She looks in the mirror one last time before reaching for the thong sitting on the tabletop and putting it on. It isn't modest by any means. The flesh-toned color matches her skin, and where she'd be exposed by the thin lace, gems similar to those on her nipples and eyelids cover any bits of her that might show through. Once it's on and she knows there will be a layer separating her and the men who may grope her on her way past, she can't deny the relief she feels. She may have tried to put up a fight about wearing it, but Harry is the only person she wants to look at her or touch her like this.

A voice from down the line of vanity mirrors and tables set up for the women to get themselves ready makes her jump in surprise.

"Don't worry. Just look at all of them with bedroom eyes, keep a smile on that pretty face, and everyone will love ya."

When she turns to get a good look at the woman with the heavy southern accent speaking to her, she finds one of the most beautiful women she's ever seen. Her hair is brown, cut like a seventies movie star and styled by rollers to give her luscious curls, and her amber eyes shine in the vanity lights. What makes her face particularly striking, Y/N supposes, are her bleached brows contrasting the darkness of her hair.

Y/N offers her a fake smile as a means of thanking her for the advice, but it does little to soothe her nerves. Charming men has never been an issue for her. She'd do well at this job if it were what she set her heart on, but what she's here to do is far different. It's far more dangerous.

"Thanks," she says, walking down in a pair of stilettos that click on the tiled floor with each step until she reaches the beautiful stranger. "I'm Y/N."

A delightful little giggle invades the empty room at this.

"No, what's your real name? Out there they call me Sugar, but my real name's Dani. Short for Danielle, but that was my mom's name and that bitch split when I was ten, so..."

This question used to frustrate her when she used to go out to get drunk and hook up with random guys, but she soon became accustomed to people assuming she was giving them a fake name. Especially in an environment like this in which everyone is branded with aliases to protect them from any overly attached patrons who may try to find them outside of this place. Unlike the other girls, though, Dani's hair is her own. She wears her own identity like a badge of honor worthy of being praised by droves of drunken, rich men.

"Y/N is my real name," she says.

Dani smiles wider and wider as she continues speaking, and she pays no mind to the manager beyond the doors yelling for them to hurry up. Somehow, this smile settles her nerves and lures her into a sense of calmness she didn't expect to feel until the night ends without a problem.

She stands at a height an inch or two above Y/N when she pushes herself out of her spinning chair with a pair of long thin legs glimmering from the powder she was dusting on her mostly nude body while she and Harry were speaking amongst themselves. The tips of her fingers brush against the side of her arm until they reach where her blonde wig ends at her collarbones and twirl the synthetic strands around her middle finger. Up close, she smells divine. Whatever she wears must be heaven in a bottle.

"Well, I know you've got that handsome fella of yours to keep any of the customers away when ya leave, but nobody goes out without a new name. Management rules, not mine."

"We aren't together like that," Y/N says too quickly.

This brings a certain smugness to Dani's face as she fiddles with the loose waves of the wig to style them to her liking. No amount of fussing will make it as pretty as her hair, but she tries her best to fix the new girl up before sending her off to live among the wolves. Everything else is deemed acceptable on a quick glance from top to bottom, so she allows her arms to fall back to her sides and looks at her in a way that cuts right through the facade of carelessness surrounding the topic of her relationship with Harry.

All she says is, "You will be."

Dani leans in and presses a kiss to her cheek, leaving a barely-there lipstick mark behind in the shape of her full lips, then turns on her heels and struts off toward the double doors serving as a divider between them and the rest of the club. Before she can push them open, she turns partway to look at her again. Her eyes narrow as if she's thinking something through to herself, and it's hard for Y/N to keep her eyes where they should be seeing that she isn't wearing anything but the same star-shaped, bedazzled nipple pasties she wears too. Well, those and her heels.

The banging on the other side of the door increases in frequency alongside the man's voice telling them to come out, but she just stands there for a few seconds and looks at her.

She smiles.

"You're sweet. Call yourself Cherry out there."

With that, she slips out through one of the doors and leaves Y/N to summon the courage to go out there on her own. The club looks packed based on the glimpse she got from the crack in the door before it swung back shut. Men were sitting around the tables in party sizes anywhere from two to six, smoking, drinking, and watching the dancers on stage while the nude server girls walked around them taking orders.

She takes deep breaths to keep from working herself up into a panic and starts to clench and unclench her first, muttering words of affirmation to the part of her that remains hesitant.

"You can do this," she whispers to herself and paces back and forth in the space between the doors and mirrors. Her breasts, unbound by any clothing or undergarments, bounce with every step, and she has to force herself not to think about the fact that they will be on display for a room full of people in less than a minute. "You can do it. It's just a few minutes, and he won't let anything happen to you."

The final part seems to do the trick. Hearing herself say it relaxes her tense shoulders and balled-up fists. She latches onto this small comfort and uses it to make herself walk the rest of the way up to the red doors. If anyone else were left in here, they'd think she's gone mad with how she's muttering under her breath to no one, but she doesn't allow judgment to seep through and stop her. Whatever it takes to get the job done is what she'll do.

Her trembling hand lies flat against the door, and she takes another deep inhale once more.

She whispers, "He won't let anything happen to you," and pushes the door open.

The interior of the lounge dizzies her upon a first look at it. In contrast to the simple dressing room she was ushered into from the back door, the high ceilings give it an enormity that towers over her. A large chandelier that hangs down from the ceiling sits as a centerpiece above the circles of tables placed around the round stage where women strip, pole-dance, and flirt with the customers in winks and smirks.

Unsurprisingly, there isn't a single woman sitting at one of the tables. She was briefed on the type of clientele the club gets, as well as what specific table Leo and Ryan would be sitting at, so it was expected. Most men come with coworkers under the guise of "working late", or at least that's what they tell their wives and girlfriends, and treat the club like their own personal brothel. Few girls are okay with being pimped out to clients, so she was told not to worry about anyone assuming her body is for sale. That particular comment got a glare from Harry directed at Garrett.

This place is a step below what Leo does, in her opinion. As she looks around, it's difficult to ignore triggering memories from the past at the sight of the other girls on display in front of the men. Every time she senses her thoughts going in that direction as she walks around to scope out the floor she's on, she redirects herself to Harry. Whenever anything bad pops up, she remembers that day when she panicked in the closet and how safe she felt with him, and the pain of it lessens.

She makes a beeline for the bar first to have a place to stand/hide while she gets control of herself.

"Hey," Y/N says to the bartender and braces her hands against the counter. "Can you tell me where table two is? I'm filling in for Angel tonight."

The bartender is a young man compared to the company she often keeps. Based on the baby-faced appearance, she guesses somewhere between twenty-one and twenty-four. He almost reminds her of Peter a little bit, and, for the first time since he died, the ache in her chest doesn't flare up at the sight of someone who resembles him. He places a reddish-hued drink in a short cup on the bar top with a muted smile.

"Table two is the closest to the stage"—Of course—"and his buddy isn't there right now, but this is for him, so just put it in front of his seat."

"Thanks."

She takes the drink from the bar top and is careful not to spill a drop of it as she tries to copy the confidence Dani had when strutting in her heels. If she's going to stick out because she's the only woman here wearing underwear, she'll make sure that she looks the part in every other way. As expected, she can feel pairs of eyes on her from every corner of the room, and she tries not to let it get under her skin. Every time she feels one of them leering at her, she goes back to that moment in the closet with Harry and allows him to calm her speeding heart rate.

Other servers weave in and out of her path, either carrying drinks or plates on trays or leading one of the men to the back for a private dance. It's a tad disorienting with the blue and red lights flashing on and off around the room, spotlights cutting through the changing colors to shine on the three dancers on stage, but she keeps her focus on the table she was told to deliver the drink. In her other hand, the small recording device is ready to be planted onto the bottom of the table. It has a sticky side for her to adhere to the table, and she already went over how she was going to do it.

She'll place the drink down and steady herself with one hand wrapped around the lip of the table to secure the device before saying she'll be right back after she completes another drink order.

A slow, thrumming song plays over the speakers for the women on stage to strip and sway to in a sensual dance that lures the eyes of the men away from her as she nears the table. Good. The fewer witnesses who can confirm her presence here, the better. Although, she admits to herself with a sinking feeling, the witness who matters most in identifying her underneath the attempts to disguise her appearance could return at any moment.

She tries to emulate the sultry attitude she sees many of the women, most of all Dani, adopt as they're making their rounds to different tables when she finally reaches table two.

"Here's the drink your friend ordered," Y/N says, leaning over the table to set it down on the coaster in front of the empty seat.

When she puts it there, she holds the edge of the table exactly as they planned and sticks the recording device to it, not allowing her hand to leave it until she's certain it's properly adhered. As she stands up to her full height, she moves the hand she used to plant the recording device to rest on Ryan's left shoulder and caress it the way she would a lover. It feels wrong to touch anyone but Harry this way, but she ignores it for the sake of the performance she must put on.

Right when she turns to leave, he catches her by her wrist and doesn't allow her to go any farther.

There's no calming herself down this time. Imagining she's with Harry does not work because, logically, she knows how deep of shit they'll be in if he keeps her here until Leo comes back from whatever "distraction" they procured for him. The lighting may disguise her for a moment, but she knows it'll only work for so long before he recognizes her. She can only imagine how worried Harry is watching her over the cameras right now.

Ryan says, "Wait. I haven't seen you around before. You new?"

She wills herself to remain calm as she turns around to face him with a smile and bedroom eyes just like Dani told her to. He's not as handsome as his brother is, but he's easy enough on the eyes. With the same jet-black hair cut short and styled with gel, he must resemble one of their parents more than Leo does, because that's about all they have in common. Their facial features differ to a degree that would have her questioning if they were cousins or brothers had she not already been informed.

The sensual dance going on less than a few feet away from him is forgotten in the wake of her arrival.

"Yeah, I am," she responds in her most realistic attempt at a valley girl accent, drawing up the pitch at the end to finish the statement sounding more like a question. She's sure not to overdo it, but if Leo comes back, she can't speak in her real voice. "My name's Cherry."

It's hard not to jump away from him when she feels his hand sliding up the back of her leg. His fingertips brush against the skin until he reaches the thong barely concealing her naked crotch from view, running the bejeweled fabric beneath his touch and allowing his palm to cup her ass cheek, and she thinks it might be one more minute before Harry comes storming in to beat him senseless over it.

His thin lips spread into a smile that threatens to make her sick to her stomach.

"Cherry," he says as if trying out the word for the first time. "They probably call you that 'cause you taste sweet, huh?"

How he manages to take something so innocent that started with her and Dani in the dressing room and turned it into that is beyond her. And she decided right here and now that no matter how many times he asks, she won't tell Harry what he said to her until the time comes to kill him. If she does, he'll snap and kill him sooner. Perhaps he's already considering it if he can see how he's touching her like she's his property within less than a minute of meeting her.

The hand not squeezing her ass lifts from his lap to reveal a folded-up hundred-dollar bill. One of his fingers hooks around the thin edge of her lacy thong to stow there between the garment and her skin. His other hand roams up from her ass to skim the small of her back, and she must resist the urge to smack it away from the healing tattoos. Having this creep touch something that holds such a deep meaning surrounding her and Harry's relationship increases her urgency to flee at a dramatic rate.

Yet, she doesn't let it ruin her performance.

She leans down until she's face to face with him, allowing her forearms to rest against his shoulders.

"How about the next time you come here, you hang with me in the back and find out?" she whispers, barely letting her voice be heard over the music and chatter around them.

It's so easy to pull men. One little flirt and he's already melting in her hands, turning starry-eyed and pliant for her to manipulate him any way she pleases. He tries to lean forward to give her a kiss, but she jerks away whenever he gets close enough. She plays it off as her being a tease and drawing out the anticipation for "next time", but there will be no next time. The "next time" will be her hitman putting this piece of shit down like the animal he is.

"Why not right now?" he asks.

She winks at him.

"Good girls don't give it away on the first date, do they?"

Hoping that'll be enough to satisfy and shut him up in time for her to make an escape, she stands back up and walks away from him without saying another word. As she turns her back to him, she shuts her eyes and silently prays that he doesn't call her back to the table. The sound of her heels hitting the hard floor is swallowed up by the music that shifts from the slow-paced song that was on to something lively and raucous. It gets a few men out of their seats to dance with server girls in the space between tables, and, as she passes by the table next to Ryan and Leo's, she sees Dani tipping her head back in laughter in the arms of a handsome older man.

It appears that they're in the clear, she realizes, now that she's made it halfway across the room without hearing his voice yelling her fake name to summon her back like a dog. That is until she sees the man walking straight at her from one of the back rooms and feels her heart drop into the pit of her stomach.

Leo.

She changes direction as quickly as she can without drawing attention to herself by looking like she's running from something and finds herself headed back toward the bar. Her mind is not in control of her decisions anymore. Pure instinct takes hold, and her legs have a mind of their own in regard to where they'll be taking her tonight. Right now, the sole requirement is that it's the opposite direction to wherever Leo is.

The bartender's eyes light up in recognition as she approaches, then widen at her slamming the one-hundred dollar bill Ryan stuffed in her thong down on the counter.

"A shot of fireball," she demands, then peeks over her shoulder with her faux blonde hair concealing her face from table two's view to see Dani dancing with the same man who embraced her seconds ago. "And leave whatever's left of the cash to Sugar."

"You sure?" he asks.

Her eyes narrow at him as he pours the shot and slides the glass across the bar to her.

She says, "Yeah, I am," then throws back the two ounces of liquor without a single grimace shown on her face on its way down.

The last thing she wants is to keep that bill knowing the disgusting hands that'd touched her while she "earned it". At least it'll be money free of exploitation and shame for Dani. A gift from a would-be friend. In another place or time in which they ended up in the same line of work for more than fifteen minutes. Perhaps it'll be the only cash she's received here without proverbial strings attached at every end.

Y/N slams the empty shot glass back down hard enough for it to rattle around in a circle on the varnished wood and departs with a quiet, "Thanks," past the rest of the tables to reach the staircase to the upper level.

The private rooms, Garrett explained to them on their way in, are located upstairs for privacy. Depending on the comfortability of the girl, private rooms are either used for one-on-one dances or prostitution. On the other side of the upper level, however, is a closed-off section of rooms interconnected by a hallway for staff. Mostly for security. They informed her that Harry would be waiting for her whenever she planted the device in the room at the very end, and she didn't think it'd feel as far as it does now.

Every few seconds, she looks over her shoulder with a paranoia strong enough to make her body tremble on her way up the stairs. Tears blur her vision, the contacts irritating her even further, and she tries to hold in the sound of her crying.

She thought she could handle it. She figured that men have done whatever they've wanted with her as far back as she can remember, so what's another night of being subjugated to this objectification again? What's another wound to add to those that fester and refuse to close unless she banishes them from her memory? She thought she could bear it, but, as she stumbles up the stairs and allows her tears to ruin her makeup, she is forced to recognize her limits.

When she reaches the locked door that separates the private staff section of the upper level from the rest, she mistypes the code on the pin pad multiple times before it finally opens for her.

She doesn't have to look up at his face to know it's Harry waiting for her behind it. He likely saw her leaving, crying as she ascended the staircase, and came down the hallway to get her before anyone else intervened or, God forbid, Ryan followed her up here. The second he appears, she rushes forward through the doorway and collapses into his embrace with a loud sob.

His arms pull tight around her shoulders, his hand cradling the back of her head where it burrows into his neck and stroking the hair of her wig down as he whispers soothing words to her.

This only worsens the cries coming from her and weakens her body enough that she leans on him for full support from her overwhelming anguish. Everything comes back to her in full force in the aftermath of what she was forced to do tonight—what happened to her when she was a child with her friend's brother, the man who left her unconscious on the sidewalk outside of that club after Peter's death, her multiple near-death experiences—it all comes rushing back.

"Hey," he whispers, pulling back and reaching for her face to ensure she actually looks at him. There are tears in his eyes too. "S'okay. You're safe, baby. I'm right here."

The mascara on her lower lash line smudges under her eyes when she wipes the tears away with her fingertips and tries to force herself to breathe deeply to keep from hyperventilating. She does way better than she did last time when he had to calm her down in the closet, and, for that, they're both thankful. Nevertheless, it still hurts him to see her this way, broken and clinging to him for any scrap of stability she can find. That was why he pushed her on wearing the underwear. Part of it had to do with his own territorial jealousy, yes, but he was mostly thinking of her. Of this. Of every man from her past and future that he wants to hunt to the ends of the earth for making her feel bad, himself included.

Guilt crushes him in moments like these. They make him reflect on every time he yelled or manhandled her in the beginning, every time he hurt her for the sake of pushing her away that had more to do with his own insecurities than it herself did "keeping her safe". But maybe the guilt is his punishment. He'll gladly stomach it for the rest of his life so long as he gets to keep her in it until the end.

He asks, "What do you want me to do?" His brows furrow as he blinks the tears away from his eyes, and he tilts her head back to keep her looking at him. "What can I do?"

Her bottom lip quivers, wet with saliva and tears that trickle down her cheeks onto it. There's nothing she can think to say.

"I don't know."

To this, his face hardens. And after a few seconds have passed of them not breaking their intense stare-down, he leans forward to press his forehead to hers and holds her in place there by the back of her neck

He promises her, "When I kill him, I'll cut off the hand he touched y'with."

The old version of her would've blanched at such a violent statement, but the version of her that exists today is calmed by it. She knows her lover now, and with that understanding, she knows that this is his way of solving things and showing how much he cares. He doesn't enjoy doing the things he's been groomed to from adolescence, but she is the only one he would willingly do them for without her holding anything over his head for leverage.

"Thank you," she mutters back.

For a minute or two, they remain frozen in time and never want to leave the sanctuary of each other's arms. Face to face, chest to chest, they stand here and breathe in each other's air in silence. They savor it. Because the second they leave, everything could change. Depending on the information Garrett picks up from the recording device, the hit could be anywhere between one day and one month away. It could either be their freedom or their damnation.

Unfortunately for them, the vibration of his phone buried deep in his pocket interrupts the peaceful moment far too soon. He doesn't let go of her as he fishes it out and checks it to see what's going on, and he doesn't need to. Upon a quick glance, he clicks it off without reacting and stuffs it back into his pocket.

"Garrett says the device is up and working," he tells her. "We can go home."

On their way down the hallway, he steals one of the coats left hanging on the rack mounted on the wall and drapes it over her shoulders to shield her body from anyone's prying eyes, as well as the colder temperature that has set in now that it's nighttime. She ties it around her waist as tight as the fabric will allow and leaves it alone. The neckline plunges deep enough for anyone who pays attention to notice her lack of clothes underneath, but, honestly, if anyone dares to say something, she might just steal his gun and pistol-whip them with it.

The path they take to the back door blurs together in her mind. Turn after turn until they reach the open air, she stays tucked under his arm and squeezes his hand with enough strength to cut off his circulation. Neither of them says a word. All they do is walk side by side in silence and know that no matter what happened tonight, once they get back home and lock themselves inside, everything will be okay again until morning.

His Escalade is parked around the side of the building, so they make for the vehicle as swiftly as possible and try to keep their heads down should either of the brothers they came here to spy on take it upon themselves to step out for a minute.

The keys are in his hand, his thumb ready to press down on the button to unlock the doors, when the sound of someone shouting his name from behind causes him to freeze.

"Harry!"

In seconds, the keys are in her possession and he's already resting a hand on the gun strapped to his hip should they try anything, but there's no need. He doesn't know how, but, somehow, Y/N picked up on who it was and he didn't. Blinded by panic, he didn't think to question whether it was a friend or enemy before reaching for a weapon to defend her with.

She slips out from underneath his arm to turn to face the man, and when he follows her lead, his shoulders sag with equal parts relief and dread.

Drenched in the rain beside a running vehicle, Zayn stands before them with an accusatory stare.

-

A/N: HOW ARE WE FEELING? WE AREN’T QUITE NEAR THE END YET BUT WE ARE GETTING INTO THE REAL SHIT NOW! let me know your thoughts, i’d loveee to hear them :)