#like it just sounds like you feel like you’re the de facto decider of what’s good and bad cinema

[sunnyskies281]

“This movie is actually BAD! You were LIED TO!”

I was lied to… by myself? I enjoyed this movie because i didn’t realize it was bad… even on repeat watches when i still liked it? Mate I think you just don’t like this movie, no need to say everyone else is wrong.

[all-the-things-2020]

Late Night Talking - Chapter Twenty

Summary: The wedding.

Rating: PG

Word Count: 4350+

Notes: It’s bittersweet to say goodbye to Dieter and Emily, but maybe there will be some one shots down the road. For now, they’ve reached the end of their romantic journey.

Tag list: @rhoorl @avastrasposts @readingiskeepingmegoing @runningmom94 @gwendibleywrites @weho2kcmo

Time flew by. Before I knew it, the wedding was upon us. We’d rented a block of rooms at a hotel in Santa Barbara for everyone coming in from out of town: Sam and her family, Freddy and his, Dieter’s dad and his wife, Aunt Helen and Uncle Jeremiah. Everyone else would drive to the house in Malibu where the wedding was being held.

”You need to calm down,” Dieter told me the night before everyone was due to arrive. “Oladele has triple checked all the travel arrangements and she’ll be at the hotel to help them all check in. You don’t have to do a thing except breathe.”

”I know,” I said, sitting on the floor of the bedroom surrounded by a pile of shoes and jewelry, staring up at the long, flowing cotton dress that hung on the back of the door. It was embroidered with silver flowers and had been fitted precisely to my body. 

Dieter sat down beside me. “Whichever shoes you wear, whatever jewelry you wear, you’re going to look amazing,” he said softly. “You look like a fairy princess in that dress.”

“I know,” I said again. The dress was a vision, just fancy enough to be a wedding dress but casual enough for a day at the beach. Dieter had a matching outfit of loose fitting white pants and shirt. We would look beautiful next to each other.

”So stop worrying and just pick what feels right on the day,” he said. “Take all this stuff with you to the hotel and let Sam and Leila help you decide.” He kissed my ear. “It’s going to be fine.”

”I don’t want fine, I want perfect,” I said. “That’s the problem.” I leaned into him. “I am trying my best not to become a bridezilla but I can see why women get like that. We only get one chance to get it right.”

”Think of it as a live performance,” he said. “You prepare and rehearse and then once you’re onstage, you have to go with the flow. You never get the same performance twice, even if nothing goes wrong. It depends on the vibe of the audience, the temperature of the room … there are so many variables you can’t control. So just memorize your lines and get out there and do it. Then walk away. Off to the next thing.”

”But what if I mess up? What if I trip on my hem or one of us drops a ring or a seagull flies over and craps on us?” I had already envisioned a million disastrous scenarios that could ruin the wedding.

”Then we laugh and carry on and have a great story to tell,” he said. “It’s just our friends and family. They already know we’re idiots.”

********************************************************

Aunt Helen and Uncle Jeremiah were the last to arrive at the hotel. Dieter and I had already checked in when they got there. “They insisted on riding the airport shuttle,” Oladele told me over the phone. “I had a private car ready but your aunt insisted it was ‘too expensive.’”

”That sounds about right,” I replied. “Tell them we’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.”

”They really cut it close,” Dieter said, glancing at his watch. “The rehearsal dinner starts in half an hour.”

“Technically we don’t need them for the rehearsal part,” I reminded him. “They can go up and unpack and then join us all for dinner.”  We had a conference room booked for a quick rehearsal with the justice of the peace, followed by a private dinner for all the family members.

We were in Dieter’s room for the moment, since Oladele still had some things for the wedding to put in my room. I’d offered her extra pay for being a de facto wedding planner, but she’d politely declined. “I am your assistant, Emily. This is my job,” she’d said. “Besides, this is much more fun than my sister’s wedding in Lagos. If this was a Nigerian wedding, I would charge you six times my usual pay and a bonus on top.”

I took one last glance in the mirror to make sure my dress and hair looked okay. I was wearing a wrap dress that showed a bit too much cleavage if I didn’t get the safety pin in the right place, and my hair was reacting to the saltier beach air by frizzing up. I hoped the stylist could turn that frizz into fashionably beachy waves in the morning.

We went downstairs to find Aunt Helen trying to insist they didn’t need a bellhop to ptake the luggage up to the room. “Jerry and I are perfectly capable of carrying two suitcases,” she was telling Oladele.

”I know that,” Oladele said patiently, “but the hotel provides the service for the convenience of its guests.”

”Let him take the bags up, Aunt Helen,” I said, stepping in to give her a hug. “This way you and Uncle Jeremiah can spend more time with us tonight. Tomorrow is going to be so busy.” I looked her in the eye. “I’m glad you could make it.”

”We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she replied. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. It had been a rough few months for her. In March, Sarah had developed preeclampsia and had to have an emergency cesarean. She’d nearly died and the baby had been in NICU for a while. To top it all off, it was another girl and Sarah had fallen into postpartum depression, wanting nothing to do with her latest “failure.” Aunt Helen had stepped in to help with the girls, while Sarah’s husband concentrated on getting her better.

”Just relax and enjoy yourself,” I told her quietly. “Everything’s taken care of. You deserve it.”

”Listen to her,” Uncle Jeremiah said. “You’ve been doing too much.” He laid his hand against her back and I realized for the first time that despite his frosty exterior, he really did love her.

Dieter had hung back a bit, but now he jumped in. “So let’s head to the conference room,” he said. “We’ve got a little play to rehearse.”

**********************************************************

As we walked into the conference room, I felt Dieter stiffen beside me. “What?” I asked. He nodded toward Freddy’s family, where an older man and woman were talking to the kids. I took Dieter’s hand and marched him right over there.

“Uncle Deet!” Derek cried. “Grandpa and Grandma are here!” 

“Relax your jaw,” I whispered, giving Dieter a little jab with my elbow. He worked his jaw from side to side and took a deep breath.

“Hey, Dad,” he said, sounding almost, but not quite, convincingly casual.

”Dieter.” Josef Bravo was an older version of Dieter and Freddy, with more lines on his face and a bit less hair. “It’s good to see you, son.”

Dieter smiled tightly and introduced us. “Welcome to the family, Emily,” Josef said. He flicked a look at Dieter before turning to the woman beside him. “This is my wife, Victoria.”

”Vicki, please,” she said. She was a bit taller than me, with hair that had once been blonde but was transitioning to silver. Not too much makeup, just enough jewelry. She wasn’t plain but she wasn’t fighting aging, either. “Victoria is way too stuffy.” 

We shook hands and there was an awkward silence as we all looked at Dieter, who was suddenly fascinated by the carpet. We were saved by Oladele, who entered the room and clapped her hands twice.

”Everyone,” she said. “I need Dieter, Emily, Sam, and Freddy over here for the rehearsal. It will be quick. Then we can eat. Please, everyone, take your seats.”

There were a few rows of folding chairs set up with an aisle down the middle. Oladele directed us, playing the part of the justice of the peace. It felt more like an army drill than a wedding rehearsal.

”Dieter and Freddy, you are first down the aisle. Stand there. Now Emily and Sam. Good. Stand there. Now Sam and Freddy step back, Emily and Dieter step forward. Good. The justice will say a few words, then Dieter says his vows, then Emily says hers, the justice asks ‘Do you take’, Dieter says ‘I do,” Repeat for Emily. Justice pronounces you married. You kiss. Then back down the aisle. Sam and Freddy, you follow. Then everyone else can rise and follow to the reception area. And … that’s it. Let’s eat!” She clapped her hands again and headed for the long table the hotel staff had set up.

“She wouldn’t last a day in Hollywood,” Dieter quipped as we walked toward the table. “On time and under budget. No one would be able to believe it. Heads would explode.”

Dinner was a small buffet. Everyone was tired and there were kids, so keeping things simple and easy was the most important factor. Unfortunately, Oladele had me at one end of the table and Dieter at the other, so we were limited to eye contact and smiles for the duration. Sam was seated on my right and Aunt Helen on my left, so I tried to carry on two completely different conversations at once. By the end of the meal, my neck was sore from swiveling back and forth.

”Okay,” Sam said as we were getting up from the table. “Time for the bachelorette party!”

That was not on my agenda, and I gave her a funny look. “Well,” she said, “more like ‘hanging out with the maid of honor in your hotel room for a couple of hours’ but ‘bachelorette party’ sounds more festive, doesn’t it?”

”You scared me for a moment.” I glanced at Aunt Helen. 

“Chickie, I would never do that to you,” Sam said. “Now let’s ditch the men and the kids!”

Leila joined us. “Vicki offered to keep an eye on the kids,” she said, slipping her arm through mine. “Dieter and Freddy and their dad are going to have a mini bachelor party.”

”Is that a good idea? I mean, Dieter and Josef …”

Leila patted my arm. “Freddy has it covered,” she said. “They’re going to have a couple of drinks — non alcoholic, of course — and play cards. It’ll be fine.”

I looked across the room, where Dieter was standing next to Freddy and Josef. He winked at me and mouthed, “Have fun.” I relaxed. He was going to be okay.

”Okay, then ladies,” I said. “Let’s go have a sensible period of recreation before  turning in early. We have a big day tomorrow!”

Sam shook her head. “How you landed a movie star, I’ll never know.”

”I know,” Leila said. “It’s because he’s a dork. Underneath the sophisticated party-boy image, Deet has always been a big goofy kid. I got the mature one.”

My room was filled with supplies for the morning: the dress, makeup, my shoes and jewelry … everything except the flowers, which would be delivered straight to the beach house. The three of us flopped onto the bed.

”Are you nervous?” Sam asked.

”Kind of,” I admitted. “I just don’t want anything to go spectacularly wrong.”

”Like what?” Leila asked.

”Like Dieter and his dad getting into an argument, or me tripping on my dress and falling down.” I sat up and gestured at the shoes arranged neatly on the floor. “I need a bit of a heel or the dress is too long, but we’re walking on sand so it can’t be too high. And do I wear an open sandal type or a pump? Life was a lot easier when I only owned three pairs of shoes.” I’d collected more fancy shoes in the last year with Dieter than in my entire previous life. Most of them had been chosen for outfits I’d worn at events and I’d only worn them once.

”I say you go barefoot and just hold the hem of your dress up,” Sam said. “Solves all the problems and you’ll feel like a lady out of an historical novel, crossing the moors while trying not to muddy your petticoats.”

”If I go barefoot, then Dieter will want to go barefoot, too,” I pointed out. “And I told him he can’t wear his Crocs, either. So I have to wear shoes.” I sighed. “And then once I’ve chosen the shoes, I have to make sure my earrings and necklace will go with them.”

The only expensive jewelry I owned was the engagement ring itself, and the gold wedding bands that were still in Oladele’s keeping until she gave them to Freddy to hold during the ceremony. The rest of my stuff was costume jewelry, although I’d worn some real stuff on loan a few times. It always made me nervous. 

“I think these will go with anything,” Leila said, handing me a small box. I opened it to see two glittering diamond earrings. “You need something borrowed, and those were my mother’s. She wore them at her wedding, and I wore them at mine. And so will Sasha, if she chooses to get married.”

”Thank you.” I couldn’t say much more than that without bursting into tears. 

“Those are borrowed and old, so I’m in charge of blue and new,” Sam said. She handed me a small bag. Inside was a sapphire blue silk garter. “I know it’s cheesy and you aren’t going to do the whole tossing the garter shtick, but you can wear it under your dress and it’ll be a little secret.” 

“Chickie, I love it,” I said. “Both of you … you are amazing.”

We hugged each other and then got down to the serious business of talking smack about our men.

*******************************************************

My alarm went off and for a moment I toyed with the idea of turning it off and rolling over to get more sleep. Sam and Leila hadn’t left until well after midnight and we’d broken into the minibar at one point. Then I remembered it was my wedding day and I was instantly fully awake.

A knock at the door precisely ten minutes after the alarm went off was Oladele with hot tea and croissants for breakfast. “Rise and shine,” she said, looking neat and tidy as usual. I ran a hand through my hair and tied the sash on my robe a little tighter. 

We were soon joined by Sam, then Leila and Sasha, then Aunt Helen and finally Malinda, the stylist. I felt like a giant Barbie doll as everyone offered her opinion on my hair and makeup and accessories. Sam voted for a “sexy” aesthetic, while Aunt Helen lobbied hard for “demure.” In the end, Malinda ignored everyone and did her own thing, which landed almost smack in between the two extremes. 

“Oh, chickie,” Sam said when Malinda finally stepped back. “You look beautiful.”

I walked over to the mirror and took my first real look at myself. My hair fell in gentle waves, threaded with a few pearls strung on silver wire. My eyes were subtly accentuated and the diamonds sparkled on my earlobes. “Whoa.”

”Whoa is right,” said Leila. “Dieter is going to cry when he sees you.”

”He will not,” I said, although I was pretty close to tears myself. 

Sasha laughed. “Oh yeah, Uncle Deet is going to cry for sure. I better text Dad to make sure he has a handkerchief for him.”

Oladele clapped her hands. “Okay, ladies, let’s go get dressed ourselves. The cars will be here in one hour.”

Malinda packed up her things and the others hurried back to their rooms. All except Aunt Helen.

”You’d better go change,” I told her.

She waved her hand dismissively. “It won’t take me long. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

”Aunt Helen, I appreciate it but you don’t have to take care of me. Relax, enjoy the day.”

”Your mother would have sat with you,” she said. “I’m just filling in for her.” She took a deep breath. “My own wedding was in the temple. None of my family was allowed to be there. It was a sacred thing but I didn’t get what you and Jamie got to have.” She took my hand. “I know you don’t need ‘the talk’,” she said, “but I do have a bit of advice for you about being a wife.”

Here it comes, I thought. Be obedient, modest, yadda yadda yadda.

”The secret to a successful marriage is to always let him think it’s his idea,” she said. “A good man is easy to please. Let him think he’s getting his way most of the time, make sure he has his little comforts: favorite foods, let him control the TV remote, that sort of thing.”

”So basically treat him like a giant toddler,” I said, stifling a laugh. If only she knew!

”Pretty much,” she said. “I’ve been lucky. Jerry and I have our own spheres of influence, you might say. He goes to work, handles the finances, legal stuff. And I take care of all the house stuff, the family stuff. I know it seems antiquated to you, but it works for us. Figure out what works for you and Dieter, and then make him think it was all his idea in the first place.”

”I think we’ve got a pretty good handle on that,” I told her. We had already settled into a working routine with Dominic as far as the company went and I was finding my groove. I was a natural organizer and planner — not as skilled and unflappable as Oladele — but I could see the connections between things that others overlooked. I had the plans for the Dieter Bravo Foundation sketched out: arts programs for underfunded schools; after school programs focused on performing arts and related skills; career guidance for kids who wanted to follow their passions instead of just looking for “something that pays well.”

”Okay, then,” Aunt Helen said. “I’ll leave you alone now. Take the time to breathe, because once you leave this hotel room, the day is going to fly by.” She kissed my cheek and left. I took a deep breath. This was it. I was at the top of the incline, and the roller coaster ride of the rest of my life was about to begin. But for a moment — a precious moment — everything was still. Everything was quiet. And Dieter was waiting to join me for the plunge.

***************************************************

“You ready, chickie?” Sam was beautiful in her long blue sundress. She had the bouquet in her hand, a frothy thing of daisies and baby’s breath and cosmos and lavender that looked like a spring meadow. 

I took one last look in the mirror. I wasn’t wearing a veil, but I had a crown of rosebuds and daisies that made me feel like a fairy princess. I made sure it was on straight, then transferred my engagement ring from my left hand to my right. “Ready,” I said. 

We walked outside to the backyard of the beach house, which had a small gate that opened directly onto the beach. Everyone was already in place. An onshore breeze fluttered the cloth draped over the temporary bower where the justice of the peace, a stolid middle aged woman with a streak of purple in her hair, stood waiting with a smile on her face. And in front of her, just to one side, stood Dieter.

His shirt collar was unbuttoned, of course, and the salty air played with his curls that refused to be completely tamed. He looked both scared to death and ready to burst into laughter. I felt the same way inside.

I followed Sam down the aisle between the folding chairs where our friends and family sat. Dieter’s eyes were shimmering, and I fought back my own tears. I didn’t want to ruin my mascara for the photos.

The justice welcomed us and the ceremony began. It was real and surreal at the same time. I felt the breeze off the ocean, tasted the salt in the air, heard the gulls crying overhead, smelled the tang of kelp and fish and sunblock, but at the same time, it was like it was happening to someone else. I was an actor on a stage, lost in a dream. I didn’t want to wake up.

When it was time to exchange our vows, we turned to face each other and Dieter took both my hands in his. 

He went first. “I’m going to cheat a little and quote Shakespeare. ‘Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.’ That’s from The Tempest, and I can think of no better way to explain how I knew almost from the start that I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. And then there’s Sonnet 116: 

‘Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken’

My love for you will never falter, never waver. This is the vow I make to you, to be here always, through all the ups and downs that life can throw at us.”

His voice faltered a bit at the end, and then he smiled that radiant smile that always made my heart swell with happiness. 

I had to pause and take a moment to compose myself so that I wouldn’t start crying before I spoke my own vow. 

“I call your Shakespeare and raise you Pablo Neruda,” I said. He laughed quietly. “‘But I love your feet because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.’ You found me, and I found you, against all the odds. It was mere chance that we were in the same bookshop at the same time and in that moment of chance, our lives were forever changed. And now I don’t know what I would do without you. As Neruda said, ‘Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.’ I want to always have your laughter, your tears, your deepest conversations and your silliest flights of fancy. I vow to be always by your side, no matter what, in all things, serious and silly, whatever comes our way.”

Now there were tears standing in his eyes, too, so I didn’t feel quite so bad. The justice of the peace asked us to bring out the rings, which Dieter took from Freddy. We said our “I do”s and exchanged rings. Dieter’s hands were shaking a bit as he slid my ring onto my finger, and mine weren’t exactly still as I slid his ring onto his finger. The justice of the peace pronounced us husband and wife and just like that, we were married. 

”Great performance,” Dieter whispered as he leaned in to kiss me. His lips were gentle and sweet. 

“I had the perfect scene partner,” I replied. Then we turned toward our guests and led the march back up the aisle to the backyard, where the party was ready to start.

**********************************************

The reception was laid back. There was music from someone’s phone, hooked up to the Bluetooth speakers that dotted the backyard, but no real DJ. There was a buffet of appetizers and little sandwiches and other finger foods, so there was no seating plan. Dieter and I had a small table to ourselves, but everyone else sat where they pleased, danced when they pleased, and ate as they pleased. 

At one point, Freddy did stand up and offer a toast. We all raised our glasses of champagne or sparkling cider as he said, “To my brother and my new sister in law. I hope your life together is as beautiful as the two of you are.”

We posed for photos next to the cake, and cutting the cake, and feeding each other bites of cake. We posed with Freddy and Sam, with all the kids present, with all the family members … 

“Is this what being a model is like?” I asked Dieter. He’d done some advertising shoots before. 

“This is way better,” he said. “There’s food and I can make faces if I want to.” He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes.

”That one is not going in the photo album,” I told him. He just winked. I had a feeling there were going to be two albums, one “official” and another one full of candids. 

Late in the afternoon, as kids were falling asleep and people were starting to drift away, the photographer led us down onto the beach. “Take off your shoes,” she said. “I want some shots of you walking barefoot through the surf. Barefoot on the sand. Just carefree and summery.”

As we walked, hand in hand, Dieter leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Remember that first time we went to the beach together? And I found out you didn’t know how to swim?”

”Yeah,” I said. “We saw that corgi and ate snow cones.” I turned to him. “If anyone had told me at that moment that we’d end up married, I’d have laughed in their face.”

”Not me,” Dieter said, shaking his head. “I knew it from the start. You know, I picked today for the wedding because it’s the anniversary of our first date. Of the night I knew this was going to happen.”

”You just wanted to make it easier to remember both anniversaries,” I said.

Dieter stopped walking and put his hands on my shoulders. “No, that’s not why. It’s because I promised Freddy I’d wait a year to see if I still felt the same. And I do. I couldn’t wait a day longer than necessary.” He kissed me and I completely forgot about the photographer, and the last of our guests, and anyone else who might have been watching. Nothing else mattered in the world but the two of us, together, as we were meant to be.

[banannabethchase]

Adam is in his senior year of high school and, after the devastating end of the spring soccer season the previous year, his life has gone to hell. Enter Jon Moxley, who ushers in a whirlwind of self discovery.

~

Welcome to the Wrestling High School AU. This will be multichapter, but I'm not sure exactly how many. This is my 200th fic posted on AO3, so this has a special place in my heart. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

~

Adam is shaking.

It’s his first day of his senior year of high school, and he’s shaking like a leaf.

He grips the steering wheel of his truck as hard as he can, trying to force all of this anxiety out of himself. “Stop thinking about it,” he chides himself. He doesn’t look over at the soccer field in front of him. He doesn’t look out to the bleachers. He doesn’t allow himself to remember.

He can’t forget.

“Stop thinking about it,” he says, a little harder, teeth gritted. “Stop it.” Eyes closed, he practices the breathing: in for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight.

It helps. His teeth stop chattering and he’s not as cold as he was.

“You can do this,” he insists to himself.

He turns off the truck and swings out, adjusting the belt buckle so it’s right in the front. He checks his face in the mirror, checks his hair. Pulls on the bun, just a little bit, just so it looks right.

The parking lot is mostly empty, a few little sedans here and there, and that’s by design. Adam feels his anxiety settle, just a bit. The place won’t be too busy for a bit, and the sun rising on the horizon is prettier than Adam thinks he deserves.

He pulls out his phone and snaps a photo, when somebody pops up into frame.

“The fuck?!”

“Hi!” John Silver waves at him. “Hi.”

“Hey, John,” he says. He laughs a little nervously. “What’re you doing here so early?”

“Walked here,” John says, falling into step as Adam works his way toward the doors. “I live a mile or so away, I woke up too early, you know how it is.”

Adam doesn’t. He lives in the rural part of town about 10 miles out. “You looking forward to the year?”

“Yeah, yeah,” John says. Adam forgot how much this guy is like a puppy on cocaine. “Sophomore year. I’ve got Balch, McKenny, Anderson, and Jefferson. You know them?”

“You’re on team 10x?” Adam asks. “Yeah, I was on that team. Balch is a stickler, but as long as you believe in climate change he’ll be cool. McKenny is out, like, most years having a baby, but she just had one last year. You should be good. Anderson’s so obsessed with math she gets too excited, but she’s a great teacher.” He wrinkles his nose. “Jefferson and I didn’t exactly get along, but that was more because he’s the one who made us change from Bullet Club to Baller Club.”

John nods. “Cool. Good. I’ll just not have a weird little clique.”

Adam raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t Brodie make you, like, the de facto leader of that DND club when he graduated?”

John nodded. “Yeah, and?”

“Don’t you call yourselves the Dark Order?” Adam fights a smile. “Jefferson had an issue with us having a gun reference – what do you think he’ll do with you guys having a club based on inaccurate mythology?”

“He wouldn���t dare,” John says, and he sounds so confident Adam’s half convinced to believe him.

Adam makes sure John gets to the correct classroom for the morning, since the first class is their homeroom and it’s easy to miss it entirely and get marked absent.

“See you at lunch?” John asks, giddy. “Johnny hungie.”

Adam decides to move past whatever that was. “Are you second block for lunch?”

John’s glee, for the first time all day, fades. “Oh. No. I’m first block.” He frowns. “And Stu and Uno, they’re third. Anna and Alex and Alan are with me.”

“Preston?” Adam asks, and he sounds so pathetically hopeful it hurts.

John shakes his head. “Third, too.”

Adam considers not even eating when the time comes. Even maybe just running away. “Okay,” he says, voice small. “Um. I’ll figure something out, don’t worry.” He does his best to smile. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

John nods, then dives in, giving an incredibly firm and fast hug.

“Jeez, what do they feed you in Dungeons and Dragons?” he mutters.

He makes his way to the main building for his first class: Advanced Placement Human Geography, or, in layman’s terms, anthropology for beginners. He shouldn’t have walked John, for his own sanity. As every second passes, as every step falls, the odds get better and better that he’ll run into Them and he doesn’t have any way to avoid it.

Halfway up the stairs, and he can see the halls are filling. The halls are filling, and Adam is putting every prayer in that he doesn’t run into Them. Not today. At least, not right now.

Nobody’s listening to him, though. As looks through his phone, pretending to be enveloped while actually hyper aware of everything around him, a familiar flash of long hair catches his eye. He can’t help it: he looks up.

Kenny Omega is walking down the hallway, head high, with Matt and Nick Jackson flanking him. Nick’s a year younger, but some it doesn’t matter to Matt or Kenny. They treat him like a god, just like they treat themselves. Just like he treated them.

Just like they used to treat him.

Adam feels the panic attack rear its ugly head, and he does his breathing practice as he tries to duck his head, hide in the book. He wishes he wore the glasses, cut his hair, something. In a fit of sheer panic, he turns around and runs around the corner, promptly slamming into the first person he managed not to see.

“The fuck, man?”

Adam wiggles a bit to see Jon Moxley, who he remembers vaguely being on the football team at some point. His biggest calling card now is the pink hair and the general disdain for authority. “Sorry,” he says, pulling his legs out from the tangle. “Sorry, I just.”

Moxley peeks out around the corner. “Ugh, fuck. Douchebags.”

“Are they gone?” Adam asks, before he can stop himself.

Moxley moves back. “Aren’t they your friends?”

Scoffing, Adam shakes his head, putting his books back in order. “Not anymore.”

“Then I like you.” He hops to his feet with more grace than Adam expected, and holds out a hand. “Come on, get up.”

Adam takes his hand, calloused and strong, and stands. “Sorry I bumped into you. Had to, uh.” He pauses.

Jon studies him, a roll of his shoulders, blue eyes piercing. “Were – were you running from them?”

Adam freezes, and he couldn’t even imagine the look on his face. “I want to say no.”

“But you can’t,” Jon finishes for him. “I’m not even gonna ask. What class do you have next?”

“AP Human Geo,” he answers.

Jon adjusts the back on his shoulder. “Me, too. Come on.”

“You have an AP class?” Adam asks before he can stop himself.

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Wow, country bumpkin is also slightly classist. Cool.”

“No, I just,” Adam feels himself fumbling, “look, you were a football guy, and they usually don’t spend time on the big classes, so…” He trails off, shrugging. “Sorry.”

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you.” He claps Adam on the shoulder, pausing to squeeze. “Damn, you rural kids really are corn fed and country strong, aren’t you?”

Unable to answer that, Adam just follows Jon into Viet Pham’s classroom.

“Look at the tables and find your name,” says Mr. Pham. “We will begin the semester in alphabetical order, because if y’all move around, I will never learn your names.”

In this class’ roster, Moxley comes right before Page, so Adam sits next to Jon.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh, Cowboy?” Jon asks with a grin.

“It’s alphabetical!” Adam replies, and he can tell he’s leaning into Jon’s goading, he knows, but he can’t stop it.

Jon just keeps smiling at him, like it’s the best joke he’s heard. Adam does a terrible job of listening to Mr. Pham explain the syllabus, but he’s not thinking about Kenny and the rest of them for a full block.

~

The morning goes by quickly, but lunchtime presents him with a problem he’d been trying to ignore ever since that conversation with John.

Cody’s gone, at Audelaire Prep in the city. He hasn’t even called since he left at the end of the fall season the year before, when he was passed over for junior captain in favor of Kenny. He’s not going near his old table – Kenny, Matt, and Nick are probably filling in their ranks with new freshmen and sophomores to be part of their club, now.

He’s half convinced to go eat in the library, park in one of the study alcoves and hope the librarian doesn’t catch him, when he hears somebody yell, “Adam!”

He startles, expecting, almost, to get jumped. Instead, Jon is waving him over. “Get over here.”

He shuffles over to Jon’s table, where he’s sitting with Eddie Kingston. He refuses to look behind himself just in case, because there’s no way the Elite didn’t hear all of that. But he won’t look at them. He won’t give them the satisfaction. “Yeah?”

“Sit, duh,” Jon says, gesturing to the seat next to him. “You looked like a deer in the headlights. It would have been a war crime to let you stand like that.”

Adam isn’t sure if that’s a kindness or not, but he sits either way.

“This who you were talkin’ about?” Eddie asks. “I had a physics class with him last year, for a little while.” He nods at Adam. “Hey.”

“Hi. Sorry, I thought you graduated?”

Eddie scoffs. “You gotta be here to graduate. I skipped half of last year to go do my real job.”

“Which is?”

He laughs. “I’ll tell you another time, kid, let me eat my lunch without thinking about blood.” He leans in and shovels some of the cafeteria pasta in his mouth, giving Adam the chance to look at Jon, bewildered.

“Don’t mind him, he’s always this way,” Jon says, shooting a fond smile over at Eddie. “Anyway, you really didn’t have a place to sit?”

Adam shakes his head. “I didn’t really, um. When I got here, and I was part of the soccer team, it was like they were my friends and that was it.” He pushes some noodles around on his plate. “Then Kenny and I…and then it was over.”

He can’t help the memories from playing across his mind. His and Kenny’s first kiss, under a strategically placed spring of mistletoe at the Jackson’s Christmas party, freshman year of high school. Before that, when Adam was the youngest player to make an assist in a championship game and Kenny was the youngest to score a goal, the goal that locked in their win. Their repeated victories in the spring and fall seasons until spring of junior year, feeling on top of the world with the guy and the stardom and the ability to skip class for any game they had.

The disgust on Kenny’s face last May, when Adam’s mistake cost them everything. The spring season destroyed because Adam wasn’t good enough.

The way Kenny wouldn’t even meet his eyes when he told Adam he didn’t associate with losers.

“Wow, bud, come back to earth.”

Adam lifts his head to see Jon staring at him, concerned. A flop of pink hair falls in his eyes. “I – sorry.”

“You’re a real piece of work, kid,” Eddie says, mouth full of broccoli. That in itself earns a bit of Adam’s respect. “Real fucked up.” He slaps Jon on the arm, but rests it there, like it belongs. “You pick ‘em good, you menace.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Look, forget them. All the sports kids are assholes.”

“You were a sports kid,” Eddie mentions.

Jon pinches the skin on the top of his hand, and Eddie punches him in the shoulder. “We don’t talk about that,” Jon grumbles. He turns attention back to Adam. “Look, I like you. I think you’re funny and I think you’re kinda cute, and you’re welcome to hang out with us.”

Adam blinks. “Is this some sort of initiation? Whether or not I can handle you two being weird?”

Eddie shrugs. “Do you have a problem with us being weird?”

“No,” Adam replies. “You’ve got nothing on the attempted murder the Jacksons went for using Monster and crushed up Tylenol two years ago.”

Jon tilts his head. “That may be the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“They heard somewhere too much Tylenol could fuck up your liver,” Adam explains. “They thought three was too much.”

“Wait, was that the Cole kid?” Eddie asks. “Yeah, I remember that! I was on the peer review board for that, well, until I got kicked off for calling him a pussy. But he was being a pussy, so what other option did I have?”

Jon reaches up and covers Eddie’s mouth with his hand. “We’re working on not incriminating ourselves,” he deadpans. “But, yeah, you’ll do fine. Eddie’s got a gig after school, so he’ll be gone, but meet me out by Wilson Road and maybe you can drive me home?”

“That’s a bit presumptuous,” Adam says, spearing one of the broccoli bunches and testing it. It’s better than it was last year, so maybe Eddie’s less of a daredevil and more just hungry.

“I doubt you’re gonna say no,” Jon says, “but you don’t have to if you don’t want.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I just put gas in it. But it smells like hay and kind of like chickens, ‘cause it’s a farm truck.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “You really are a country bumpkin, aren’t you?”

~

He’s on his way to the agricultural and animal husbandry barn while he scans his agenda, checking to make sure he’s gotten down all the really important stuff for the first day. He has Chemistry class with Alex Reynolds, AP English with Anna Jay and Uno, who still won’t give anyone his real name, and he has AP French with Nyla Rose, who he didn’t realize until now he deeply needs to be friends with.

And then, of course, there’s AP Human Whatever with Jon. It feels silly, but it seems like it’ll be a good way to start every say.

His Creative Writing class consists of no one else he knows, which is fine, but he’s hesitant to feel comfortable sharing anything. His animal husbandry class is full of people he went to his tiny elementary school with, which would be nice if Dalton Castle hadn’t yelled, “Hey, Poopy Page!” the second he walked in the door.

“It was chocolate!” he hisses, socking him in the arm. Dalton just grins.

“Oh, come on, man, everybody knows it was,” he winks, “just chocolate. Plus, it was kindergarten.”

He sits down, next to Dalton, because he really is one of Adam’s favorite people from Silver Elementary.

Dalton throws an arm around his shoulders. “Aw, you’ll be fine. You’ve got old Dalton around.”

“You hate animals, why are you even here?”

“Had to take a science class, and you’ll be dead before you see me doing anything involving math.” He pats Adam’s cheek. “Come on. Let’s get settled.”

After a whirlwind of the AH teacher explaining the horribly explicit details of inseminating a cow instead of outlining the syllabus, the final bell of the day goes off. With a wave to Dalton, Adam almost automatically walks toward the locker room before he remembers: he’s not on the soccer team. He’s not in the Elite team, he’s not part of Baller Club. He doesn’t even play anymore. But he does have somewhere else he can go, someone else he can meet up with.

It’s surprisingly comforting to know he’s not as alone as he felt in the morning.

Shouldering his backpack, he ducks behind the barns and makes the short walk behind the lacrosse fields to Wilson Road.

There, leaning against a tree, is Jon Moxley. And Adam forgets he’s supposed to be normal about this.

“Hey, Cowboy,” he says, waving with the hand holding the cigarette. “Was worried you wouldn’t show.”

“You’re smoking.”

Jon nods, and puts the cigarette back in his mouth. “Yeah.”

“We’re on campus!” Adam hears the prissiness in his own voice. He’d call himself a narc.

Jon laughs, and the smile is unexpected. “No,” he says. He puts one foot on the road. “That is on campus.” Then he puts his foot back on the dirt. “This is not. Ergo whatnot, I’m not on campus.” He takes another drag from the cigarette, fingers tantalizing in a way Adam’s not particularly comfortable analyzing. Holding the cigarette between his teeth, he says, “You smoke?”

Adam shakes his head. “I – don’t really do drugs.” He intentionally doesn’t mention the beers he’s stolen from his dad, chugging them in the shower through body wracking sobs, drunkenly collapsing into bed after four of them. Because those don’t count – it’s just beer.

He lets out a bark of laughter, head thrown back and eyes crinkling in a way that makes him look less serious, less worn. “Oh, baby, if you think these are drugs, I can’t even tell you what I’ve done in the library.”

Adam tilts his head. “Well, now I’m curious.”

Jon pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, holds it between his pointer finger and thumb. He uses it like punctuation when he spokes, and Adam wonders if this guy has ever taken theater classes. No person is this animated, like, as a default. “I used to do, like, a fuckton of cocaine, and then I sneak in to the library at night and read, like, all the books.” He sighs. “Oh, and once Eddie and I had sex on the checkout counter.”

Adam startles. “Oh. Right. Eddie.”

He apparently does a miserable job of keeping the disappointment off of his face, because Jon says, “We’re not exclusive, if that’s what that look on your mug means.”

“I didn’t,” Adam pauses. “That’s not – I wasn’t thinking that.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “You weren’t?” He shrugs, taking another drag. “That sucks.”

“It does?”

Jon steps toward him, flicking the end of the cigarette. “You can’t possibly be as naïve as you look, cute a look as it is.” He’s back on campus. He’s inches from Adam. “You thinking about me and Eddie fucking in the library?”

Adam doesn’t think before he answers. “A little.”

“Not to be nosy, but I dug around and learned about the bullshit that went down with you and Omega last spring.” Jon grins. “You looking for a rebound?” He licks his lips.

Adam decides to stop thinking. “A little.”

Jon licks his lips, then drops the cigarette on the ground, crushing it with the heel of his boot. “That’s what I like to hear.” Before Adam can reconsider whatever he’s doing, he leans in, meeting Jon’s lips. He tastes like smoke and snark.

Adam leans in, sliding his tongue across Jon’s lips, and Jon opens his mouth, hand on the back of Adam’s neck, other hand on his hip. He can’t help it – he sighs into it. He considers it a bit strange for a first kiss, but, hey, he didn’t expect to kiss anyone again, not for a long time, so he’s counting this as a win.

Jon pulls away, grinning. “Okay. Cool. Don’t need to teach you how to kiss.”

“Offended you think that’d be a possibility.” It’s easy, kissing Jon. He lets Adam lead when he wants to, and takes over when Adam falls back. There’s no battle here, no need to check himself. Shivers roll down his back when Jon slides his hands into the back pockets of Adam’s jeans, hauling him close. Adam finds himself laughing into Jon’s mouth, and they stay there like that, longer than they shoulder.

“I, uh,” Adam says, pulling back. His hands are still in Jon’s hair, and he plays with it, just a little. Wonders what made him choose this neon level of pink. Wonders if Jon would want him to tug at it in the future. “I need to get home soon. My parents’ll freak out if I’m not there.”

Jon nods, but he won’t keep from glancing down at Adam’s lips. “Yeah. Right. Good idea.” He rubs a thumb along his bottom lip. “Yeah. We still good for that ride?”

Adam nods. He wants to reach out and grab Jon’s hand, but it feels wrong, like maybe it’s too much or something. Instead, he grabs his backpack from the road and starts walking. He smiles when he hears Jon jog a little bit to catch up, the chains on his wallet jingling a bit.

“No need to rush,” Jon says. “God, why are you so fast? We’re basically the same height.”

“Maybe my legs are longer than yours,” Adam muses. “What, can’t keep up?”

Jon shoves at him with his shoulder, harder than Adam would have expected. “Don’t be an ass,” Jon says. “I go out of my way to befriend you and you make fun of me? Dick move.”

“I could show you dick moves,” Adam says under his breath, and, when he turns to Jon, he’s grinning like a devil.

“Oh, I like you,” he says, practically skipping. He grabs Adam’s face while they’re walking and presses a big kiss to his cheek. “This is gonna be fun.”

They reach the parking lot, and it’s near empty. Adam points to his truck, looking more battered and rusty in the afternoon light than it had when he’d left it in the morning. “That’s me.”

“Sweet!” Jon says, hopping up into the bed. “Can I ride like this?”

“Absolutely not,” Adam says, grabbing at his sleeve. “What are you, feral? Get down here.”

Jon practically giggles as he crouches at the edge of the tailgate. “You gonna make me?”

It’s as much an invitation as anything, so Adam grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him down, rolling him until his feet hit the ground. Jon backs him up against the tailgate, with one leg between Adam’s. “God, you’re an easy mark,” he laughs against Adam’s mouth, and Adam doesn’t care, not at all, because Jon’s hands are on him again and this is the best he’s felt all summer.

~

When he drops Jon off at the townhouses on the other side of the town from his house, Adam doesn’t even care he’s gone out of his way. Jon leans over the center console and kisses his temple quickly before leaving with a, “See ya tomorrow, Cowboy!”

Adam’s playlist on the way home is higher energy than he’s picked in months. He’d planned for devastation, is the thing. He had feared and fretted for weeks about this day, going over every possible outcome. But nothing even close to the horrors and banality he imagined happened. Kenny didn’t humiliate him in front of the whole school. Hell, Kenny never even looked at him, which hurts in a different direction than Adam expected to feel. But it’s not debilitating. And it’s eclipsed by the excitement of Jon Moxley, whatever it means.

His parents ask him why he’s so happy at dinner, Mom looking almost worried at his reaction.

“I don’t know,” he says, unable to keep the sunshine out of his voice. “I just – I guess this year I’m less worried, you know? I was super anxious about soccer every other year, and this year I don’t have to worry about that. Or Baller Club, either.”

Mom sighs. “I wish you boys would have come up with any name but that. It’s bad enough that Tyson keeps going by that Kenny Omega name. It sounds ridiculous.”

“It’s his name, Mom, don’t be weird about it.” It’s not his name, actually, Kenny hasn’t even decided if he wants to do a legal name change, but it’s what he asks to be called and Adam’s always thought that comes first.

“But Baller Club?” Dad asks, looking concerned. “That’s still happening? I mean, it’s better than Bullet Club, that would’a put y’all on a list somewhere, but Baller Club sounds…” He trails off.

“We all know how it sounds,” his mom says, rolling her eyes with a hint of a smile. “Well, I know how hard it was when you and Kenny broke up.” She rests her hand on his. “Honestly, honey, I was a bit worried about you today. I almost had Janet check up on you, but I had a feeling you would hate that.”

“Yeah, good call,” he says, squeezing her hand back. “That probably would have killed me if you had one of the office ladies check in on me.” He shoves some spaghetti in his mouth for emphasis.

“Okay, you could chew and swallow, make it look a little less like you were raised in our barn,” she pokes him in the shoulder. “But today was okay?”

“Yeah, it was good. Hung out with the kids from Dark Order. Bunch of ‘em are in my classes.”

“Well, that name’s better than Baller Club,” his dad says. “Those the nerd group?”

“It’s called D and D,” Adam corrects. “It’s a tabletop game. It’s pretty cool. I think I might ask to go to one of their meetings, just to see.” He fidgets with his glass. “Met some other cool people, too.”

“I know that smile,” his mom says. There’s a bit of a fraught silence that settles over the table. His mom’s eyes, studying. Dad’s presence, steady, ready to catch either of them at a moment’s notice. And Adam, unsure if he’s ready to share what’s happening with Jon with anybody but Eddie, at least not right now. “Don’t fall too hard, okay honey?”

“And I don’t know if I can promise not to sic the chickens a second time,” his dad adds, pointing at him with the fork. “Still haven’t ruled out sending Bradley to the Smith’s house and letting him reign terror.”

“Please don’t sic a rooster on my ex-boyfriend,” Adam groans, dropping his head in his hand. “Tell me about your days. Please, anything but this.”

[tanadrin]

This guy blocked me the instant he reblogged me, but I feel compelled to respond, because I think this is a weird take!

Plainly, it’s not intolerable for the millions of people who do it every day; and even if we posit that many of them would prefer to live in single-family houses on their own lots, enough people are actively moving into apartments--e.g., here in Germany where most urban housing is apartments and population has been steadily concentrating in cities for decades, as people depart rural areas--that it’s safe to assume your experiences are not universal, or at all close to it.

Is there a regional/cultural thing at work here? Maybe. Housing here in Germany tend to be built of concrete, including interior walls, which makes them quieter. Tenant protections are much better, for those who rent rather than own their apartments. North American-style Euclidean zoning isn’t a thing--and that doesn’t mean that North American-style houses don’t exist. They do--they’re a bit smaller, because land is more expensive in Europe, but they absolutely exist! You just don’t have the vast majority of the land in a municipal area zoned for that, and only that.

And even if apartment living sucked and people only did it because it was cheaper (which, given housing costs in some urban areas, is no small thing), the whole point the original video made, which all the NIMBYs here are ignoring, is that Euclidean zoning is unsustainable. Cities simply can’t afford to keep doing it. It requires de facto massive subsidies by the government, and you haven’t explained how you would fix that problem, or why your personal preference for suburban-style living outweighs the preference of other taxpayers in your city not to subsidize that style of living. I’m not saying that’s a case you can’t make, but “I hate apartments, pay higher taxes to make me able to live in a house” is not such a case!

Personally, I fucking hate living in suburbia. I hate having nothing in walking distance, I hate having to drive everywhere, I hate losing big chunks of my day to commuting, and I hate feeling like I have to own a car to live my life. Fortunately, I don’t live in the U.S. anymore. But I know a lot of Americans feel the same way, because I am friends with them, and I used to be one of them. Thankfully, there’s a compromise possibility right in the middle of the Overton window in American politics: let the free market decide! Repeal restrictive zoning laws that limit what property owners are allowed to build on their land, so they can build the type and density of housing they want, and let people pay for the kind of housing they want to live in, where they want to live.

If this sounds like a bad idea to you, it’s possible that it’s because your preferred style of living is only beneficial to a narrow class of homeowners and aspiring homeowners, you’re unwilling to pay what it really costs, and you’re depending on the government monopoly on force to protect your own narrow interests while forcing everyone else to shoulder the burden. If you were willing to pay higher property taxes to compensate for the increased cost of services in these areas, or willing to live in more rural areas and/or with a lower level of municipal services as a compromise, that would be one thing. But by and large American homeowners aren’t, they seem to want the convenience of living near major urban centers without confronting the tradeoffs that that imposes.

This isn’t a big conspiracy of evil YIMBYs plotting to destroy all that is good in the world. This is simply the pitiless arithmetic of municipal finances. You can rage and bellow against it all you want, but it doesn’t change the math.

[robininthelabyrinth]

A continuation of NHS invites WWX to JYL's wedding, and what happened there? Perhaps about how the estemed Hanguang Jun ended up running off and eloping with the Nie sect heir's intended?

continuation of that short fic, now it’s own fic on ao3

Plus One - Chapter 2

“So,” Nie Huaisang said, sidling up to his brother and his two sworn brothers now that they’d finally gotten to the party part of the wedding and they could all huddle up in a corner to be anti-social together.

Or, well, for Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen to be anti-social and for Jin Guangyao to be forcefully restrained from attempting to perform hosting duties, which he incessantly tried to do - it was like he had no idea what servants were for. Which Nie Huaisang supposed was understandable, given everything, but the way Jin Guangshan encouraged him to do it certainly wasn’t.

“So,” Nie Mingjue said, his voice only mildly ominous in a way that suggested, to Nie Huaisang at least, that he was still finding this whole thing incredibly funny.

Accordingly, Nie Huaisang ignored him. “How much do you think I can milk being horribly dumped?” he asked. “Because I think I’m about to be horribly dumped.”

“By your new ‘intended’?” Lan Xichen said, looking amused. “Really, Huaisang, I don’t know what you were thinking by bringing him.”

“Uh, that he deserves to attend his shijie’s wedding? Obviously?”

“But to bring him to Lanling…”

“He’s my guest,” Nie Huaisang said haughtily, bringing out his fan and doing his best ‘rich young master who is better than this and is most certainly above your petty questions’ Jin sect impression. “You aren’t suggesting that the Jin sect would take back an invitation they freely issued, would they? Or breach the rules of hospitality?”

“Huaisang, Xichen didn’t mean it that way and you know it,” his brother said, sounding annoyed, but in his relaxed run-of-the-mill ‘I hate parties’ type of annoyance, rather than specifically about his behavior. “Obviously the Jin sect won’t do anything about it. Regardless of any other considerations, anything they did would be refusing to show our Nie sect face, and then I’d have to make an issue of it.”

He sounded wistful. Probably thinking about how he could use it as an excuse to storm out and go home early.

“We’re only worried about you, Huaisang,” Jin Guangyao murmured, looking remarkably calm for someone who was definitely (if unobtrusively) being blocked from leaving by two very tall men with excessive mother hen tendencies. “You’re all grown up now, not a child – you need to think about the political implications your actions might have. Aren’t you concerned about your brother’s reaction?”

Huaisang was about to explain that he’d gotten his brother’s permission, but then he remembered that they were in Lanling, full of spies, so he decided to tell Jin Guangyao about that later.

“It’s not my problem that Sect Leader Nie has to think about politics at what should be a happy family event,” he said instead, nose in the air, and Lan Xichen frowned even as Nie Mingjue sighed, probably at Nie Huaisang’s total lack of caring about even the basic obligations of etiquette. Or possibly his reference to their little inside joke, but these were his sworn brothers, so they’d have to figure out sooner or later that Sect Leader Nie and Nie Mingjue weren’t always the same. “Besides, that isn’t what I asked. I asked about how long I can milk my terrible heartbreaking break up.”

“I thought you were getting dumped?” his brother asked, passing him a jar of wine. A good brother, even if he was mocking him.

“Getting dumped leads to a break-up,” Nie Huaisang insisted. “Wei-xiong is a thankless white-eyed wolf who was just using me with absolutely no consideration of my tender feelings.”

“You have tender feelings?” his brother said. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

Nie Huaisang kicked him in the shin.

As usual, it had no impact whatsoever on his brother and only hurt his own toes, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Huaisang,” Lan Xichen said, his voice oddly gentle, even softer than normal. “Did you – really – for Wei Wuxian –”

Nie Huaisang, who’d been taking a drink of wine, nearly choked. “Er-ge,” he said, mildly horrified. “Please. Wei-xiong is a very handsome gentleman, fearless and dashing, with all the skills one might ask for in a son-in-law –”

“Brother-in-law,” his brother muttered, as if he hadn’t been Nie Huaisang’s de facto father figure for years.

“– and, yes, I suppose we have similar tastes in drinking, carousing, and pornography –”

“Of course you do,” Jin Guangyao said, looking up at the ceiling as if it would hide how his lips were twitching.

“– but let us not forget: he lives in a trash heap. With Wen sect. I have standards!”

“I thought he was marrying in?” Lan Xichen asked, smiling again now that he had confirmed that there was no actual heart-breaking occurring in the vicinity. “He’d live in the Unclean Realm that way, wouldn’t he?”

“He would not,” Nie Mingjue put in. “I don’t care if they’re all enlightened saints that do nothing but charity all day, no one surnamed Wen is living in my home.”

“You see what I’m up against?” Nie Huaisang said, holding out his hands in appeal to his brother’s sworn brothers. “My da-ge doesn’t understand, he’s only good for swinging a saber! How cruel and heartless must a man be to stand in the way of true love?”

Lan Xichen covered his smile with his sleeve. Jin Guangyao pressed his lips together in such a way that made his cheeks especially round and quivering with suppressed laughter, like a mouse stuffing its face to bulging with rice.

“Er-ge, you wouldn’t be nearly this cruel if it were you, would you?” Nie Huaisang asked, reaching out and tugging said sleeve. “You’d be kind and generous about it – I bet you’d find them a nice little place to live, maybe next to those foothills you’re always saying you want someone to use but that you’re not willing to sell…”

“Were you planning on moving in with er-ge after your marriage, then?” Jin Guangyao asked. He looked much more amused and relaxed now – maybe he’d been stressing over this being some sort of scheme and was feeling much better now that he realized it was actually just Nie Huaisang’s nonsense. His paranoia had always been deeply endearing. “I don’t think your brother will like that.”

“Not me,” Nie Huaisang said, rolling his eyes at him. “But if it was Lan Zhan sweeping him away, er-ge would definitely support him. Right, er-ge?”

“I always support my brother,” Lan Xichen said with a smile.

“Good,” Nie Huaisang said, taking another swallow of wine. “Because he and Wei Wuxian just had a very intense conversation in a secluded corner that ended with them kissing and running off together, so it’s about to become your problem.”

Nie Mingjue choked, Jin Guangyao’s jaw dropped, and Lan Xichen’s eyes got really big.

“Not joking,” Nie Huaisang clarified cheerfully. “Totally serious.”

“Excuse me,” Lan Xichen said, getting up very quickly. “I need to – go see –”

He didn’t even bother finishing the sentence before rushing off.

“Go with him,” Nie Mingjue said to Jin Guangyao, who blinked owlishly at him. “It’s going to be a shitshow, isn’t it? Politically, I mean.”

“Uh,” Jin Guangyao said.

“Really, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said. “The notorious ostracized-by-the-cultivation-world demonic cultivator Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriarch, is abruptly reintroduced to society as my intended bride, only to be stolen away by the Lan sect’s Second Jade, the second most desirable bachelor in the cultivation world, in the middle of a wedding party thrown by Lanling Jin? I have no idea why you think this would so much as raise an eyebrow.”

“That’s a lot of words to say ‘shitshow’, which is why I didn’t,” Nie Mingjue said. “Meng Yao – Jin Guangyao – oh, fuck it, A-Yao, someone is going to need to keep their head about them and think about the political implications long enough to keep Xichen from getting himself into serious trouble, and you’re better at it than I am. Go help him. I’ll cover for you two here.”

Jin Guangyao still looked torn.

“Don’t listen to da-ge, he’s worrying too much,” Nie Huaisang volunteered his own opinion. “How much trouble can the Lan sect really get into over a matter of love?”

“I’m going at once,” Jin Guangyao said, and ran after Lan Xichen.

A moment later, Nie Huaisang handed the jar of wine back to his brother.

“Well done,” he said, voice much more neutral than it had been a moment before. “Assuming your goal was to deprive Sect Leader Jin of san-ge’s assistance while we define the situation to make it come out the way we want.”

“Couldn’t have done it without your timely assist,” Nie Mingjue said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He did so hate politics, and he hated being good at it even more. Truly there was nothing better, in Nie Huaisang’s opinion, than forcing his brother to relent and give in to the sneaky bastard half of his heritage. “Anyway, Sect Leader Jin is drunk and his heir is the groom, and thus occupied. It’s only reasonable that I, as the person with the next highest status, take charge of dispersing the news.”

“And by ‘dispersing the news’ you mean rehabilitate Wei-xiong’s reputation, get him reinstated in the Jiang sect, and arrange an appropriate marriage between him and Lan Zhan before anyone can complain about an inappropriate elopement, of course.”

“It’s called being efficient, Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue said.

“It’s called creating a countervailing alliance to the Jiang-Jin sect connection, getting both the Jiang sect and the Yiling Patriarch to owe our sect a favor – not to mention the Lan sect, too! – and conveniently also undercutting Sect Leader Jin’s authority just at the moment he’s trying to install himself as the new ruler of the cultivation world.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue said, finishing off the jar and putting it down. “I’m far too stupid to be considering any of that. Only good for swinging a saber, remember?”

Nie Huaisang sniggered.

“Yes, I remember,” he said. “You won a whole war against a much stronger, more numerous, and more unified force on Baxia’s strength alone, no brains required. How can I help? You want me crying or excited?”

“Whatever you think is best, Huaisang.” His brother solidified his scowling angry face, just the sort of thing a dumb brute might wear when dealing with politics that he was far too ignorant to understand. “Let’s go right some injustices, shall we?”

[novelconcepts]

The night Dani sees Peter Quint, a blackout happens during the storm. The officers say that it's not safe to stay there in the middle of a storm and without a way to talk to the police if necessary. Hannah and the kids go to Owen's house. Jamie offers a ride, her little flat, clothes and a bath (since crazy Dani decided to run after Peter during the storm).

There's just one bed prompt. Maybe a small couch or chair.

They listen, which is frankly more than Dani expected when Hannah insisted on calling the police. She suspects it has less to do with the Peter Quint of it all, and more to do with the lightning strike, the cataclysm of rain, an old house plunged into deep black. No phone lines, the officers point out with weary expressions that say they are not certain Peter Quint is truly a danger--but Lord Wingrave is not without a certain amount of authority around these parts, and if any further tragedy should befall his niece and nephew, these men would find themselves overloaded on unpleasant paperwork and worse press. 

Bad reasons, Dani thinks with a scowl. They ought to have gone into this field to help people, not scoff at Hannah’s fear and Dani’s unease. They ought to be doing something, not simply waving them off the property for the night. It’s listening, sort of, but it isn’t hearing. 

She glances at Jamie as the officers speak--directly, she notes, to Owen, as though as the only man among them, he has defaulted to de facto lord of the manor. He looks uncomfortable, rubbing a hand through wet hair; Dani remembers him saying, I was born in Bly, wonders if he went to school with either of the men in slick uniform. 

Jamie doesn’t look uncomfortable. Jamie looks angry. There’s a fire burning in her Dani suspects never entirely went out after this afternoon’s rose debacle, one that might have been tempered if they’d been able to track Quint down outside. But he’s in the wind, the product of long legs and a better awareness of the terrain. Dani, giving chase into a fresh downpour before she could think better of her choices, is still itching at the memory of his long coat vanishing into the dark. 

She’d run into Jamie, instead--full-force, a bone-rattling collision that had sent them both tumbling into the sopping grass. It might have been funny, if not for the echo of Quint’s footfalls dying away.

“If he’s here?” Jamie asks now. “Quint. If he’s still here? What then?”

The officer in charge gives her a brief look, barely long enough to register detail. “If he’s here,” he says boredly, “all the better that you aren’t.”

Jamie grinds her jaw. She seems barely to be containing herself, resisting the impulse to explain in no uncertain terms that this is their home, this place Quint is intruding upon. Their home--Hannah and the kids and Dani, at least--where Quint would be trailing slimy fingers. The idea of that smirking face going through the bedrooms makes Dani shudder. It seems to press Jamie toward an unwise argument. 

Without thinking, Dani reaches out, lays a hand on her shoulder. Jamie’s hair is still dripping, her jacket sodden. Her eyes, catching on Dani’s face, widen a little, her teeth unclenching. 

“You have somewhere to go?” the head officer reiterates, glancing back toward the door as though dreaming of a warm car, a comfortable house far from the manor. Owen nods in Hannah’s direction. 

“Mum won’t mind. Can have a little sleepover.”

“Yes!” Flora perks up. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet, leaning against Miles’ side, but her whole face switches on like a lantern now. “A sleepover!”

“How’s about it, Miles?” Hannah taps him lightly on the head. “A little evening adventure.”

He looks uncertain, but when she ruffles his hair, a slow smile creeps across his face. Dani’s relieved to see it--she’s started to believe Miles is thirty-five in a ten-year-old frame, the weight of so much loss bearing him down like an anchor. He deserves a little fun. 

“And you,” Hannah adds, looking to Dani as if reading her mind. “What do you say to a night off?”

Dani blinks. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necess--”

“Chased a man into the storm,” Hannah interrupts. “Not a decision I’d approve of twice, but it was quite brave. And, forgive me dear, but you look like you could use a proper rest in the aftermath.”

That might be, Dani thinks absently, the nicest way of saying you look like shit I’ve ever heard. 

“I’ll just get cleaned up real quick,” she says, “and then I’ll be perfectly fine to--”

Hannah raises a hand. “I insist. Let Owen and I handle them for the evening.”

Dani opens and closes her mouth several times. What’s the alternative? Is Hannah expecting her to stay here? Here, in a house they’re all carefully not admitting feels much bigger in the dark, huddled around the glow of policeman flashlights? 

“Can crash at my place,” Jamie says, almost gruffly. “If you don't mind the company.”

Hannah looks unsurprised by this offer. Dani feels a little light-headed at the idea. 

“I--I’m all muddy.”

Jamie makes a show of looking down at her own clothes, caked in wet clods of grass, soaked nearly to the skin. She raises her eyebrows in Dani’s direction as if to say, Any more sterling arguments?

Dani has none.

Jamie doesn’t say a word as they load into her truck, Dani trying her best to shrink down to inhabit as limited a space as possible. Her legs ache with the effort of holding her feet aloft, her thighs pressed together to prevent staining the whole seat with grime. Jamie glances in her direction, pulling carefully out onto the road, and Dani could swear she’s trying not to smile.

“Know what I do for a living, don’t you?”

Dani nods. Jamie clears her throat.

“Then should go without saying you’re not the first to track mud into the truck. Relax.”

Embarrassed, Dani does as she’s bid. From the corner of her eye, she sees Jamie’s mouth twitch again--sees Jamie’s hands resting comfortably at ten and two, Jamie’s shoulders slightly rounded as though by holding her posture firm, she can punch a hole through the sheeting rain. She doesn’t seem nervous in the least to be driving through this mess with Dani huddled beside her. 

Jamie, Dani is starting to think, doesn’t get nervous.

Well, that makes one of us. 

She has nothing to be nervous about, is the thing. Chasing a strange man into a storm, racing after him with nothing but a fire poker and a hot protective impulse--that should have made her nervous. Should have scared the shit out of her. And it hadn’t. She’d felt bizarrely well-equipped for the decisions she was making, at the time. Peter Quint, she’d been certain, should have been the nervous one.

But now, sitting with wet hair and mussed clothes beside a woman she’s held barely three conversations with, Dani feels distinctly out of her element. No kids. No easy warmth of a carefully-sewn-together family opening its arms to let her in. Just a truck, rattling along a slick road on its way to a tiny town she’s never set foot in before.

And a woman with wet curls plastered to her forehead, stealing tiny glances at Dani like she’s not quite sure what to do with her.

“Flat’s small,” Jamie says, as if apologizing, as she parks outside a pub that looks older than any establishment in Dani’s hometown. “Don’t need much. But there are no screamin’ kids.”

Flora and Miles aren’t much for screaming without reason, but Dani thinks she takes Jamie’s point all the same. Quiet, Jamie is trying to say. Dani can properly rest here, Jamie is trying to say. Jamie doesn’t mind offering up her space.

“Ready?” The rain is still coming down in a torrent. Jamie’s hand is positioned at the doorhandle, Jamie’s posture strung tight. “Make a break for it on three. One--two--”

They run, damp clothes made soggy all over again, and Dani is surprised to hear herself make a whooping sound of joy as she splashes through puddles. Jamie, she thinks, could move faster--Jamie’s got a runner’s stamina when she puts her mind to it--but she’s jogging along at an easy pace, refusing to leave Dani behind. Her hand catches once on Dani’s sleeve, pulling her to the stairs behind the pub, guiding her up to a door at the top.

“Storms like these,” Jamie says when they’ve tumbled breathlessly into her home, “remind me of bein’ a kid. Sitting in school, hoping the power’d go so they’d send us home early.”

“Did it ever happen?” Dani wraps her arms around herself, trying not to shiver, trying not to drip too expansively across the scored floorboards. Jamie grins.

“Once. I was seven. Spent the whole day out in it anyway, caught the worst cold of my life. Best goddamn day a kid could want.” 

She looks so at home here, as Dani watches her pull off her boots, drape her jacket lazily over a chair, stride around turning on lights. At the manor, Jamie is casual enough, rarely inclined to rush or worry, but here, it’s instantly clear she knows every creak in the floor, every stubborn lightswitch, every inch of a domain that is entirely Jamie. 

A domain she has, for no reason at all, opened up to Dani tonight. The reality of it crashes home all at once, landing hard. Jamie barely knows her, and still is willing to give Dani a place to stay. Jamie barely knows her, and still is holding out a gray towel and a bundle of clothes, her smile crooked.

“Thought you might like to get out of those.”

A spike of warmth makes its way up Dani’s spine, settling somewhere around her ears. She crushes it down, forcing herself to accept the sweats and t-shirt with a grateful smile of her own.

“Thank you. Honestly, you didn’t have to do any of this--”

“The rain,” Jamie says easily, “is the fun part. The cold, not so much. Bath’s this way.”

Bathroom, Dani assumes she means--until Jamie gestures at the little tub, barely big enough for a woman her size. She looks marginally embarrassed for the first time, but it’s a resolute sort of embarrassment, as though Jamie has little patience for it. 

“Not much,” she says. “But still better than catching ill. Take however long you like.”

Dani watches her back out of the room, a tumble of unfamiliar emotions in her chest. Someone offering up everything--home, clothes, bathtub--without asking for something in return is strange. Someone doing that much and then leaving, peaceable as the turn of a new day, is unheard of. She hesitates, waiting at the closed door for signs that Jamie will change her mind--or knock, having thought of something else Dani might need--and nothing comes. This room has become, so long as Dani wants it, her space. Jamie will take it back only when Dani’s finished. 

Unwelcomely, she tries to imagine Eddie doing this very thing. Eddie, who only refrains from haunting her European adventures with postcard and phone call because he has no idea how to find her. Eddie, who would think the offer of clothes and a hot bath automatically come with other perks, and who would smile as he stepped in to collect like he couldn’t imagine her wanting to be left alone. 

She shakes her head. Eddie is gone, and she is here, and Jamie isn’t him. Is so unlike him, in fact, it’s hard to imagine them standing in the same room.

And why, some little part of her pipes slyly up, are you comparing them in the first place? 

She shivers, turning on the water, letting it run as hot as possible before sinking in. She leans her head back against a wadded-up washcloth, surveying the simplicity of the bathroom--single toothbrush, single cup for water, a minute assortment of hairbrush, hair ties, sunscreen. There is a dried rose framed beside the door, a small bunch of purple-and-white flowers she can’t name in a tiny windowsill vase. 

It’s all very discreet, all very Jamie. To look at it with this much freedom, to be trusted alone in a space that has belonged to no one else, makes her heart pound.

She’s only being nice. And so what? What does it matter? 

It matters. Even if she never says so, even if she never lets it out of her heart, Dani can’t deny that it matters. Like it mattered watching Jamie walk into the kitchen earlier this week, glancing at her with an easy raise of brows like she was thinking, Sure. You can stay. You’re one of us. 

Jamie, calling her Poppins, telling her she’s doing great, offering her flat without a second’s pause. None of it warranted. None of it asked for. All of it so incredibly welcome.

She stays in the bath until the shivers ease out, carefully soaping her hair with the little bottle of shampoo on the windowsill. A different scent and brand than her own, and as she’s rinsing clean, she realizes she will smell like Jamie now. If for only a night, her hair--and the clothes Jamie gently pressed into her hands--will hold just a little bit of the gardener’s influence. 

The warmth she’s beginning to attribute to Jamie sweeps through her again at the idea. That, and the awareness that these are Jamie’s things hugging her body. Jamie’s belongings, offered up like she feels not the least bit possessive about her living space. Sure. You can stay. You’re one of us. 

“Warm?” Jamie asks when she finally steps back out of the bathroom. Her hair is still wet, though she’s changed into a clean white shirt and sweatpants of her own. Dani nods, confused when Jamie grins. 

“What?”

“I think,” Jamie says placidly, “this is the first time I’ve seen you out of pastels. Suits you.”

Dani glances down. The threadbare black t-shirt bears a jagged white London Calling in peeling letters. She can’t help smiling.

“Maybe I’m a secret punk fan.”

“Are you?” Jamie sounds interested. Dani shakes her head.

“Sorry, no. Always open to learning, though.”

Here it is again: that funny, twisting feeling in her stomach that says she is at home with Jamie. That Jamie is easy and warm, despite the anger simmering somewhere deep down and a tendency toward cropping her sentences with swear words. That Jamie has opened her home to Dani only because Jamie has opened to her, on some level neither of them is entirely sure how to approach. 

“Thank you,” she says, because it’s easier than putting this feeling into words. “For all of this. You didn’t have to.”

Jamie shrugs. “Wanted to. You haven’t had an easy couple of days. Sometimes, a little quiet goes a long way.”

She’s seated on the arm of the couch, bare feet dangling an inch off the floor. Looking at her, Dani can’t entirely wrap her mind around the idea that she’s only known this woman for a couple of days. That she doesn’t, in fact, know much of anything about her at all. 

And still, when Jamie rises and begins arranging pillow and blanket on the couch, Dani’s stomach performs a backflip she’d never come close to feeling with Eddie.

“That’s really kind of you,” she says, the words a blind effort to distract from her trembling hands. “I really don’t need much, you don’t have to go to any trouble--”

Jamie glances over her shoulder. “No trouble. Bed’s just that way.”

Dani turns to look. Sure enough, behind a pulled-back curtain, she can just make out Jamie’s mattress and frame. “I--I mean, I won’t be bothering you, if that’s what you--”

“What?” Straightening, Jamie frowns. “No, I mean, it’s yours. Take it. I sleep on the couch half the goddamn time anyway, it’s no--”

“I am not,” Dani interrupts, “taking your bed, Jamie.”

Not since her last argument with Miles has she been engaged in such a standoff. Jamie, still holding a pillow, looks ready to chain herself to the couch. Dani, heady with the inescapable awareness of Jamie’s shampoo rinsed out of her own hair, can’t have that. It’s too much. Clothes and space and ride--all of that, she can accept. But foisting Jamie from her own bed?

“I’m not doing it,” she says. Her arms are folded, her mouth pulling into a smile she can’t for her life shake. “I’m told I'm very stubborn, so you might as well just let me have that couch now.”

“I--” For the first time all night, Jamie seems to be at a loss. “I’m--aiming for chivalry, here, Poppins.”

“You’ve been nothing less,” Dani assures her. “A white knight, really. But I’m afraid this is where I have to draw the line.”

“I sleep on it all the time.”

“So, it’s my turn.”

Jamie’s whole face seems on edge of some kind of collapse--though into laughter or upset, Dani can’t begin to guess. She has a brief flash of possibility, the two of them standing on either side of the couch all night, arguing well into daylight over who ought to take the proper night’s sleep.

“You’ve got kids to handle in the morning,” Jamie says reasonably, proving her point.

“You spent all day working in the sun,” Dani volleys in return. She thinks for a moment, then adds, “Also, I knocked you into a puddle earlier, and you didn’t get a nice warm bath.”

“Didn’t need one.” Jamie looks exasperated. “Poppins, come on. This doesn’t have to be a big bloody deal.”

It doesn’t, Dani agrees. It really doesn’t. All Jamie has to do is step out of the way, step behind that curtain, put herself to bed where she belongs.

Or, alternatively--

It’s coming out of her mouth before she can stop it. Before she can run through all the reasons not to suggest this very thing. Before she can pin down the butterflies having a dogfight in her stomach and make a decision based in good judgment. 

“Look, if you’re that committed to making me sleep in the bed, come join me.”

Jamie nearly drops the pillow. Her calm has utterly vacated the flat, leaving behind a woman who looks--if Dani isn’t much mistaken--much nearer to frantic than she’s ever seen Jamie before. Much nearer to the kind of nervous Dani had been on the ride over. 

“I,” she says. “That--I shouldn’t--”

“It’s the best compromise,” Dani says, trying to sound reasonable. Trying to sound as though the invitation to share Jamie’s bed isn’t making her entire body run with sudden electricity. “Neither of us is very big, I’m sure we can fit.”

“I’m--sure we can.” Jamie is grimacing. Jamie looks pained. If she had an elegant way out, Dani would take it back simply to erase that look from Jamie’s face, a look that says Jamie would rather sleep in her tiny bathtub than wherever Dani is. 

Elegant way out, she can’t find, and she’s tired. Tired, and buzzing with nerves, and somehow, the au pair wins out over all possible variants of Dani Clayton. “It isn’t that bad an idea,” she says, her voice steady. “I don’t even snore.”

This breaks something open between them. She can’t put her finger on just what it is, or why, but suddenly Jamie is laughing, and Dani is grinning, and she knows the stalemate is at its end. It’s been too long a night. There’s just no point.

“Here,” she adds, settling at the edge of the bed, watching Jamie switch off the lights and creep closer as though trying not to startle a skittish animal. “I’ll lay right on the edge, you won’t even have to know I’m here--”

“Don’t be silly,” Jamie says. She hesitates; Dani wonders if she’s giving a final chance for Dani to shoo her away, to choose a night spent alone after all. She thumps the bedspread with a flat palm, staring meaningfully at Jamie until the mattress sinks beneath the weight of au pair and gardener alike. 

“See?” she can’t stop herself saying. “We fit.”

Jamie stares at her, a lingering gaze Dani couldn’t decipher on her best day. She opts to ignore it, stretching out under the rumpled covers. Beside her, Jamie slides a hand beneath her head, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Not so bad,” Dani says, wishing she could shut up, wishing she could stop thinking--about Jamie’s head on the pillow beside her, about Jamie’s scent sunk into this pillow, about the indent of Jamie’s body in this old mattress where maybe no one else has ever lain. Jamie makes a low sound in her chest. 

“Long day.”

“So long.” Was it only this morning Dani was having a small panic attack, the strain of a new job on top of familiar guilt too heavy to bear? Was it only this afternoon she’d grabbed Jamie’s shoulder, pulled her back from storming off to skin Miles alive?

Was it really only this evening she’d stalked out after Peter Quint, crashed headlong into Jamie, listened to police officers warn them all away from the manor in a blackout?

Jamie clears her throat. Dani’s starting to think it’s a nervous habit--Jamie seems to do it only around her. Why on earth would I make her nervous? “Comfortable?” she asks the ceiling. Dani nods. 

In the dark, the bed seems smaller. The pillows are touching, the blankets bridging the brief gap between Jamie’s right leg and Dani’s left. In the dark, Jamie’s breath is audible, the smell of rain and shampoo and clean clothes twisting together into a single knot. 

In the dark, Dani thinks, they could be anyone. Not gardener and au pair, but anyone, bound by a single unpredictable night. 

She wonders if they should talk--about Peter Quint, about the tension of the evening, about the kids, or the roses, or any number of little odd moments around the manor. She wonders if Jamie expects her to ask questions--who Quint is, what he was to Rebecca Jessel, what he might be doing skulking around the house. 

She can’t quite find it in her. It’s too warm, too soft, the silence as inviting as the rustle of Jamie’s borrowed clothes against her skin. Laying in the dark, Jamie’s foot nearly touching her own, listening to the storm pound the windowpanes, Dani is breathing easier than she has in months. 

“I’m glad,” she says quietly, “you’re here.”

Jamie’s head rustles the pillowcase, turning to look at her. “Yeah?”

Dani smiles. “Yeah. I can’t explain it, but I feel...safer.” Something sharpens behind her ribcage, something that begs her to add, With Hannah, with Owen, with the kids, too. She doesn’t. It’s true, but it’s also not really what she means. 

“He doesn’t know where to find you,” Jamie says, and for a moment, Dani wonders how she could possibly be talking about Eddie. Then Jamie adds, “I hate that fucker. So does Owen. Everyone is safe tonight.”

Right. Peter Quint. Of course. “I’m glad,” Dani repeats. She feels the mattress shift as Jamie carefully settles in. “Jamie?”

“Mm?”

Too many things to say. Too many questions to ask. Too many of those butterflies winging around as Jamie’s elbow bumps her, as Jamie’s breath brushes her cheek. She shuts her eyes, the simple image of Jamie’s gaze inches away too much to handle. 

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, Poppins,” Jamie murmurs. And though Dani’s heart is racing, though her skin is hot, though the storm outside is brutal and Jamie’s bed is much smaller than she’d thought--she finds herself relaxing. Finds herself thoughtlessly shifting to a more comfortable position on her side. Finds herself, even, leaning in toward Jamie’s warmth as the sound of her breathing shallows. 

For the first time in what feels like years, Dani Clayton sleeps.

[just-here-for-the-moment]

Paloma, Part II

Series Masterlist - Part I - Part II

Word count: 8900+

Rating: explicit, 18+ only

Outline: Statesman!Frankie "Catfish" Morales, Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels, and "You" (OC cis/het female reader, Statesman research analyst, code name “Paloma”; age 26; reader is “blank canvas”/no physical description/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: “plot bloat” (trying to get Paloma where she needs to go); fully legal age gap; curse words; alcohol; Whiskey acting like a bastard; a little sprinkling of angst; open-mouth kissing; protected P/V sex; some extra-soft!Frankie

On your third Monday at Statesman New York you led a planning meeting that should have been easy. Jack Daniels made it anything but.

The worst part was that you hadn't even been properly introduced yet. Where Champ had rolled out the red carpet for you at Louisville HQ, Whiskey was a phantom, too busy to meet with you during your first couple of weeks. That made what happened in the meeting even more humiliating.

You started by outlining the research that your team had gathered, the analysis that they had carefully done, and presented the options and outcomes. When you were done, Whiskey threw his copy of your report down on the table and said, "That's horseshit."

You felt your face heat with embarrassment, but you tried to hold your ground. "Excuse me?"

Jack waved his fingers dismissively, "That's alright, I'll excuse you. This isn't the kind of work I expected from our new 'hotshot' team lead. Why isn't there information about the facilities we'll be targeting?"

"There are no 'facilities' at this location, Agent. It's a one-and-done for a drop and extract. There's nothing to raid, nothing to seize, and nothing to see."

"Really?" He arched one eyebrow at you and rubbed his thumb over his lower lip. The sheer cockiness of it made you burn with irritation. "So how come the information we got last Friday tells us that there's a production facility the next block over? You really gonna send our agents halfway around the world without botherin' to target the facility next door?"

You froze. Was he correct? That didn't seem possible. How had your team missed that? You held his gaze with as much assertiveness as you could muster, trying to match his attitude so that you wouldn't appear to be weak. "I don't have information about any facilities."

He cracked a smirk, "Well then, you're not very good at your job, are you darlin'?"

You swallowed hard and tried not to let tears rise. How dare he talk down to you? What the hell was his problem? Another agent spoke up, saying that if new information had come in recently, then you could review it and reconvene later to discuss its impact. The meeting disbanded.

You felt like you had been sucker-punched, and you weren't sure if you wanted to flee to your office, or sit gripping the edge of the table and glare Whiskey down. You opted to stay, waiting for everyone else to file out. Finally it was just you and Whiskey left, sitting at the big conference table and having some kind of a stubborn staring contest. This was not how you wanted to start your new job.

"What the fuck is your problem with me?" You gritted the question out and held his gaze. You knew that cursing at a senior agent, not to mention the one who was the face of Statesman Whiskey and de facto head of the New York office, probably wasn't the wisest way to start your tenure... but neither was backing down and letting him roll right over you.

"Nothin' personal, darlin', but I can't let you give my agents incorrect or missing information. Your team should have known about the facilities at this location."

"It sure felt personal, Agent Whiskey. If you have a problem with my work, you take it up with me privately. I don't mind admitting when I've made a mistake, but it's shitty to treat people like that in front of others." You glared at him, trying to look as fierce as you could.

He finally looked away from you, and muttered something that might have been an apology.

"What's that, Agent Whiskey? I didn't quite hear you."

"I said, 'I'm sorry.' You're right. That was unfair of me."

Before you could stop yourself, you found acid on your tongue. "Well, well, the great Agent Whiskey lowers himself to apologize. No wonder you flash that charm at everything on two legs. Your manners can't stand on their own, can they?"

If you hadn't been so focused on gathering up your paperwork, you would have seen a flicker of hurt cross his face. Instead you stomped out of the conference room and thanked the stars that you hadn't cried. By the time you got back to your office, a cold ball of regret was starting to form just below your ribs. You prided yourself on being able to work effectively with everyone, and you were extremely proud of your track record at Statesman so far. Why hadn't you been less confrontational, or tried to smooth things over? Why had you jumped straight to a pissing contest?

---

"God, what an asshole!"

"I told you, he's kind of a lot to take." Ginger's voice on the other end of the phone came through calm and sweet, as she always was.

You spun your chair to lean back and stare up at the ceiling of your office, trying to keep tears from forming. "Ugh, he's such a colossal jackass. I cannot believe he tried to undermine me like that in the meeting. I could have strangled him!"

"Just stay out of his way as much as you can. I'm sure he'll calm down once he sees what kind of work your team produces. You're doing great."

"Yeah, well... not so great actually. It turns out he was right. There was a report on a facility that came through very late on Friday, and one of my analysts went home sick, so I didn't get it in time for the meeting. That's the worst part: he was right, the bastard."

"Oh, Paloma. I'm so sorry. I'm sure that stung."

You let out a deep sigh. "I'll be okay. I just hope I get the chance to catch him making a mistake, and then I'll shove it in his stupid face. Make him lap it up with that ridiculous mustache of his."

Ginger giggled. "As much as I'd like to imagine that with you, I gotta run. Call me later? I miss you!"

"I miss you, too. 'Bye."

You hung up and spun your chair around, coming face to face with the sight of Agent Whiskey leaning in your office doorway. His arms were crossed casually, one foot propped over the other, looking like he could stand there all day. Your stomach leapt into your throat and then dropped down to your shoes. How much had he heard?

"Oh, kill me now," you breathed.

"Not just yet, darlin’. We have work to do." He popped up from his perch in the doorway and took a seat in one of your visitors chairs.

"How can I help you?" You kept your tone respectful, although it verged on frosty.

"Well, we need to revise the mission plan to include the new intelligence. Then we need to have a talk about civility."

You arched an eyebrow. "Oh, civility? I see. What kind of ‘civility’ did you have in mind, Agent Whiskey?"

"Well, for one, you can call me Jack. And for two, I was comin’ down here to apologize again, but apparently there's something you'd like to shove in my face and have me lap up with my ridiculous mustache?" He twitched one eyebrow up, looking smug and amused by the double entendre.

You closed your eyes and suppressed a groan. Maybe this was a hallucination and you were still in bed at home. Or maybe you hadn't actually left Louisville. You cracked one eyelid open, finding Whiskey’s deep brown eyes still on you. You decided to try to be the bigger person and smooth things over.

"I'm sorry. I was venting to a friend, and obviously that wasn't intended for your ears."

"Well now, I’m a big boy. I've heard worse and survived."

"I apologize. I let myself get irritated by your behavior in the meeting. It wasn't professional, and it won't happen again."

"Well, for my part, if I think you've made an error, I'll be sure to talk with you privately instead of calling you out in front of the team. Deal?" He stuck one broad, well-manicured hand out to shake.

You reached your own out somewhat reluctantly, then warmed to it, feeling how large and soft his hand was when it wrapped around your fingers. "Deal."

He gave your hand one final squeeze. An involuntary tingle ran up your arm, and you found yourself wondering whether he was as talented with his hands as he was smart with his mouth. Oh god, what was wrong with you?

You cleared your throat and pulled your hand away, trying not to jerk it back like he’d burned you.

“I’ll, um, I’ll have my team revise the mission plan to include the new intelligence, and then we’ll reconvene tomorrow. Sound good?”

“Sounds fine, darlin’.” He winked at you and you felt something flutter just below your navel.

---

Despite the conciliatory conversation with Whiskey, you still felt awkward and hurt, not to mention confused by some of the warmer feelings that had popped up uninvited. You spent the next six weeks trying to fly low and avoid Whiskey. You sent your senior analyst as your replacement for every meeting that you possibly could, and when you did have to attend them you timed your entrances and exits so that you wouldn't be in the conference room any longer than necessary. You transferred reports to Whiskey's office electronically, and when a hand-delivery was required you sent whoever happened to be closest to you. It worked great. You hadn't said more than "hello" and "goodbye" to Whiskey in so long, you were starting to feel like maybe you had escaped the awkwardness, the horrific start to your time in New York. It felt like a bad dream from another era.

One late Thursday afternoon, your plan fell apart. You got a request from Whiskey's assistant for a hard-copy file, and the entire office suite was empty. Each of your team members was off doing other things or had left early. You avoided it as long as you could, running to the ladies room to pee and then lingering in the hallway outside your office, just in case someone from your staff came back. After 10 long minutes you realized that you were "it" and that nobody was going to come save you. You sighed and trudged to the elevator. It seemed to move too quickly, depositing you at Whiskey's floor in no time flat.

As you rounded the corner you saw that Whiskey's assistant was gathering her things to leave for the day. After one too many disasters with "pretty young things," Champ had put his foot down and assigned someone to Whiskey who would keep him on the straight and narrow. Mary was what you called a "motherly hard-ass," while Ginger called her a “saint.” Mary had worked for Statesman almost as long as Champ, and she knew her stuff inside and out. Most importantly, she was completely immune to Whiskey's flirtations. He had tried once or twice to charm her, but after finding that her warm exterior concealed a brick wall of professionalism and a razor-sharp wit, he had relented.

"Hi Mary!" You kept your voice cheerful and light, trying to hide the twisting in your gut. "Here's the file he requested."

"Hi Paloma, you can go on in." Mary smiled wryly, "He actually asked to see you if you showed up. Sorry, kiddo, you're a lamb to the slaughter." She patted your back in sympathy.

Your shoulders slumped, "Ugh." Just as you were about to air your disgust in stronger words, Whiskey's door opened.

"Paloma! Glad to see you, darlin'. Come on in."

You shot Mary one last look, pleading for reprieve. She patted your shoulder and bid Whiskey a good night.

You forced your legs to move, and when you got inside Whiskey's office you perched on the edge of the sofa in the visitors area. Whiskey preferred to entertain visitors away from his desk, so he had a cozy corner of the office set up with two large chairs, a coffee table, and a black leather sofa that seemed to take up half the room.

You tossed the file on the table and spoke in a monotone that bordered on rude. "Brought you the file. Need anything else?"

Whiskey gestured to the bar cart. "Can I get you a drink, darlin'?"

"No." You shook your head. "But thank you."

Whiskey shrugged and poured himself something amber in a small glass. You couldn't take your eyes off his hands as they deftly maneuvered around the glassware and ice bucket. They reminded you a little of Frankie's hands: strong and thick, sure and precise in their movements. But where Frankie's hands were warm, work-worn and calloused, Whiskey's were primped and clean, just as manicured as his sharply tailored suits and slick mustache. You bit the inside of your lip to bring yourself back to reality before your brain could wander any farther down the path of what Whiskey's hands could do.

You focused your gaze on the file on the coffee table and waited. Whiskey settled himself into the big chair closest to your end of the couch.

"Paloma, darlin'. Thanks for coming up."

You cringed internally and tried to screw up the courage to ask him to just call you Paloma. The nickname of "darlin'" was starting to grate. For a moment you weren't sure if it was because you found it unprofessional or because you wanted to hear it more. Shit. What was wrong with you?

"What can I do for you, Agent Whiskey?"

"Please, call me Jack."

"What can I do for you?" You refused to give in, drawing your mental line in the sand. You could have a whole conversation with him without calling him Jack, couldn't you?

"Well now, I was hoping we could finally chat a bit - outside of a meeting, that is. You've been here almost two months and I'm sorry that I haven't taken the time to get to know you better." He winked.

You suppressed an eye roll and pursed your lips. "What would you like to know?"

You weren't going to make this easy for him, you decided. If he wanted information beyond your resume, or even a friendly conversation, he would have to work for it. You weren't simply going to open up like a flower under the sunshine of his charm.

"Well, I understand you're from Louisville. Beautiful place." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to close the space between you.

"Yes." You scooted all the way to the back of the sofa and crossed your arms, somewhat amused at the difficulty you were giving him. He hadn't expressed any displeasure yet, but you were certain that he was going to get frustrated sooner or later.

"Well, darlin' I had no idea that we were growin' them so smart down there, not to mention so pretty. If I'd known, I would have lured you up here to the big city a lot sooner." He looked like he was about to wink again, or try to devour you.

"Is that so?" God, he was really buttering you up, wasn't he? You crossed one leg over the other, keeping your arms crossed over your chest for good measure.

"Yes, it is. I was awfully impressed by your analysis on the Rex Smith case ‘bout a year ago. I had no clue there were that many shell companies in the mix. I would've thought three, maybe four, tops. But you found thirteen!"

Your jaw dropped a little at that. Not only had he seen your work on your first case as Assistant Director in Louisville, but he had reviewed the case file thoroughly, remembered such a tiny detail, and was also giving you credit? You were starting to think that you had underestimated Agent Whiskey. His charm and sass were legendary, but you now realized that those traits didn’t indicate anything missing in the brains department.

He smirked at your reaction and teased you gently. "Better watch that mouth, darlin'. You're liable to catch a few flies if you don't close it."

Goddamn him. You closed your mouth and tried not to sulk. You didn't like making mistakes, especially not such idiotic ones. If you weren't careful, he was going to knock you on your ass.

"Can I get you that drink now, darlin'?"

"No, thank you. I need to get going." You uncrossed your legs and stood up. Whiskey stood at the same time, and you found yourself entirely too close to him, your bodies just inches apart as you tried to negotiate your exit from the seating area. Something warm that smelled like cedar and smoky bourbon was emanating off of him, and you were certain it was from the expensive side of the cologne department. His coffee-brown eyes held yours, and you caught yourself staring at him while your brain sent you panicky messages to, “Move! Speak! Leave!”

Whiskey let the moment hang, seeming to enjoy every second that passed like torture for you. His eyes were twinkling so hard you thought you saw sparks. You heard yourself exhale a breath that was far more shaky than you would have preferred. He put his hand out to shake yours, and you found yourself imagining what would happen if you bypassed the polite gesture and wrapped your arms and legs around him, knocked him to the floor and kissed that stupid mustache right off his face.

Instead, you reached out to shake his hand and accidentally brushed the front of his hip, just an inch from his crotch.

"Oh my GOD! That was an accident. I'm so sorry, I'm sorry!" You scrunched your eyes closed and buried your face in your hands. Mortification consumed you as you heard Whiskey guffaw. You felt like you were going to die of embarrassment, and you were pissed off that it wasn't a real possibility. Death would have been extremely welcome.

Whiskey put his hands on your shoulders and squeezed. His laughter died down to a soft wheeze. "Hey, look at me."

You dared a glance through your fingers. His eyes twinkled and his white teeth still showed in a wide smile. "I'm sorry I laughed, I know it was an accident. You weren't trying to take advantage."

You moaned and Whiskey chuckled again. "It's alright, darlin'. You didn't break anything."

“Argh! I’m so sorry. That’s the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.”

“It’s okay, I didn’t think anything of it.” He pulled you gently toward him, and you did something you never imagined possible: you let him wrap you into a hug.

“I’ll forget it if you will, darlin’.” His deep voice rumbled against your body and you felt yourself melting a little. Tears of embarrassment pricked at your eyes.

You sniffed and pulled back. Whiskey let you go, but kept one hand on your elbow. He looked at you warmly and smiled. “Really, darlin’. Don’t think anything of it.”

You found yourself staring into his dark brown eyes, warm and shiny with humor. The mood shifted almost imperceptibly, turning him magnetic. Something in you snapped and you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him.

Whiskey hummed a surprised noise against your lips for a moment, then opened his mouth to let you in. His mustache was softer than it looked, and hardly tickled at all as you wrestled each other for satisfaction. You found yourself tumbling down to the couch. Whiskey lay over you with one strong arm wrapped around your lower back, keeping you pressed close against him. His lips and tongue were eager and searching, and you responded in kind, nibbling his plush lower lip and flicking your tongue across the back of his top teeth. The taste of his liquor intermingled with the scent of his cologne, and it sent your senses reeling. He tasted and smelled and felt so good, and you wanted to stay there and drink him in forever.

Your lips parted from Whiskey’s and you took a gulp of air, looking into his brown-black eyes above you. The inrush of oxygen kicked your brain into gear and you felt cold; both from the absence of Whiskey's mouth on yours and from the dose of harsh reality that washed over you. This was wrong... wasn't it? As good as it felt, it wasn't right to make out with the boss in his office, after hours, on a couch for God's sake. What the hell were you thinking?

"Oh, shit!" You shoved Whiskey's shoulders up and away, rolling him toward the back of the couch as you slithered out from underneath him. You landed on the floor, then crouched and stood up. Whiskey shifted on the sofa, turning to lay face up on the plush leather and folding his arms behind his head. His grin hovered somewhere between 'Cheshire cat' and 'kid let loose in a candy store.' You groaned at the sight while irritation and the desire to flop back down on top of him fought equally within you.

"Well now, darlin'. You need to be off somewhere?"

"Yes. This was not a good idea." You waved your hands in front of you as if you were trying to erase a blackboard. "I think I need to leave."

"Feel free to come back anytime, darlin'. I'll be right here."

You took three swift steps toward the door and then spun to face him. "I need you to stop calling me 'darlin''. My name here is Paloma."

He cocked one eyebrow at you as you continued. "And another thing, Agent Whiskey: this never happened."

Before he could respond you yanked his office door open and jogged to the elevator. What the hell was wrong with you?

---

"Ginger, you have got to help me. I don't know what's wrong with me." You shuddered out a breath as you kicked your shoes off and sat down at your kitchen table. At your elbow was the biggest drink you could pour without causing a hangover.

"Are you okay? What happened?"

You gulped. "I kissed him."

"What?! Why?"

"I don't know! I just... I was in his office and he was standing really close to me and then I went to go shake his hand but I accidentally touched his crotch and..." you trailed off as Ginger laughed. "It's not funny, it's embarrassing!"

She giggled at you. "That sounds kind of funny. You'll laugh about it later."

"I won't. I wanted to die of embarrassment, but then he was so nice about it and he was looking at me softly and I just- I kissed him! What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Try not to worry too much. You're not the first lady to make that mistake and you won't be the last. He'll forget about you as soon as someone else catches his eye.”

"Yeah, I know." You weren't sure if being one in a long string of women made you feel better or worse.

"… although it does seem like you have a ‘type’ now.”

“What?!”

“Well he is tall, dark, and handsome. If he weren’t such a jackass I’d say he reminds me of Frankie.”

“Oh, hell no. That is not a fair comparison. They’re nothing alike.”

“You’re right, Frankie was a gem. Listen, just avoid Whiskey and keep your eyes on your work. He'll forget about you and it'll be like it never happened. And as irritating as he is, I know he's not a gossip. Don't worry, this won't get around."

You threw back your head and let out a long breath. "Okay. You're right. All I have to do is my job."

"That's right. And you're really good at your job, Pal. Don't let this derail you, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Gin. I appreciate it."

"No problem. Listen, I have to go, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll be coming to New York next week. I have to do some training with, uh, a consultant. And when I’m done we can have a girl’s dinner out, okay? Just try to have a good weekend."

"Thanks, I will. You too."

You sighed and finished your drink. The idea of calling in sick tomorrow floated up, and you seriously considered it. But you had already spent six weeks avoiding Whiskey, and your integrity wouldn’t let you call out without a good reason. You could make it one day until the weekend, right?

---

You awoke Friday morning with a pounding headache and a cotton-dry mouth. You were dreading going to work, but duty called. You showered and dressed as slow as you dared, and found yourself dragging into the office only 15 minutes late. Fortunately, there was enough work to keep you distracted, and at your 10:00 department heads meeting you found out that Whiskey was out of the office for the day. Relief washed over you, and you suddenly felt lighter. You could survive until the weekend without worrying.

The rest of your day was uneventful until around 4:00, when an assistant brought you a vase of fresh flowers that had been delivered to reception. You frowned and looked for a card. The arrangement was beautiful, featuring dark yellow daisy-shaped flowers with fuzzy chocolate brown centers, and pinky-purple blooms shaped like bottle brushes. Both types looked oddly familiar. You leaned closer to examine them as your brain twisted in confusion. Were those...? No way... orange coneflowers and dense blazing stars? Who the heck would send you an arrangement of Kentucky wildflowers? Mom? It wasn't your birthday yet.

You felt an icy ball of lead punch you in the stomach as you opened the notecard: "Even though nothing happened, I had a hell of a time. Hope to see you again. -Jack"

That motherfucker.

Just as you were about to sweep the flowers into the trash, there was a heavy knock on your doorway. You looked up, and your emotions spun from anger to elation so fast you almost threw up. Frankie stood in your doorway, looking soft and rumpled in a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his sweet curls escaping the same well-loved baseball cap he always wore.

"Frankie!?" You leapt out of your chair and practically ran to him. He swept you up in a bear hug and pulled you six inches off the ground. "Oh my God, Frankie, I'm so glad to see you!"

"Hey, Paloma. I missed you. How's the big promotion? They make you head of the New York office yet?" His deep voice rumbled into your ear softly, and you laughed with joy. You never wanted to let go.

Frankie set you down and broke the embrace, and you immediately grabbed his hand and guided him to one of your visitors chairs. You took a seat in the chair next to him, turning it to face him and get as close as you dared without looking too desperate.

"Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?"

"I'm doing a quick consulting job for Statesman, helping Ginger train a few folks for an extraction. I have to work on the project Monday and Tuesday, and then I'll be in town until Saturday as a tourist. I took the whole week off, so I don't need to be back in Florida until next Sunday." He smiled broadly at you.

You felt your own face split into a wide grin. "Do you need a tour guide? I've been here two whole months. I can show you my favorite coffee shop and we could go to a few museums."

He smiled warmly back at you, and you felt like you had been wrapped in the world's softest blanket. "I'd like that. Statesman gave me an apartment for the week. Should be close by, if you don't mind showing me where it is?" He pulled a slip of paper out of his wallet and read the address.

You threw your head back and cackled.

"What's so funny?"

"That's my apartment! Statesman owns a few units in the same building." You grabbed the piece of paper from his hand to read the apartment number. "You're literally one floor below me for the week."

He grinned. "Well, shit. If I'd known that, I would’ve just told them to let me bunk with you."

You frowned and handed the paper back. "Wouldn't your girlfriend be upset with that?"

Frankie looked down at his shoes. "She's, uh, not my girlfriend anymore. We broke up."

"Oh, Catfish. I'm so sorry." You reached out to squeeze his forearm, and the feel of his warm skin over ropey muscles made you tingle. You vividly remembered how much you used to love grabbing those forearms as he pounded into you, how good they felt wrapped around you in the shower, how strong and safe Frankie felt at all times. You pulled your hand back and cleared your throat.

Frankie stood. "Listen, I gotta take care of a few things this afternoon, but can we go to dinner later? Nothing fancy, if you know anyplace I can go dressed like this," he gestured to his worn jeans and work boots.

"Unless, uh,” he pointed to the flowers on your desk. “Is there a boyfriend who would be mad if I took you out?"

You stood and smiled, biting your lip. "No. There’s no boyfriend, and I'd love to go to dinner. I'll come down to your apartment and pick you up at 7:00? 7:30?"

"Seven is perfect." He hugged you, and the smell of him spun you right back to Louisville. Frankie smelled like clean cotton and hard work, with a faint whiff of mechanic's grease just under the scent of his laundry soap and Old Spice deodorant. You used to tease Frankie about his habit of buying the same deodorant that he’d been using since junior high, but he always swatted you away with a, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Now the scent of it made you want to buy every package in the world and always have the smell around you.

When you broke the embrace it was so hard to let go, to not lean in for a kiss like you used to. He seemed to feel it, too, lingering just a moment longer with his arms wrapped around you and smiling wistfully as you finally pulled apart. You wanted to stay in his arms for hours, maybe even stow away on his flight back to Florida.

“I’ll see you at seven, Paloma.”

You felt your goofy grin reappear. “Okay. I’m so glad you’re here, Catfish.”

---

The hours until dinner crawled, and you spent more time than you thought wise trying to get ready. You showered and put on your nicest outfit, which was really just the all-black, most-recently-purchased version of your normal work clothes. Your job at Statesman didn’t call for anything very dressy, so you hadn’t expanded your wardrobe beyond work staples. Still, you spent entirely too long arranging your hair, sweeping it one way and then the other, trying to figure out what jewelry to wear, and then changing your hair again for the third time. You were contemplating another shoe change when your phone alarm went off, warning you that it was five minutes to 7:00. Oh, well, too late to change anything now. You brushed your teeth frantically and hoped Frankie wouldn’t care.

You floated down the stairwell and found yourself grinning idiotically as you rapped at Frankie’s door. He opened it looking exactly the same as he had at 4:00 that afternoon, and you chastised yourself internally for trying to dress up. Your irritation turned to pride, however, when Frankie looked you up and down with a low whistle.

“Jeez, Paloma, you look fantastic. Should I change?” He looked worried.

“No, you look fine! We’re not going anywhere fancy, I promise. I don’t know why I changed clothes, it was silly.”

“No, you look amazing.” He opened his arms for a hug. You felt warmth rush to your face as you leaned in. Frankie was always so eager to please and to compliment you, to make you feel good. You had missed him so much.

The walk to dinner was easy, conversation bouncing between the two of you as you made your way to the restaurant. Frankie filled you in on everything going on in Florida, about his friends and his parents and his job. You spoke enthusiastically about your new position and how much you loved New York. You decided not to share information about either one of your run-ins with Agent Whiskey.

Dinner passed in a swirl of giggles and wine and good food. Frankie made you laugh so hard you almost choked twice, and before you knew it, nearly three hours had passed.

“Frankie, I think the restaurant is going to kick us out if we don’t scoot soon. Do you want to go walk around a little bit?”

He drained his water glass and nodded. “Yeah, where to?”

“We can window shop down the street, and there’s a cute little park nearby.” You arched one eyebrow at him, “Wanna go play on the swings?”

He laughed and nodded. “Yes, let’s do that.”

You fought Frankie for the bill before letting him win. “Okay, but the next one is on me, Catfish.”

When you emerged into the summer night, you both took a deep breath, trying to clear your heads of the alcohol haze. You weren’t drunk, just pleasantly buzzed and a little silly. Without thinking, you tucked your arm into Frankie’s and snuggled yourself against him as you wandered along. Store windows were lit up against the dark, and you stopped here and there to look and giggle at displays.

You paused in front of an antique store. The window behind the bars was lined in red velvet, and on each of the little red display pillows sat a piece of vintage jewelry.

You were quietly gazing at an enamel bracelet and a sparkly tiara when Frankie’s voice broke the silence.

“You ever want one of those?”

“A tiara? No. I mean, it might be fun for a hot bubble bath, but I can’t exactly wear it to work.”

“No,” he nudged your arm and tilted his chin toward the far left side of the store window. “An engagement ring.”

You froze and suddenly couldn’t breathe. Your eyes shifted to a sparkly, square-cut sapphire ring sitting on the smallest pillow. You couldn’t form rational thoughts, and you weren’t sure exactly what kind of answer Frankie was expecting.

“I mean- uh, I guess I never thought about it. I haven’t seen anyone since we-” you swallowed hard. “I’ve been single since we broke up.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, and when he didn’t respond right away you found yourself filling the silence with nervous chatter. “I mean, I tried dating but it never went past a second date, and I don’t know anyone who would propose that early, and anyway I just- I mean I didn’t think- and you left so I didn’t…” you trailed off, realizing that you weren’t making any sense.

Frankie’s voice was low and serious. “I thought about it.”

That broke the spell and you turned to face him. “You thought about it? About me?”

He looked at you, almost shy. “Yeah, I thought about it a couple of months after we started dating. But with your job and my work, and… Well, you know what happened. You were there, same as I was.” He reached out a hand to cup your chin. “I was sorry it didn’t work out for us.”

You sighed and melted into him, “Oh, Frankie.”

He wrapped both arms around your shoulders as you gripped his waist. Your mouths found each other in the dark as if your last kiss had been yesterday. Frankie was warm and solid and familiar, and you found yourself aching to hang on to him, to keep him there with you for as long as you could.

You stood on the sidewalk together for what seemed like hours, exploring each other and passing silent messages back and forth with your lips and tongues and teeth. Slow swirls of the tip of his tongue around yours told you he missed you, and the tiny nips you bit against his bottom lip conveyed an urgency, a need that you couldn't express in words. You found your fingers entwined in his belt loops, pulling him as close as you could, mimicking the kind of connection that really required nakedness and absolute vulnerability together.

You turned sideways to loop your arm around his waist and walk unsteadily back to your apartment building, stealing kisses again and again as you strolled, then paused, then continued on your way. The trip took twice as long as it should have, but neither you nor Frankie was willing to break apart for longer than it took to step down off a curb or glance at a walk signal. You just kept kissing, drunk on each other and wanting more and more; silently cursing the fact that the apartment was still so far away, but reveling in the moments that you could seize right now to embrace each other as you walked.

When you reached your block, you murmured against Frankie’s mouth. “Do you have anything? I don’t have any protection at home.”

He cursed softly, “Shit. No, I didn’t bring…” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as you kissed him again.

“Don’t worry, that’s why I asked. There’s a drugstore right here.”

“I always knew-” he kissed you softly, “... that you were smarter than me.”

You giggled against his mouth and wrapped your arms around his neck. “You’re the one who can fly helicopters. I just stare at data reports all day.”

You walked into the pharmacy holding hands and made it through the checkout line in record time, urgently kissing again when you reached the sidewalk, navigating the final dozen or so yards to your building.

The elevator ride consisted of one long kiss, broken only by Frankie’s urgent, “Mine or yours?” You murmured, “Mine,” and pressed the button for your floor, folding yourself back into his arms. You unlocked your front door while Frankie held you from behind and peppered kisses down your ear and cheek and jaw, distracting you as you fumbled with your keys. When you finally got the door open, you tumbled inside together and slammed the door shut.

Now that you were someplace private, you could undress, fumbling against one another as you struggled to open buttons and zippers and bra clasps in between kisses; to continue your soft caresses while you kicked shoes and pants off and away. Finally you were both standing, wearing only underwear while you continued to embrace. You pulled away from Frankie and picked up the box of condoms where it had dropped, then you took his hand and led him to your bedroom.

You tumbled onto the bed together and continued the makeout session that had started miles away and what seemed like an eternity ago in front of the antique store window. Frankie’s strokes along your ribcage and thighs were light and almost ticklish, so familiar that you wanted to cry. You had no expectations of getting back together and attempting a long-distance relationship, but he was here right now. And that was good, right? It was familiar and lovely and sweet.

Frankie hadn’t changed a bit since you parted 10 months ago, except for a few more grays in his beard and one or two more crinkles when he smiled. You ached and ached for him, even though he was right on top of you, kissing you and touching you and murmuring your name. Your brain kept raising the idea of what would happen in a week when he had to leave, or what might have happened a year ago if Statesman hadn’t demanded so much from both of you. The knowledge that you had missed becoming Frankie’s wife because of shitty circumstances, combined with the threat of losing him again in just a few days time punched you in the throat, and a sob escaped your lips as tears sprang to your eyes.

“What’s wrong, babe? Did I hurt you?” Frankie looked you over, rolling to one side to examine your face with a worried scowl. He propped himself up on one elbow and hovered over you.

“No, I’m just-” You sniffed back another sob. “I just wasn’t expecting to see you, and I’m so glad you’re here. It’s just a lot, that’s all.”

He brushed a tear from your cheek. “We don’t have to do this right now; not if you don’t want to. I didn’t come here with the expectation that you would jump back into bed with me.”

Your heart leapt at that. Same old sweet Frankie, doing everything he could to treat you tenderly, to care for you. You knew that if you tried to explain everything you were feeling, he would probably take it personally. Frankie hated to see you hurting, and doubly so if he thought he was the one who had caused it.

“I might just need a minute. I’m okay, I promise. It’s just been a weird week.”

You decided to joke, to lighten the mood and try to ease Frankie’s worry. “My old boyfriend is back in town, and I just found out that I missed out on him being my husband, and I also kind of kissed my boss yesterday, so I’m not in a real ‘steady’ place right now.”

Frankie frowned at that. “You kissed Bill?”

“Oh, no! No, not my boss-boss.” You paused, unsure of whether or not Frankie would hate you for your next words. “I kissed Agent Whiskey.”

Frankie’s eyebrows nearly leapt off his forehead, but he didn’t sit up or let go of you. He didn’t run out of the room screaming. “Is there something I should know?”

“It was a mistake. I was in his office and I accidentally touched his crotch-” Frankie’s eyebrows raised another impossible inch as you continued, “Truly an accident, a horrible, embarrassing accident. And then I think I just felt really vulnerable and lonely and I kissed him.”

Frankie nodded. “It happens, I guess.” He looked at you tenderly. “Although I’ve never kissed my boss. He always has food in his beard.” You erupted in giggles and tucked your face against Frankie’s chest. He stroked your arm and shoulder, laughing against your hair.

Your giggles subsided, and you rolled away from Frankie, laying on your stomach and folding your arms under your chin. You sighed and turned your face to him. “I am glad you’re here, though. I really missed you.” You paused, trying to formulate your next words.

“It took me a long time to get over you, and I’m honestly not sure I ever did. If we hadn’t both had so much work and conflicting schedules, if things had been different-” Frankie leaned over and cut you off with a soft kiss.

“You don’t have to tell me how things could have been different.” He stroked your temple. “After we broke up I just couldn’t handle working around you. I didn’t hate you, I just had to leave. It hurt too much to stay.”

“I’m sorry, Frankie.”

“No, don’t apologize. It wasn’t you, it wasn’t me, it was just life.” Frankie leaned over and kissed your cheek, stroking your back with feather-light touches, raising goosebumps as silence settled over the both of you.

His touch felt amazing, conjuring electricity where his fingers met your skin. Tingles started to form in your pelvis and you found your breath shuddering in time with Frankie’s caresses. You sat up and moved to straddle him, entwining your fingers with his and pinning his hands to the bed next to his ears.

Neither one of you spoke as you rolled your hips gently on his and stole kiss after kiss, feeling his erection grow and press harder against your vulva, still separated by the fabric of both your underwear and his. Finally you broke your grip on his hands and Frankie reached up to cup your breasts. You arched your back to press yourself into his palms, and your nipples stiffened with the friction and the heat of his touch. You grabbed the backs of his hands and pressed them harder against you, as if you could multiply the sensations that were zipping through your body.

You leaned down for another kiss and then swung your leg off and over him. You stood next to the bed and pulled your panties off, then reached over Frankie to grip his waistband. He lifted his hips to assist you, and when his cock sprung free you nearly gasped at how much you missed him and missed this, the intimacy and the raw electricity and the closeness. You reached out to stroke his length a few times, running the pad of your thumb gently up the underside and over his slit. He was damp there, but not leaking yet, and you let go only to grab the box of condoms and rip it open.

“Here,” you handed him a foil packet and let him put it on. When he was covered you gripped him again and gave him three firm, slow pumps, pulling a moan out of the deepest part of his chest. You straddled him again and hovered over him, making eye contact as you lined up to insert him, taking him into the most intimate part of you. He stroked one large hand from your knee to your ass, then cupped both cheeks and pulled you slightly apart to help guide him in. You closed your eyes and let out a soft hiss as he entered. Everything felt so good and familiar, like no time had passed at all, like he had never left.

When you were fully seated on him, you placed your palms on his shoulders for leverage, watching with delight as the tendons in his neck flexed and his Adam’s apple bobbed, veins throbbing on either side of his beautiful throat as you rode him. He reached one hand down to thumb your clit, pressing and petting it and drawing whimpers from you as the pleasure swelled within you. Neither one of you spoke as you gazed into each other, moving together in a practiced rhythm, increasing the pace and the tempo and the force until you were shaking the whole bed. Then your head spun and you found yourself crying out his name as you climaxed around him. You slumped over him and buried your face in his neck, that gorgeous soft crook between his throat and his shoulder. He braced his feet and thrust up into you. Chills wracked your body as you squeezed and fluttered around his cock. He grunted and clenched his jaw, “I’m coming.” And then he pulled you closer and froze, holding you there as he filled the condom. When he relaxed his thighs and arms, you reached down and gripped the base of the condom to keep it on him as you rolled sideways and off.

You both lay staring at the ceiling, recovering your breath, trying to remember where you were and why anything outside of your shared pleasure mattered.

---

Frankie stayed at your apartment all weekend. The two of you kissed and caressed, showered and fucked, made breakfasts and dinners, watched movies and slept curled together, until you almost forgot how much you had missed each other, almost forgot the fact that he would have to leave.

On Monday you and Frankie walked to the office together and kissed at the front desk, parting ways for the day. You ran into Ginger in the hallway and squealed and gave her a hug. She smiled at you and wiggled her eyebrows. “Did you see who our consultant is for this project?”

“Yes! He came by my office on Friday and we went to dinner.” You leaned over to lower your voice and murmur, “And we spent all weekend together.”

Ginger laughed and you grinned and rolled your eyes. “It’s nice. I don’t know if we’re ‘back together’ or anything, but I’ll have fun hanging out with him while he’s here.”

Ginger bit her lip, “I’m glad. I know you guys really missed each other, but I’m happy you can see him while he’s here.”

“Me, too.”

You and Ginger made plans to have lunch together that afternoon, and your mood was light as you entered your office. It dampened a bit when you saw the flowers from Whiskey that were still sitting there. And it dropped further when you saw a note from one of your staff saying that Whiskey had requested that you come see him when you arrived this morning. You decided that you would just have to treat him like nothing had happened, and keep your head up. After all, you were on cloud nine with Frankie in town, so what’s the worst that could happen?

You found Mary’s desk empty, so you squared your shoulders and knocked on Whiskey’s door. He could try to irritate you all he wanted, but you were going to be cool as a cucumber.

When he opened the door, Whiskey grinned at you and motioned you in. You opted to stand next to his desk with your arms crossed. If this was business, you would keep it businesslike. He walked up to you and raised an eyebrow, still grinning like a fool.

You looked at him and frowned. What was his deal?

He started the conversation cryptically, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Did you get my flowers?”

You opted for the driest tone you could, “Yes. Thank you.”

He nodded, “Good. Listen, darlin’-”

You interrupted him. “Paloma.”

“Right, Paloma. I’d love to take you out to dinner sometime and apologize again for behaving like a jackass in that meeting a few weeks back.” He placed both of his large, warm hands on your arms and squeezed. “If we could see our way clear to some kind of understanding, I think I’d like it very much if we could-” a knock on his door cut him off.

Mary opened it and stuck her head in. “Agent Whiskey? I have the consultant here for your 9:00 meeting.”

Whiskey hissed out a breath and sounded disappointed. “Right.”

You pounced on the opportunity to escape. “I’ll just get going.”

Mary opened the door all the way and Frankie walked halfway in, freezing at the sight of you and Whiskey standing so close together. Guilt creeped up, even though you had no reason to feel that way, and you fought the urge to apologize to Frankie.

You and Agent Whiskey spoke at the same time, words jumbling together as Frankie approached to shake hands with Whiskey.

“Hi, Agent Whiskey. You can call me Ja-”

“Frankie, hi. I was just-”

“Oh, do you two already know-”

“We used to-”

You found yourself standing next to them as they shook hands and sized each other up. Your own discomfort was so strong that you almost didn’t notice that they were jostling each other as if they were fighting for dominance. A strange energy settled over the three of you as they stared at each other. If you didn’t know any better, you would have said it felt like they were fighting over you.

“Whiskey, this is Frankie Morales. He and I used to work-” Frankie cut you off, something he normally would never do, and his next words mortified you.

“Paloma and I used to date when we worked together in Louisville.”

You groaned. You weren’t embarrassed that you had dated Frankie, but the less information Whiskey had about your personal life, the better.

“Is that so? Well, I didn’t know that.” Whiskey’s voice was as smooth as the leather on his couch, and he cocked an eyebrow at you. Instead of irritating you, it had the effect of sending a flutter to your crotch. You gulped, hard.

Whiskey turned back to Frankie. “Any big plans while you’re here in New York?”

“Paloma and I are going out.”

“We’re what?” Your voice was louder than you had meant it to be and both men turned to look at you. You felt stunned by the double gaze, the two pairs of dark brown eyes, the strong noses and lovely mouths; features so similar to one another now that you saw them together. Maybe Ginger was right, maybe you did have a “type.”

Your brain did a somersault, throwing up the most shocking and simultaneously wonderful idea, and you wished you could banish the thought back to whatever delicious hellhole it had sprung from. You almost burst into tears, thinking that the stress of your job had finally broken your brain. Under normal circumstances, the idea and all of its implications would have been curious, but under the current circumstances it was absolutely ridiculous. The absurd, impossible word had popped into your head entirely uninvited: “Threesome.”

Frankie and Whiskey stared at you for three long, agonizing seconds, then they both spoke the same word at the same time.

“WHAT?”

“Oh, shit. Did I say that out loud?” ---

"Paloma" Series Masterlist Just-here-for-the-moment’s masterlist

Tag list: (Please message me if you're on here and don't want to be!)

@honeymandos @driedgreentomatoes @silverwolf319 @mourningbirds1 @honestly-shite @anaaaispunk @greeneyedblondie44 @spacedilf @maxwell–lord @nicolethered @dihra-vesa @the-queen-of-fools @juletheghoul @anxiousandboujee

[animepopheart]

Wonder Egg Priority, Episode 7: The Scars to Prove It (or, Love for the Moms, the Cutters, and the Drunks)

Wonder Egg Priority (WEP) has felt like the successor to Puella Magi Madoka Magica in many ways throughout its run, but in episode seven, it almost went full Madomagi by driving the stakes to their utmost height—to the death of one of the main characters. But as has been consistent with WEP, what it did instead, after some moments of true worry, is to instead deliver hope in the face of pain, resolve against overwhelming circumstances, and strength in weakness.

The series returns to Rika Kawai’s story in this episode, which starts with her turning 14. And on her 14th birthday, after leaving her hungover mother halfway asleep at the bar she works at and which they call home, Rika opens up to the rest of the girls, explaining that she doesn’t know her father (it could be any of five possibilities, or even more) and her mom won’t reveal any further information about him. As she trashes her mom, Neiru and Momoe are incredulous, which only drives Rika away from them. And though Ai goes to comfort her, Rika is in a terrible state of mind as she enters her next fight.

This was a difficult episode to watch. They’ve all been somewhat hard since the series never shies away from brutal and violent situations impacting young people, but I found myself squirming especially here as Rika’s cutting takes center stage. At one point, she decides to cut herself and it seems certain she will, before her turtle-like partner, Mannen, prevents it from happening.

Challenging, also, is how strained Rika’s relationship is with her mother, who’s life revolves around drink—alcohol both pays the bills and helps her forget how miserable her existence is. And in the midst of all the bad behavior in this episode—the usual Rika talk, her mom’s alcoholism and neglect, and the selfishness all around, one begins to feel deeply sorrowful for the Kawai women. Yes, Rika is often obnoxious, but her family life is in shambles, and she still exhibits goodness, including a curiously gentle relationship with Mannen. And Rika’s mother is a tragic figure, used by men and quite on the road to an early death, it would seem, unable to lift herself out of the gutter as she tries, in her own sloppy way, to protect and reach out to her daughter.

It’s in this hopelessness that Rika turns again to cutting, and then finds herself tempted by something even more dangerous. Her foe this time is a religious leader who led the egg, a follower who continues to believe in him, to commit suicide as a way of “connecting” with the universe (Heaven’s Gate, anyone?). Rika decries the ghoul as a charlatan, but is confronted with her own weakness when the egg shows her own scarred arm to Rika, revealing that she can tell that the latter cuts just like she did. And then she explains that Rika can be released from this pain.

The scars, evidence of what Rika does to cope with her pain, now become the weakness that they truly are, revealing how hopeless she feels, and how powerless she is against the mechanizations of her family life. And defeated, she’s about to allow herself to be killed when a surprising savior comes along—a turtle. Mannen attacks the spiritual leader, to Rika’s surprise as well, until she remembers that he has imprinted on her. Rika is Mannen’s mom, and as he did when he prevented her from cutting, Mannen is again protecting his mother.

The conclusion that Rika reaches is unusual but inspiring. She understands, in this moment, the need to protect one’s mom, finally admitting to herself in a de facto way that maybe her mother is in need of love, too. It’s funny to consider the need that mothers have for love since culturally and socially, they’re always seen as the providers of it. But of course, they need it in return, especially when they falter. My own mother is sick right now, and I think of the support I need to give her and the lack of that I’ve provided through the years.

Warning: Screenshot involving cutting after the jump.

My mother was a good one, however. Rika’s, on the other hand, has struggled with the charge, which reminds me of a story from one of my favorite books, The Ragamuffin Gospel, about another bad parent—a far worse one, in fact, and a real one. I’ll quote part of the passage from chapter seven:

“‘Our daughter Debbie wanted a pair of earth shoes for her Christmas present. On the afternoon of December 24, my husband drove her downtown, gave her sixty dollars, and told her to buy the best pair of shoes in the store. That is exactly what she did. When she climbed back into the pickup truck her father was driving, she kissed him on the cheek and told him he was the best daddy in the whole world. Max was preening himself like a peacock and decided to celebrate on the way home. He stopped at the Cork ‘n’ Bottle–that’s a tavern a few miles from our house and told Debbie he would be right out. It was a clear and extremely cold day, about twelve degrees above zero, so Max left the motor running and locked both doors from the outside so no one could get in. It was a little after three in the afternoon and…’

Silence.

‘Yes?’

The sound of heavy breathing crossed the recreation room. Her voice grew faint. She was crying. ‘My husband met some old Army buddies in the tavern. Swept up in euphoria over the reunion, he lost track of time, purpose, and everything else. He came out of the Cork ‘n’ Bottle at midnight . He was drunk. The motor had stopped running and the car windows were frozen shut. Debbie was badly frostbitten on both ears and on her fingers. When we got her to the hospital, the doctors had to operate. They amputated the thumb and forefinger on her right hand. She will be deaf for the rest of her life.'”

Max—a real person, mind you—was a successful, well-liked man, but his drinking problem led to an unconscionable decision and profound failure as a parent. And yet, this book is about grace, an idea which to humans feels unjust, but  which has the power to change hearts and tear down walls, sometimes literally.

Could Max be given grace? Could Rika’s mother? If not directly, she’s done her own physical damage to her daughter in the form of those cutting scars (difficult and perhaps triggering images below). As mentioned earlier, the egg that she’s helping knows her pain and insists that letting go of everything, including life itself, is the way to peace. After all, to a young, suffering girl, what else could these scars mean?

But in the midst of giving up, in the moment that she actually capitulates (and this episode takes you 99% to the edge, both in the cutting scene and in the apparent death scene), Rika experiences something powerful. She experiences grace.

Have you ever been challenged to forgive someone when you don’t want to, when you feel completely in the right? Maybe it’s easy for you, but perhaps it isn’t. The girls surrounding Rika experience differing degrees of this with her sometimes maniacal and often hurtful behavior. Ai forgives easily. Momoe gets fired up and then equally seeks to make peace. And Neiru…well, Neiru holds onto “justice” more than love (setting up what I imagine will be the most powerful transformation in the series of all, in true Homura fashion). But in the moment that Rika is about to give her life, the girls yell out their love for her, even Neiru, and then more profoundly, without any hesitation, Mannen puts his own life on the line to stop the death from occurring. Rika has already given up, but this turtle hasn’t—not for his mother, whom he loves very much.

And experiencing that love from a different angle, Rika is changed just a bit. She begins to see her weakness as a “mother,” failing her turtle-child, and thinks of her own mom who is overwhelmed by hurt and a failure as well. And if just a little—for as the final scenes indicate, it is just a little—the path toward forgiveness begins.

But a little bit of grace is like a little bit of a flood—its power overwhelms, and it defeats the enemy, whether that means bitterness, a physical person (or manifestation of one), or the devil himself.

When Rika returns from the event, having killed the cult leader monster, it’s interesting to note that she isn’t a wholly different person. She’s changing little by little. And her scars remain. In fact, as she admits, she probably will cut herself again. But strangely enough, those scars now represent something different. They show someone trying—failing, yes, sometimes considerably and maybe very often—but trying, and only able to try because love was shown her, and through that, she is now able to show love as well.

You may have such scars in your life, physical or emotional, battered by the world and by people. I hope that you can develop relationships that help you heal as well, and that you’ll also remember that there are other scars which are meaningful to you, but which you cannot see on your person, scars that were borne out of a desire to heal you. Christ took the piercings, on his head, hands, feet, and side, so that while your heart and flesh may be cut, your soul need not be. And through his wounds, you may be healed.

The grace offered through Christ is one that, as he explains about everlasting water at the well to the Samaritan, for now and through eternity. The egg seeks peace forever by dying, but Jesus, unlike the cult leader, died for us so that we may not have to. He took the nails, the cross, and the spear so that we don’t have to inflict pain on ourselves and receive the punishment of our actions against him and others. He is our scar.

That’s grace. That’s the power that it has. And it can reach anyone—even a terrible dad, an alcoholic mom, a tempestuous child, and, and most significantly and personally—you.

If you’re suffering and in pain, maybe self-inflicted, we encourage you to explain such to a parent or trusted adult and ask for help. It’s a difficult first step, but one that will help you begin recovering. And we also advise that you turn to Christ for help—in prayer, community, and scripture. He provides people to us that will aid us in our times of need, as well as himself and the Holy Spirit if we are believers.

Additionally, there’s a scene in this episode where triumphant, Rika concludes that cutting is okay. That’s said in the context of her moving forward bit by bit and forgiving herself for her failures, even the upcoming ones. That’s an important lesson, though we must certainly be careful not to let it be a license to continue cutting with impunity.

Wonder Egg Priority can be streamed through Funimation. Read more of our articles by signing up for our weekly newsletter.

[neonacity]

Chapter 4: Crescendo

Preview:

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

An NCT mafia AU with OT23. Summary: Working for the mafia comes with many layers. There’s excitement, violence, loss, and betrayals. Yet there’s also friendship, family, loyalty, and code. The last thing it needs? Love and all the complexities it brings.

TW: violence, death, mentions of drugs and other illegal activities. If you’re uncomfortable with any of these, feel free to skip. Author’s note: This is purely a work of fiction. In no way am I supporting all the illegal activities and behaviors that might be mentioned in the story nor am I implying that any member of NCT acts whichever way I may write them here--they’re all sweetiepies that need to be protected!

Chapter: 1/ First Stage

Chapter: 2/Overture

Chapter: 3/The Conductor

"What did Kun say?" Doyoung's eyes followed Taeyong as he strode back to the room. Fourteen heads peered at him curiously as he silently slipped his phone back into his pocket. 

"The announcement was also blasted to them. WayV are also considered as candidates."

"And…?" Yuta asked slowly, urging him to continue. 

"They said they won't participate."

A collective round of sighs echoed around the room. I slumped back on my seat in relief despite knowing this doesn't entirely solve the problem. Not even a few heartbeats after and a stillness settled over the crowd of men again, not a single soul wanting to bring up the elephant in the room. 

Finally, a boy with almond-shaped eyes spoke up from his seat by the stairs. The vulnerable look on his face made the fact that he was the one asking the question much worse. 

"And us…? Nobody is going to participate from us, right?" Jungwoo asked with a hopeful tone as his eyes scanned over the room. Nobody made a sound at first until Taeyong finally sighed and decided to speak out again. 

"I can't really speak for all of us. I understand how heavy and important the situation is. Being the Don...is a very big deal. I wouldn't take it against anyone here if someone wants to give it a try," he said as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Taeyong, you know if you do want to give it a go, 127 will back you—" 

"I'm not planning on it, Taeil-hyung," he politely, but firmly interjected before the eldest of the group could even finish. 

The current stand of the group didn't really surprise me that much. Each member of NCT are ranked as capos, the generals of a crime family—with everyone managing a small cluster of lower-tier soldiers and associates—but each sub-group has their own internal ranking as separate units. Taeyong and Kun are currently the de facto leaders of 127 and WayV, while the responsibility is shared between Jeno and Mark for Dream. 

"How about Dream?" Doyoung decided to ask the youngest of the crew. Jeno and Mark exchanged glances before the latter finally spoke up. 

"We're not planning on it either," Mark replied, speaking for his group. 

"Yeah, Chenle and Jisung can barely remember to eat three times a day, imagine them trying to be a Don," Renjun added, though his usual snark and sass was a little bit dulled this time. 

"I just don't understand what is happening," Doyoung said in frustration, crossing his arms over his chest. "So there is a need for a new head, but why make it a competition? Couldn't they just pick candidates and choose? It's not really like freedom of choice is a thing here."

"I think this is the first time that a Don blatantly waived the code, too," Johnny added as he leaned back against the stairs. "It's like they're inviting us to kill each other."

"But we won't, right? We won't do that," Jungwoo asked again, his eyes wide. Taeyong noticed the panic in his voice and he reached out to him to squeeze his shoulder. 

"Of course, Jungwoo. There won't be any problems with us."

"Well, if none of us are participating, I guess we won't have any problems. They'll have to think of other ways to choose the new Don," Haechan said from his seat by the floor. The rest murmured their relief in response.

"That doesn’t solve anything." For the first time since the meeting ended, I found my voice again. Everyone turned to look at me, probably surprised by my presence after being so quiet for so long. My throat felt dry, but I pushed myself to speak. 

"The position is open to anyone. Soldiers, associates, everyone, including the underlings you manage." Slowly, my eyes lifted to meet some of the confused faces as my words started to sink in. "Even Cypher."

The mention of the name itself made some faces in the crowd go stone cold. While NCT is considered the most influential within the family, it is not the only organized group in the brotherhood. It has always been the ruling steel hand over Seoul, but Cypher acts as their counterpart, reigning over Busan. Of course, just like any dysfunctional family, competition runs high between the two groups. Cypher, in particular, has always been after NCT out of plain, egotistic jealousy. In fact, the rivalry runs so high and tense that everyone knows the only reason the two groups haven't tried to blatantly kill each other yet was because of the code of loyalty and honor the family followed. 

And now even that is gone.

"Maybe we should talk to Jihoon…" Jaehyun suggested, though his tone clearly shows his aversion towards the idea.

"There is no way I will talk to that asshole," Taeyong interjected, his voice barely concealing venom. He turned around in frustration and ran a hand through his face. "Fuck. We have to think this over."

I silently watched everyone from my seat, my stomach tied in knots. I felt like death, especially after my eyes ran over the young faces of the kids who will surely get caught in the crossfire once shit starts to hit the fan. He did this on purpose...the Don. Like the calculating, manipulative man he is, he set-up a stage to force everyone to fall into the roles he expected them to play. He knew that a neutral invite for anyone to prove their worth wouldn't stop at just people playing nice. With the code gone, everyone is also free to get rid of potential competition. 

As if having enemies outside is not enough, he has now opened the possibility of a bloodbath inside the family itself. 

"...to prepare." My attention snapped back to Taeyong as he addressed the group. "Watch your backs especially when dealing with your soldiers and associates. I'm sure there will be more than a handful who will be after our necks."

"As for Cypher…" his eyes moved towards me and I met his gaze, already knowing what he will say next. "Can you help us track their movements? You'll be our first line of defense," he asked, almost sounding apologetic about it. I tried giving him a firm nod despite my stomach feeling hollow. This is the least I can do. 

"Of course."

He finally managed a small smile before turning towards the others again. "Good. Right now, we really can't do anything but trust each other."

--

A/N: This is super short since I’m running a bit low on creative juice lol but Chapter 5 is on the works!

Chapter 5: Canzona

[callmeelle22]

Blue Dream VII

Pairing: Iris West x Barry Alen

Rating: E

Chapter Word Count: 9, 034

Summary: A series of sporadic dates between Iris and Barry turn into something more, a story in its own making.

Chapter I: Primetime

Chapter II: It's Cool

Chapter III: Anything

Chapter IV: Comfortable

Chapter V: The Way

Chapter VI: Say Yes

Chapter VII: Brave; They fuck with the rain like a soundtrack behind them, like a song that swells and stretches, telling their story, but you're so brave; stone cold crazy for loving me; yeah, I'm amazed; i hope you make it out alive, a song that rises and rises, that sounds too good to be real, that might destroy you, but only in the best way. (Read below or on AO3 linked on the chapter title.)

Chapter VIII: Blue Dream

Brave

Broken hearts are made for two

One for me and one for you

Tell me have you heard the news

We are now in love

Fall break from school is scheduled during the last three days of the last week of October. Before she can take some time off, Iris has midterm articles to write and grade. Barry is busy testing DNA samples or whatever it is CSIs do so they don’t see each other for several days after he leaves her house the morning after Wally’s party.

On the Wednesday of Fall Break, the first day off, Iris lets herself sleep in until almost 10, and then she packs up her bag, stuffing a notebook, a couple of pens, and her laptop in, before dressing comfortably in a pair of dark leggings, and a white oversized CCU hoodie she stole from her brother. Throwing on a pair of white low-top Chuck Taylors, Iris heads out to Jitters. It’s a rainy day, and other than workers who’ve no choice, not many people are out. A storm is brewing for later in the night, the sky dark and cloudy, but for the moment, it’s just a steady rain that has Iris walking carefully to her car and driving a lot slower, thanking her lucky stars that she finds a parking spot right in front of the coffee shop.

Back in high school, especially once her dad had gotten her a used car during the beginning of senior year, Iris and Linda would come to Jitters to do homework or stare at the college boys who would come in. The coffee shop has expanded since then, buying the small antique store that had been next door and adding more seating and a bar that specializes in alcoholic coffee brews. It’s still one of Iris’s favorite places to work because now the manager is a young Black woman with wild curly hair always dyed in one bright color or another and a soft spot for mid to late 90s R & B female singers. The shop is comfortable, with couches and overstuffed chairs in mismatched browns and beiges and blues set up near the walls and windows and several tables, two- and four-tops, taking up the space in the middle. Two of the walls are exposed brick and the others are painted stark white and feature framed prints in wild colors. It’s changed since she was a child, but Iris likes to think that she’s changed with it, that as this integral part of Central City has grown and added light and color and comfort, so too has Iris.

Today, her plan is to outline at least two entire stories from interviews she’s completed over the last couple of weeks before she even thinks about leaving the coffee shop. She settles into one of her favorite spots, a soft navy armchair behind a small circular table. She sets up her laptop, her notebook with her notes, her pens, and once a waiter drops off her brown sugar latte and a chocolate muffin, she lets the sound of the rain, and the Erykah Badu playing on the speakers, get her into her work.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Iris looks up just as Barry stops beside her. She’s been at Jitters for just over three hours now, and her shoulders are cramped and she’s coffee high and hungry. The rain is still pounding down, so hard that it looks like it’s raining sideways, and Iris curses her inability to get any work done in her own home. Besides all that, she’s reeling. She’s just outlined a story of a man explaining the story of the woman he’d loved his entire life: from growing up together in a small city in North Carolina, to becoming best friends and de facto siblings when his parents died and her dad agreed to foster him; from not dating but seeming like it in high school, to falling for other people in college; from having other spouses and children to one night of passion before they found their way back to each other when she decided to leave her husband after his wife died. It was a ride from start to finish, such a roller coaster of feelings—of love and pain and joy and heartbreak—that make Iris feel a bit heavy with them, a little loopy with them.

Barry stands to the side of her, towering above her, in as simple an outfit as what she’s wearing, a pair of black joggers and a white sweatshirt. She’s startled that he's there because she figures that he should be at work, but her heart does tick up at the sight of him. That is, until she lets her eyes rake over his lean frame. He looks a little...down, like a physical manifestation of the story she’s just outlined. His hair is messier than usual and his eyes aren’t carrying their usual sparkle, in addition to the darkening bags that frame them. He’s also a little stubbly, his jaw covered in a fine layer of coarse hair, his pallor a bit ashen.

(Iris will also admit that she thinks he looks sort of, well, good, like this; but that’s neither here nor there and she feels terrible—and maybe a bit perverted—that she’s lusting after him when he’s obviously going through something.)

“Hey,” she responds softly, and she stands up to assess him further. He seems so much taller than her like this, when they’re both in sneakers. She hasn’t seen him since the morning after Wally’s party a week ago when he dropped her back off at her car after spending the night at her place. They’ve talked a bunch and FaceTimed once, but she’s missed him. She reaches up into his hair, rubbing at his scalp a little until his eyes close and he lets out a soft little moan. She keeps at it and then touches gingerly at his face, at some of the moles dotting his cheeks, at the stubble he’s grown. He reaches up to stop her, eyes still closed, and it startles her a little bit. She goes to pull her hand back, but then he holds on to her wrist to bring her hand down and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

She’s never seen him like this. He’s always so open and, maybe not happy, but never so melancholy. There is always a pep to his step, as her grandma used to say, a smile on his face that always said that he feels some sort of contentment in his life. And obviously, people are allowed to have days like this. But it does something to Iris, to see him this way. She wants to lash out at whoever has made him look like this, like he’s drowning in emotions that he can’t easily pull himself out of.

“Bear, you okay?”

He nods, a little woefully, and he catches her eyes again. She bites at her lip as she stares back at him and, on impulse, she leans up to kiss him. It’s just a little more than a peck, something to tell him that she’s there with him; but he takes it a step further, kissing her harder, biting at her lip enough that there’s more pain than she’s expecting. She moans at him and he pulls back, breathing labored.

“I’m sorry,” he speaks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “You didn’t hurt me. Well, a little, but I didn’t hate it.”

That gets a more real smile out of him, and he thumbs at her bottom lip. “Hmm, I guess my good girl is a little bad.”

Iris rolls her eyes and gives him a look, sobering for a minute. “Bear, what’s up? You okay?”

He doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he nods at her table and asks, “you get a lot of work done?”

She eyes him, wanting to ask again. But she knows how she is when she doesn’t want to talk about something and so she lets it go. For the moment.

“Yeah. Or, at least, I’ve done most of what I set out to do.”

He nods, casts his eyes out of the glass, looking at the rain for a moment, watching it fall in heavy sheets. Normally, Iris likes the rain. It’s soothing and she enjoys how it makes the world take a moment to slow down. When she was a little girl, her grandma (her dad’s mother who grew up somewhere at the bottom of Georgia) used to say that when it was raining, and particularly when it was storming, that the Lord was doing His work and that it was the time to be still. They’d have to sit quietly, usually with the TV and the lights off, and just be. And while life doesn’t allow her to drop everything because it’s started raining, there is always a hushed feeling that comes over her when it rains, something tranquil, but also a little turbulent, a little uncontrollable, quite like the very rain she’s reveling in.

“Wanna come over?” he wonders, voice unsure.

She nods readily. “Okay, yeah. Sure.”

He goes to return her mug and plate while she packs her bag back up. He meets her at the door, opening up a large umbrella and throwing an arm over her shoulder to lead her out into the rain. She walks with him past her own car as he takes her a short black away to where his Jeep is parked. He helps her into the Jeep first, watches as she tucks her bag under the seat, and then closes the door before walking around to the other side.

They ride to his house in silence. He lives far on the south side of town, a good twenty or so minutes from downtown if they hit the highway. Instead, he takes the streets, adding another ten minutes to their drive. Iris doesn’t mind; as she said, she likes the rain, and in this big Jeep, tires sluicing easily through the flooding roads in a way her car definitely can’t, she’s enjoying the ride. He had silently connected her phone to his car’s Bluetooth, so she took it to mean that the music choices were hers. She contemplates finding something that he might like, but she figures he likely wouldn’t even be paying much attention. So she decides on one of her slower playlists, ones with songs that dip and fade, that take listeners on a journey of highs and lows, and she lets it play. The lyrics tell too much, so i guess that i should mention; that i am in no condition; to put you in this position; i might fuck this up, although with the heavy weight on Barry’s shoulders right now, she can’t tell if she’s talking to him or vice versa.

He takes them past one of the major shopping districts in the city, past the Apple store and the Michael Kors shop and the one restaurant her dad took her to when she graduated college where pasta dishes run nearer to forty dollars. These shops, and the nicer mall and a couple business buildings that rise as tall as those downtown, lead into longer stretches of road where trees interspersed with beige or cream apartments begin to take up where businesses once stood. He turns into the familiar subdivision that she remembers; it’s a little older than some, which makes sense if his parents were able to buy and pay it off before they were gone. That also means that none of the houses are the same cookie-cutter versions that tend to make up most subdivisions these days, where houses are identical save for the color and the trim and what children’s toys litter the front yard.

He presses a button on his visor and the garage opens as he maneuvers the car so that he can back up into the driveway. He stays in the driveway, though, the music cutting out—but whatever the case, you're my favorite mistake; more than happy to make you—when he turns the ignition off. She waits for him to come around with his umbrella and he half picks her up to pull her out, holding on to her as he walks her through the garage.

She’s as quiet as he is, taking in her surroundings, trying to get a better sense of who he is by what he’s got going on in his house. There isn’t much in the garage; there are a bunch of boxes neatly stacked on one wall, a couple bicycles in another corner. There is a wall full of tools and a couple tables that have science looking tools on them, like a microscope and several bunsen burners and petri dishes, though nothing looks as if they’re currently being used.

He leads her through a door that opens up into the kitchen as he presses another button to close the garage. His house is as cute on the outside as it is on the inside, although she wonders how he might feel if she were to call it cute. The kitchen is large, done in white, gray, and green, with steel appliances, gray marble countertops, and the look of a place that doesn’t get a lot of use. They both stop to toe their shoes off right outside of the kitchen where a couple other pairs of Barry’s shoes lie. His living room is pretty big: a wide space that features a real stone fireplace as the focal point and a large screen television situated above it; a huge sectional in a slate gray with a few throw pillows; and a big square wooden coffee table. It’s masculine and clean without being gaudy or too bro and Iris wonders if he did this himself because even if she never knew her, she doubts a woman who loved flowers as much as his mother would decorate her living room this way.

The dark curtains on the windows are open wide and Iris can see the backyard but the rain coming down in sheets keep her from being able to make out much besides the patio with what looks like a grill and wicker furniture. Iris remembers being told that his dad had been a doctor and his mom some sort of university researcher and the house matches that.

Barry lets her hand go to tug his sweatshirt off, revealing a plain white t-shirt that rises up over his taut belly. She doesn’t avert her eyes, giving herself permission to track how the sweatpants hang off his slim hips and how he isn’t so much sculpted as he’s hard and tight, with just the beginnings of abs. He catches her staring and he smirks at her before dropping down in the corner of the couch, one leg spread out along the seats of the chair.

“Come here,” he tells her, and she moves toward him, sitting so that her back is pressed against that hard chest and his arms are wrapped around her. She grabs a hold of his forearm with both her hands and settles her head in the crook of his elbow. She’s surrounded by his scent, lemongrass and clean cotton, and for a while, the only sounds are his breathing and the pounding of the rain. He touches her, the hand she’s not holding on to stroking up and down her thigh. Her leggings are pretty thin and she feels his touch fully; if she concentrates enough, she can feel those beloved calluses on his hands. He rubs his hand towards the juncture of her thighs and then over her hip and then back again, and like always, his touch ignites something in her, even as she’s wondering how she might be able to help him out of whatever funk he’s found himself in.

“You ready to tell me what’s up?” she wonders a while later.

“Hmm,” he hums, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Not yet. Tell me about your day.”

She shifts so that she can look back at him, noting the way his eyes have darkened a touch, become grayer like the sky outside, and it’s different from the bright blue-green she remembers from the day of the festival or the wicked blue-gray they always are right before he pushes hard into her.

He blinks down at her and licks his lips slowly. It’s not an explicitly sexual act, even if her body thinks it looks that way, and Iris finds herself lost in it, in whatever he’s emanating. It’s erotic in that it’s intimate, a whirlwind of whatever hurt made him seek her out at Jitters, of whatever still lies unexplored between them, of the attraction that doesn’t ever seem to dissipate.

When she pulls herself out, she tells him, “I was working on a story today. One that made me feel a little bit like how you might be right now.”

“Yeah?”

Wanting to look at him more comfortably, she uses his pause so that she can turn around fully and seat herself on his lap, straddling him. His hands automatically go to her hips, one sliding inside the waist of her leggings so that he can touch her skin.

“Tell me about this story,” he requests. She knows that he’s asking so that he can think about something other than what’s on his mind, so she does, giving a little more than she would originally, working out how she might want to tell the story in her blog.

“It was a couple,” she starts, “that grew up together, in the country. They bonded by playing together in the lake, climbing trees, and playing pranks on each other. And then they start to grow up. Their swimming becomes fraught with tension, the bathing suits showing the same skin, but more, ya know, both of them recognizing the differences, cataloging them, thinking about them, remembering them. They don’t act on it, because they’re friends, and he doesn’t actually understand what it means, that he’s 13 and he keeps dreaming about her at night, waking up with a wet bed and a pounding heart. And then his parents die and her dad, who’s a do-gooder in the community and had been his parents’ best friend, takes him in. Now they’re siblings, but of course not. Regardless, it makes it all harder and odder because she sleeps right down the hall from him, their shared bathroom always smells like her, and he understands now, that he likes her smile and the way she speaks and the curves she seems to develop out of nowhere.”

Barry squeezes at her and she pauses as he asks, “And what about her? How does she feel about him?”

“Well he doesn’t know it, but she’s there too. At first she thinks that she’s just conflating it, confusing their friendship. Because she doesn’t laugh with anyone else like she does with him and she never has as much fun with anyone else as she does him and she never feels as comfortable with anyone else as she does him. He’s her best friend. But she sees him, one night, in his room where the door hasn’t fully closed and he’s, well, he’s masturbating, touching himself, eyes closed and moaning, and for the first time outside of the books she’s read, she feels something. And she knows it’s not just because she’s seen him naked because she’s kissed boys before, she’s felt them hard under her before, but something about this feels different for her.

“But she doesn’t act on it. And he doesn’t either, because remember, he only thinks this is one-sided. They graduate. They go to the same college. But their majors are different and their friends are different. She joins a sorority; he gets into a couple of clubs. Their paths separate, even if they still laugh and talk and be when they’re home for the holidays. Then she gets a boyfriend.”

“She never had a boyfriend before this?” Barry questions.

Iris shrugs. “Sure. But it was high school and the beginning of college. They were mostly hookups that didn’t last. This guy is serious. He’s a couple years older, got his own place, and eventually she moves in with him. Heartbroken, he gets a girlfriend too, one of her friends. That doesn’t last long because she figures out that he’s a little bit in love with the main girl, and then he moves on, to someone sweet, someone who’s been not so subtly hinting that she wants to go out with him.”

Barry seems to be engrossed now. She can’t say that the dark look he was sporting is completely gone, but she can see that he’s not as deep in it, interested in the story she’s weaving.

“They go on to marry these people, even if their hearts are not fully in it. His wife has a kid first, her baby comes next. And meanwhile, they’re still friends. Her dad is still his guardian, so to speak; they are together for whatever holidays they don’t spend with their spouses’ families. They still laugh and talk and be. They still look a little too long and want a little too much.

It comes to a head one Christmas. The gods or fate or just some movement on their parts mean that they both go home to her dad’s house with their spouses and children coming in the next day. But her dad is called in to work so they order take out and watch movies in front of a fire. And they laugh and they talk...and they hug and they kiss and they…

“Be?” Barry tries, a tiny little smile on his face.

She matches it. “Yeah. And it’s beautiful, transcendent. But they’re married. To other people. With kids. So they vow to forget it, to never bring it up again. A couple of years pass. They don’t laugh as much, don’t talk as much. She’s having troubles in her marriage. He is too. He actually consults a divorce attorney because he thinks that it’s unfair to both him and his wife, to live like this. And then the wife dies in a car accident.”

“Oh damn,” he mutters.

“Right,” she agrees. “He’s wracked with grief and more than a little guilt, because he loved her but was never in love with her and she had no idea he was going to leave her.”

“What about her? The one he loves?”

“She’s there for him. She consoles him, cares for him, takes his kid when it gets too hard. Her husband doesn’t like it though. Thinks she’s doing too much, thinks that there’s another reason she’s over at his so much. Later, he learns that this wasn’t a new accusation, that even before she and her husband got married, the husband would question their closeness, would wonder what, if anything, had ever happened between them.

“Eventually she gets tired of it. Her kid is older, in their teens now, and she leaves her husband, packing her things and her kid’s too and moving back in with her dad for a while.”

“And what happens between them?” Barry wants to know.

“He and his son come over more. They hang out more, the four of them, going to dinner and to the movies and to the arcade together. And when their kids are gone, at sleepovers or game nights with their friends, they laugh again, talk again. Fall in love again.”

The ending is implied. Iris closes her eyes when she’s done, letting Barry continue to rub at her back, his fingers so so warm on her skin.

“It's a happy ending,” he says, eventually. “But getting there was a little...depressing.”

Iris chuckles softly, lightheaded again at having gone through that again. It likely didn’t make Barry feel any better, but she’ll take the win that it took his mind away from his own problems, if only for a little while.

“Yeah, it is,” she agrees. “But it reminds me that just because it’s not easy and just because it takes some time, it doesn’t mean that things aren’t worth it.”

He nods, slowly, thinking.

“What about things that are...easy? That come like breathing? That start as a simple dance and just, just keep going?”

She stares down at him and she knows that this is rhetorical. She can see the question in the depths of his eyes, feel it in his hands still kneading her flesh. It would be easy to retreat, to tell him that nothing is ever easy, even if the reality is that it is because they are, because they fall into each other so effortlessly, that she’s terrified. There are always hiccups, obstacles, and the fact that she can’t find any keeps her on edge, waiting, anticipating trouble she knows must be coming. She doesn’t want to believe it, wants to stand firm in them—stand firm in the lyrics she keeps hearing, if you decide to stay, know that there is no escape; there's no one here to save you—and she holds onto that as he asks,

“Don’t you think it’s worth it, Iris? Even if it’s this easy?”

She can’t speak, but his eyes are imploring her to answer. Pleading with her for a response. And however terrified Iris is, or however much Iris tells stories, she is not a liar. So she nods and whispers to him, “yes.”

Without waiting for her to say anything more, he kisses her. He squeezes at her waist and leans up to capture her mouth. She meets him with his same fervor and it’s different, this kiss. She knows the passion of his mouth when he’s high, the boldness when he’s teasing her. But this is new, this is fervor, warmth and agony and doubt and pleasure, all wrapped up together.

(Something also tells Iris that there is another word for this, that this is the part of the story where feelings would be laid on the table, where hearts would be splayed open and she’d say it, or he would, and the other would respond in kind, with declarations of adoration, of infatuation, yearning, of any other word that means what she can’t say yet.

But she feels it, what she’s wanting to say, what she thinks he is saying, in this kiss. It is slow and nasty, all tongue and mouth. Her eyes flutter closed at the feeling, at how he licks into her mouth and then sucks on her bottom lip, at how he licks against her tongue and then holds her face to bring her closer to him. She feels it, she feels it, she feels him…)

He stands, holding on to her, and she wraps her legs around his waist, tightening her arms around his neck as he carries her through the house. The kisses don’t stop, though they become shorter, more mouth now, and he takes her down a long hallway past several doors until he turns into one at the end of the hall. She makes a quick note of the light gray and burnt orange decor, the side tables holding books and knickknacks, the one window that spans nearly the entire wall, but she focuses most heavily on the king-sized bed on which he throws on her, the soft comforter half hanging off the bed.

Her clothes come off first, Barry pulling her sweatshirt over her head and yanking her pants over her hips. He comes out of his own clothes as she discards her underwear, and then he’s between her thighs again. But she wants something else first so she taps his shoulder to flip them and then she’s hovering above him.

She gives him a kiss, slow and sweet, and then she makes her way down his chest, kissing as she goes. She loves the feel of his skin against her lips, likes how his skin tastes as she presses tongue kisses on him. His belly clenches and unclenches under her ministrations, and by the time she’s looking back up at him from her position near his crotch, she can see the way his chest rises and falls with his heavy breathing.

She reaches for him, wrapping her fingers around his dick. It’s long like the rest of him, and thicker than she would have expected just looking at him. It’s a pretty dick, the base the same color as him, the head slightly pinker. It’s a little veiny, but the skin is smooth, and already he’s starting to leak. She lifts her eyes to find him watching her, his own gaze hooded. In her peripheral, she sees his hands grip the bed sheets and she revels in how she hasn’t even done anything and his control is starting to slip.

“Tell me what you want, Bear.”

She says the words softly, but Barry doesn’t miss the cheek that lies under it, if the slight smirk he gives her is any indication.

“Your mouth,” he says. “I’ve been dreaming about that pretty mouth wrapped around my dick.”

She shudders at the tone of his voice, at the vision of her on her knees for him. She likes it.

“I bet you have too,” he guesses.

Without a response, she licks him, holding him at the base and running her tongue up one side of him. She does it again, and then one more time, acquainting herself with the taste of him and the satiny feel of him on her tongue, and then she adjusts and covers the whole of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

She hums around him and she sucks him down, taking him until he hits her throat. Then she pulls back until just the tip remains. She licks around his head and sucks him there, letting the spit pool in her mouth, letting it mix with his own wet. She opens her mouth and lets it slide out, dripping down onto him, and her own body starts to drip at his wrecked whisper, “god, baby, look at you.”

She adds her hands, palming his testicles in one and rubbing her spit down the length of him with the other. She finds a rhythm, sucking him down, inch by inch, hollowing her cheeks as she goes, and then stroking his back up. Barry keeps his hand clenched in the sheets, but he cants himself into her mouth, rocking his hips lightly. She’s getting into it, loving the way he responds to her.

“Come here,” he says, suddenly, reaching for her, and she pulls back with a soft pop.

“Barry?” she furrows her eyebrows in question.

He gives her a gentle smile and grabs at her arm; Iris moves at his request, crawling up his body.

“But you didn’t finish,” she says, pouting a little.

“I know. I want to come when I’m inside you.”

She’s mollified by that, and he settles her on his lap.

“You were so good though, baby,” he says, kissing her. “My good, good girl.”

He reaches down to touch her, slipping his fingers easily into her sex. He groans into her mouth at the feel and he pulls back to ask,

“Is this all for me? Did you get wet sucking me off, good girl?”

She nods, rocking her hips against his hand, against his sex still hard beneath her. “Can, can you…?”

He tilts his head at her, fingers still caressing inside of her. “Can I?”

She huffs out a small laugh because he’s always fucking with her. “You said you wanted to come inside of me,” she reminds him.

“I did, didn’t?” He takes his time removing his fingers, eyes on her as he does. Even with the window curtains wide open, the dark sky has the room dark

(and she doesn’t dismiss the fact that the window faces the side of someone else’s house, where they could be seen if the neighbors were so inclined to watch)

and his eyes look a little like molten lead in the faint rainy light like this. He goes to reach over to his bedside table but Iris stops him.

“I want to feel you,” she says.

He licks his lips and she doesn’t mistake the twitch of his dick she feels under her. “You sure?”

“Yes. I’m on birth control. And I trust you.”

He nods once and again, and then he takes her by her hips and slides her down his cock.

After, Iris decides that this time is the single most erotic experience of her life.

They fuck with the rain like a soundtrack behind them, like a song that swells and stretches, telling their story, but you're so brave; stone cold crazy for loving me; yeah, I'm amazed; i hope you make it out alive, a song that rises and rises, that sounds too good to be real, that might destroy you, but only in the best way.

She rides him, and he’s so full in her like this, so deep in her like this. His back is against his fabric headboard and she’s so close to him, her knees jutting into the headboard, her thighs holding around his hips, her breasts rubbing against his chest, nipples pebbling with each brush on those hard planes.

She holds on to him with her hands holding the back of his neck, softly scratching at the nape. But he’s touching her, always touching her, his hands caressing her spine, and then holding her waist, and then squeezing her hips. He guides her: keeps his favorite pace, smooth and languid; bring her up to the tip and fucks her back down; shows her how he wants her to roll her body when he’s full in her, so her clit is brushing the soft hairs on his pelvis, the sensation incredible.

He uses his mouth too: to kiss her throat, deep tongue kisses that’ll leave marks she knows she’ll have to cover up; to whisper against her mouth, “see how easy this is; see how good, baby; fuck, see how good this is; yes, yes, yes, my good girl.”

And Iris feels so caught up in it. She can’t stop looking at him, loving when the lightning slashes across the room and illuminates those eyes, the constellation of moles on his skin, his wet, pink mouth. Her body hums with pleasure, soaking her thighs and his, tightening around his dick as if it never, never wants to let him go. She voices her satisfaction, in soft sighs and heavy pleas, and his name on her tongue like a chant, or better, a song, “Bear, Bear, Barrryyy.” They’re so close, her skin sticking to his wherever they’re touching, chest to chest and ass to thigh. She feels full and whole and filled...with him and with desire and with, and with love, the thought of it making her shudder and close her eyes.

“No,” Barry whispers. “Don’t. Just let it, just let it...stay here with me. Can you do that for me? Be brave for me?”

She nods, head heavy as her body starts to reach its climax, as her body loosens at the same time that it tightens and she has to fight to hold on to him. “Yes,” she moans again, holding his gaze again.

He touches at her face, holding her cheek and staring back. “Good girl.”

She doesn’t know whose climax triggers the other. She just knows that at the same time that her body explodes, fluttering wildly around him, he comes too, so hard that she feels him throbbing against her walls, that she feels him filling her up with his cum.

He doesn’t let go of her right away. He just holds her, hands at her hip and her face, and then he kisses her, cementing what they’ve just done, cementing what Iris feels for him.

“It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death,” he says, out of the blue. “And when I went to visit my dad earlier, I found out that he’s sick, something with his heart, and I’m-I’m reeling.”

It’s been a long while since they separated and Iris climbed off of him to pad into his bathroom and warm a hand towel under warm water to clean them both. They’ve been lying in his bed, only half under the covers as they let their bodies cool. It’s quiet now, so quiet that Iris has thought he’d fallen asleep; she’d almost fallen asleep. But when he speaks, she blinks wide and then turns her head to face him.

“14 years today,” he adds. He’s looking up at the ceiling as he talks, but Iris feels the hand that’s settled at her waist tighten, the move bringing her closer to him. She understands that he just needs the contact, so she turns so that she’s all the way curled on him, one of her legs thrown across him, her arm tossed over him too, hand settled on his heart. It’s beating slow, steady, and so she strokes his bare chest, right it.

“How’d you find out?”

“I was still at school,” he tells her. “It was a Friday and some of my friends had convinced me to go to a football game, so we were there pretty late. Games could run until 11. I was 17 so I had my own car. It was an old car; we’d bought it from a guy she worked with. By this time, my dad had been gone for a couple years, and my mom was always working late at the lab, so when I got home around 10:30 that night and the lights were out, I wasn’t surprised.”

He shifts a little and continues. “I took a shower, put some leftover pizza in the microwave, and just as I was sitting down to eat, the doorbell rang. It was the police looking for her next of kin to tell them what had happened.” He sighs heavily. “I got lucky. The courts let one of my friend’s parents take me in until I graduated a few months later. I was able to get a work study job in college to pay my bills since the mortgage was already paid off.”

He says it all like he was lucky, but there is nothing lucky about losing both of your parents in that matter, even if one of them was still physically alive. Iris knows from experience that he doesn’t want pity, doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for his story. But she can’t help the way she wants to comfort him, and so she lets herself do that, tightening herself around him, snuggling even more into his chest.

“How are you feeling about your dad?” she asks, mumbling against his skin.

“Devastated. He looked like, like, I don’t know, like he’s giving up. I don’t get to go see him too often, every couple of months, really. And he looked so different from when I saw him last: smaller, frailer. I think there might be something he’s not telling me. Like he’s been sick longer than he says he has.”

“Is he supposed to get out soon?”

“Another couple years. But I don’t know if he wants to hold on that long.”

She feels them first, the tears. She tries to hold him even tighter, tries to crawl into his skin almost, trying to stem his pain. He doesn’t cry for long, just a few sobs, and then he’s inhaling deeply and wiping at his eyes. But it must be enough because he sounds a little hollow when he says,

“And truthfully, I’m not so much sad as I am mad, that he seems to be giving up. On getting out. On me.”

She hums, not dismissively, but because she understands. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes, I hate my mom.”

He sort of jerks up at that. Not fully, he looks down at her, eyes widened in shock. However inappropriate it might be, she finds herself laughing a little at his expression. Then she explains.

“I know that addiction is not a moral failing. I know that she struggled right up til the end. I know both of those things as completely as I know anything else. But sometimes I wonder why my dad wasn’t enough, why me and Wally weren't enough. I wonder what she was trying to find in those pills that she couldn’t find in us, and I get so pissed that she let it take her away from us.”

She’s startled when he moves. He pulls himself from under her, letting her fall onto her back, and then he’s hovering above her, holding himself up on his elbows. He falls into the spread of her thighs, his sex nuzzling comfortably against her still warm center.

“I’ve seen some of the worst effects of addiction,” he says, “when their bodies end up on a slab of metal and it’s my job to dissect the things around them, to even sometimes help detectives dissect their lives to figure out what happened. And something I’ve learned is that it’s always, always about them. Never about the people they love.”

He searches her face, brushing a piece of hair back from her forehead. “And whatever your mom was or wasn’t thinking, you are enough. You are more than enough, Iris.” He leans down and gives her a kiss, deep and dirty, and she moans in frustration as he pulls back from her. He gives her a grin, one more reminiscent of the Barry she’s used to.

“Repeat after me,” he commands. “I, Iris West…”

“Really, Barry?”

“Yes, come on. I, Iris West…

She sighs, but says it. “I, Iris West…”

“Am more than enough.”

She licks her lips then, blinks, works to not let the tears that have suddenly gathered in the corner of her eyes escape.

“Am more than enough,” she whispers, finally.

Barry’s smile turns fond. “Good girl.”

She shakes her head because she doesn’t know what else to do besides kiss him. Which she does, deeply, reaching down to grip him in her palm. She pauses, just for a moment, to tell him “you know that you are enough too, right?” and she kisses the look of awe off of his face. It’s a long while before she stops kissing him, and then it’s only to moan into his mouth, to let him whisper his dirty somethings into her ear.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

They’ve just shared a shower. Barry is throwing on another pair of sweats and a hoodie and Iris puts her own leggings back on, sans underwear, and thumbs through Barry’s closet for another sweatshirt to put on.

(There’s no reason that she can’t put hers back on, but she’s feeling particularly sentimental and she wants to take something of Barry’s with her, something that smells like him, that feels like him.)

“None, really.” She pulls out a red sweater that reads Central City University Track & Field and throws it on over her bra. “Why? You kicking me out.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “Of course not.” He glances down at the watch on his wrist. “Wanna get dinner? And then go with me to my tattoo appointment? It’s at 8 tonight.”

She smiles at that. “Sure.”

They take the highway back downtown. The rain is still beating steadily and there is still the occasional rumble of thunder, the sporadic flash of lightning. He parks a bit further in the arts district, in front of a restaurant specializing in wood-fire pizzas and craft beers. This time, she knows to wait for him to come around and open the door for her so that she can walk under his umbrella. Once he locks his jeep, he grabs her hand, and they walk the couple doors down and into the restaurant.

The place is brightly lit, in direct contrast to the dark sky and even the faint light that had been on at Barry’s place. The weather assures that it isn’t densely packed, just a couple booths of families and what looks like a couple, so they’re seated quickly and easily. They eat fast since they’ve only got an hour before his appointment. In the meantime, they both keep the conversation light. It’s been a day, for the both of them really, and Iris doesn’t think that she can cry twice in a day.

After he pays, she goes to the bathroom and he tells her he’ll wait at the door for her. She goes in and it’s as brightly lit as the rest of the place and she quickly does her business and washes her hands before heading back out to where he knows Barry is waiting in the little space between the outer door and the door to the restaurant.

She walks through the place and out of the restaurant door, likely too quickly and without really looking. She takes several steps, straightening out Barry’s sweatshirt again, and then she’s bumping into what feels like a solid wall, almost falling backward. A quick hand reaches out to catch her, the hand large, easily wrapping around her forearm.

“Shit,” she says, shaking her head to clear it as she looks up. “I’m sorr..Scott?”

He doesn’t move back right away and so she has to look up, up at the man holding on to her. Scott Evans is the literal definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He’d been her editor when she’d work at CCPN right out of college, and she’d had the biggest crush on him. Tall with dark caramel skin and a neatly trimmed beard, he’d been the one to help guide her in the ways of mass story-telling. They’d gone on one date and Iris is not actually sure why they’d never gone on another.

“Iris West.” He says her name slowly, his grin widening at the same pace. He gives her a once-over, slow and heated. “How’ve you been?”

“R-really good,” she says, stumbling a little at that grin. Even if she doesn’t actually regret never seeing him again, Iris can admit that a man this good looking makes her a little tongue-tied.

“Yeah? I’ve been catching your blog when I can. It’s some good shit, West. I can see why you left our little paper.”

“Please,” Iris rolls her eyes with a little laugh. “There’s nothing little about Picture News.”

He shrugs, humble all the way. “Still, I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Scott. I appreciate that.”

“It’s the truth.” He looks down at her, swiping at his lips with his tongue, and she suddenly realizes that they’re still too close. She steps back fully from him, glancing over Scott’s shoulders to see Barry watching them, his expression unreadable.

“Um,” she speaks, catching his attention. “I gotta go Scott.”

“Oh yeah; of course. We should get together soon. Maybe do dinner.” Scott looks back out of the window where rain steadily pours. “It’s still raining out. Can I walk you to your car?”

Her eyes don’t leave Barry’s and he tilts his head, waiting for her answer. “Scott, I’m not alone.”

He turns as if he’s just realizing that Barry is standing there. Barry is still quiet and only lifts his eyes to look at Scott when he mutters, “oh, hey man.”

Barry nods. “What’s up?” Then he looks at Iris. “You ready?”

“Yeah, I am.” Her voice is soft, cautious, and she throws one more glance at Scott. “It was good to see you.”

He graces her with that smile again. “Yeah. I’ll see you around.”

Barry takes her hand and they walk back to the truck. They’re on the road again, driving to a neighborhood near her own. For a second, she thinks he’s going to take her home, but he passes the road to her apartment and goes on to a neighborhood featuring several bars and little shops that cater to the college crowd. He pulls into the parking lot of a place called Black Gold, the lights inside near as bright as those in the pizza place.

Again, she waits until he comes around and turns as if to get out. He stops her though, holding the umbrella high, standing in front of her open legs. He does his thing, his stare like he's trying, and succeeding, to get inside her mind.

“That your ex-boyfriend?” he wonders.

She shakes her head. “Ex-boss.”

His expression doesn’t change. “All your bosses look at you like that?”

She swallows at the sudden feel of his hand on her thigh. The rain is pounding and drops fall on them, but she’s not noticing it. Instead, she’s caught in the storm that’s returned to his eyes, in the feel of his hands inching steadily toward her center.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” she says, instead of responding to him.

One corner of his mouth lifts, and the confident, bordering on cocky, Barry is looking at her now, even if that sparkle hasn’t returned quite yet.

“Nah,” he says. “Not jealous. You’re here right now. And you were with me earlier, moaning for me, coming for me.”

He slides his hand between her thighs and because she is, almost literally, always thirsty for him, wet for him, her legs spread easily. He fingers at the crotch of her leggings, and she knows that he can feel her warmth through the thin material. He thumbs at her until she gasps against him, finding her clit in a way that reminds him that he knows her body better than she knows it herself.

“He ever touch you like this?” Barry asks, voice a whisper above the rain. “Make you whimper even without getting your clothes off?”

She is whimpering, as he keeps his thumb on her clit, rubbing on her in slow circles. That’s all he’s doing: touching her with one hand, looking at her with those eyes that tell as much as they conceal, with his voice a deep rumble that rivals the thunder. He might be turned on, but he’s proving a point, naming himself as someone who, well, who owns her, even if she recognizes that no man should claim any power over her.

Heat spreads through her, a low, simmering sort of heat, but it’s enough that her folds grow slicker, start opening like the flowers of a petal waiting to be plucked. He keeps rubbing at her, staying on her clit, staring in her face, so much that she can’t hold his gaze. Because it feels better than it should, and her wet is soaking through these too thin leggings, and her breaths are coming in longer, coming in heavier.

“Tell me he hasn’t, Iris,” he says, commands, and Iris throws her head back, legs widening at their own volition, hips canting against his hand. “Tell me.”

“No,” she moans, eyes fluttering closed. “He never even touched me at all.”

“Tell me it’s just me,” he adds and she’s too far gone to note the pleading in his voice. “Tell me no one has ever touched you like this.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just you, Barry, shit, just you.”

“Good,” he groans. “Good, good girl.”

Even if touch is the word he’s using, Iris understands that it’s more. She understands that they’re both wrapped up in uncertainty, never too sure of where they lie in others’ affections, never too sure of where they lie in life at all. She understands that he’s asking her if she feels it too, if she’s there with him, if this too easy, this too natural, feeling is a first for her too.

He’s asking if she’s brave enough to tell him the truth, if she undertands is meaning-understands that I'm no walk in the park; all these scars on my heart; it’s so dark here-even as she’s wondering the same, as she’s feeling the same, wondering if the churning feelings of abandonment make her unworthy somehow. Wondering if he’ll come to see that unworthiness.

Barry leans forward, just a touch away from her mouth, eyes blazing.

“There’s only you too, Iris,” he says, unprompted. “I swear I’ve just been waiting for you.”

He closes the distance to kiss her and that’s enough to take her over. It’s not a powerful orgasm, not like usual, but it does make her shut her eyes tight, make her limbs seize up as she rocks her hips through it. She breathes out, and she can’t stop the little laugh that comes out.

“You really are a dick,” she muses, opening her eyes slowly.

“A polite one, though,” he says, as he stands straighter and holds his hand out to help her down from the car. He holds the umbrella high over her. “See how I’m making sure you don’t get wet.”

“You didn't think of that earlier.”

His grin is devastating but it doesn’t hide the plethora of emotions in his eyes: the simmering lust, the faint traces of insecurity, the grief that’s been hovering all day...the love she doesn’t think he wants to hide anymore.

She hikes up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, and then she walks beside him into the parlor, words flashing in her head like a sign, but if you’re a warrior, there’s nothing to fear; nothing to fear.

And later that night, as she cuddles up next to Barry is his large comfortable bed, she listens to his soft breathing, the sound a melody to the rain still pattering against his windows. She listens and she stares at him, taking in his features, softer than they were before, the stress of today easing away with every second he’s lost to sleep. A flash of lightning lights the room, and it catches her eyes again, the new tattoo, the purple ink bright on his skin, covering the space from a lily on his shoulder to just over his heart. It goes dark again, his room blanketed once more, but in her mind’s eyes, she can still see the vibrant ink on his skin, the pretty drooping petals of an iris.

Cause you're so brave

Stone cold crazy for loving me

Yeah, I'm amazed

I hope you make it out alive

[lamptracker]

Untitled Han Jisung Fic

Officially, it has no title. I could not think of one. 

Unofficially the title is “Eris Said I Didn’t Have to Give This a Title”

At any rate:

Untitled Han Jisung (Stray Kids) Fic

Pairing: Han Jisung/Female Reader

Summary: Jisung and the reader celebrate their one-year anniversary. The other seven morons members show up at the end. 

Warnings: Mediocre smut, some language, tooth-rotting fluff at the end. Oh, and no title

Author’s note: This is based on an idea that @jisungiesbunnie​ came up with for Valentine’s Day, but since I could not get my shit together in time for that I changed it to an anniversary celebration.

You carefully pulled the cheesecake out of the oven, smiling to yourself as you gently shook it. The center of it wobbled slightly - perfect. Just like everything else you’d had planned for tonight.

It was your anniversary with Jisung, one year. One year of inside jokes, of laughter, of love… and, you had to admit, one year of the best sex of your life. 

Jisung was everything to you. He was your best friend, your confidant, your sounding board, your biggest cheerleader. You loved him, so much. And tonight, you had grand plans to show him just how much.

You’d told him that you’d had to work late that night, and would be perfectly content celebrating another night. But, of course, you didn’t have to work late. Instead, you’d gone to the dorms to surprise him with dinner and his favorite dessert. You had to get the other guys out of there, at least for a few hours. So you gave Chan some money (“I don’t trust those guys,” you’d said; Minho threw a pillow at your head) and told them to go out and do something fun. So off they went for dinner and shopping and who knows what else (not that you really wanted to know), while you made dinner and cheesecake.

“Hey, guys, I’m home.” The front door opened, and you did your level best to not drop everything you were doing and immediately run into your boyfriend’s arms. Instead, you stayed in the kitchen, waiting for him to discover the surprise. “Um… hello? Where is everyone, uh… oh, wow, something smells good. Hey, Felix! What’s cookin’, good lookin’, huh?” Jisung poked his head into the kitchen. “I...oh, whoa, you’re not Felix.”

You giggled softly. “How astute of you.”

His confused expression softened into a wide smile; chuckling, he immediately walked over and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“I thought you had to work late,” he said, burying his head in your shoulder.

“I might have made that up so I could surprise you.” You gently kissed the top of his head.

“Where is everybody?”

You laughed. “Threw some money at them and told them to have a good time. Chan promises they won’t be back before ten. So… we’ve got the place all to ourselves.”

“This is amazing.” Jisung lifted his head, smiling. “I’m sorry I called you Felix.”

“Hey, he’s a really good cook. I take it as a compliment.” 

“I’m glad you’re not Felix, though.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy. But he would never let me do this.” He pulled you close to him, gently pressing his lips to yours. Your hands moved up to his hair, gently curling around the short strands as the kiss deepened slightly. Just as his hands slid down your lower back, a loud buzz filled the air.

“Oh!” You pulled away from him abruptly. “That’d be the air fryer.”

Jisung eyed you skeptically. “You didn’t cook Hyunjin, did you?”

“He wouldn’t fit,” you replied without missing a beat. “We’re having chicken.”

Jisung threw his head back and laughed; you absolutely adored that sound, and the fact that you were the one making him make that sound.

“Do you need help setting the table?”

You shook your head as you pulled two plates out of the cupboard. “Just get washed up, I’m pretty sure you haven’t washed your hands since lunch. I’ve got this, baby.”

“You’re sure?”

You nodded. “Now scoot, I’ve got a table to set.” You dramatically shooed a now-giggling Jisung out of the kitchen.

While Jisung washed up for dinner, you finished setting the table and started to plate the food. Jisung walked back in as you poured two glasses of wine.

“Wow, babe, this looks really good.” Jisung pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.”

“It’s our anniversary,” you replied simply. “I think you deserve a little spoiling.”

“Well,” he said as he pulled out your chair for you, “thank you.”

**

“What do you want to watch?” Jisung asked. Dinner and dessert was long behind you. The food (not to toot your own horn or anything) was delicious. The conversation was, as always, fantastic. Jisung had a way of telling stories that had you hooked from word one. Even his simple story of going to the convenience store the other night with Minho and Jeongin to get slushies became an epic tale. 

Now you were settled on the couch, trying to decide what to watch on Netflix. To be honest, nothing sounded good. You didn’t really want to watch anything. But you knew what you wanted to do…

Wordlessly, you gently took the remote from Jisung’s hand and set it on the end table next to the couch. Jisung started to ask you what you were doing, but his breath caught in his throat as you swung your leg over his lap.

“Oh,” he breathed as you straddled him. “Don’t want to watch anything, huh?”

“No, there’s one thing I wanna watch.” You leaned down, your lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whispered. “I wanna watch you cum, baby.”

“I like the way you think.” He reached up slightly, pressing gentle kisses to the side of your neck. “Right here?”

You nodded. “We should put a towel or something down, you know how Chan gets.”

“You do that-” his lips traveled down your neck, stopping just above your collarbone - “and I’ll grab a condom.”

You gasped as he harshly sucked on the spot. You knew there’d be a mark there later, but you really didn’t care. “Okay.” You quickly hopped off his lap and ran to the linen closet for towels while Jisung dashed to his bedroom. Carefully but quickly, you spread the towels on the cushions and quickly disrobed. As Jisung re-entered the living room, tiny foil packet in hand, you leaned casually back on the cushions.

Jisung groaned slightly. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

“Not without you.” 

���God, I have the best girlfriend ever.” Jisung made quick work of taking off his clothes; you bit your lip as your eyes traveled over his toned body. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but it stirs something inside of you every time.

Jisung sat on the couch next to you, ripping open the condom and carefully sliding it onto his rock-hard shaft. 

“Would you ride me?” he asked, quietly yet confidently.

You nodded as you straddled him again, resting your hands on his shoulders. 

“Before we get started,” Jisung said breathily, “how much foreplay are we talking here?”

“Next to none,” you replied, eyebrows raised. “I’m so fucking horny right now, it won’t take me long at all.”

Jisung whined softly. “Fuck, you’re the greatest.”

“Save the praise for the end, baby boy.”

“God, I love when you call me that,” he said as you gently lowered yourself onto him. 

“I know.” You gripped his shoulders slightly while you started to roll your hips slowly. 

“Feels so good,” Jisung moaned. “Always does.”

“Mmm, yeah.” 

One of the things you loved best about sex with Jisung was, it didn’t need to be vocal. You didn’t feel the need to constantly make sounds of approval, or tell him how good it was. He knew just by the look on your face, the way your eyes fluttered closed when something felt right, the way your mouth fell open when you were close. 

And he was the same way. The corners of his mouth perked up when you did something that feels good - like when you sped up as you rode him. His eyebrows raised slightly as you dug your fingernails into his shoulders, not too hard, just hard enough for him to notice. And as his orgasm approached, his breathing hitched, his hands flew to your hips, and he bit his lower lip as his head fell backwards slightly and his eyes screwed shut.

“Oh, babe,” he panted, “I’m so close.”

You leaned down slightly, so your breath danced around his ear. “Let it out for me, Jisung.”

And with a loud groan, he did. As he rode out his high, his hips stuttered up against yours; that was all you needed to tip over the edge. Your mouth fell open and you buried your head in the crook of his neck; your legs shook as the sensation washed over you in waves.

When both of you were spent, you pushed yourself up slightly so you could smile softly at him.

“Hi,” you whispered.

Jisung smiled back at you; his eyes fluttered open, looking at you like you were the only thing in the room. “Hey,” he replied.

“That was…”

“Awesome, yeah.” He tapped the tip of your nose with a finger; you scrunched up your nose and he giggled softly. “I hate to be a mood murderer here, but we should really get cleaned up before the Dork Squad gets back.” “You’re right.” You gently pulled yourself off of him; he let out a soft whine at the loss of contact. “Oh, stop that, I’m staying the night. We can do it again.”

He laughed. “I know, it’s just… I miss you already.”

You shook your head as you smiled. “Just get rid of that and get dressed, already.”

**

Half an hour later, you and Jisung were cuddled up on the couch, watching Netflix. The door swung open, and Jisung’s bandmates came spilling into the room.

“Hey!” Hyunjin called out brightly. “How was the big anniversary dinner?”

“Oh, it was awesome!” Jisung said, a smile creeping across his face. “(y/n) made dinner, and dessert.”

“Cheesecake from scratch,” you interjected. “There’s a ton of it left, if you guys want some.”

“Score.” Changbin immediately headed toward the kitchen; Chan laughed at him.

“Well,” the de facto leader said, “I’m so glad you guys had a good -” Chan stopped mid-sentence; he raised a finger in the air, sniffed slightly, and his eyes suddenly grew wide. “Wait just a second,” he said. Then, pointing at the two of you, he exclaimed loudly: “Y’all fucked on this couch, didn’t you?!”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Jisung asked, as innocently as he possibly could, even batting his eyelashes for effect.

Chan tsk-ed loudly. “You did! I knew it! You horny little shits!”

“So what if we did?” You raised an eyebrow at him. “We used protection, even put down a towel first.”

“It’s… I… we sit on that couch!” Jeongin sputtered, flustered. 

“I don’t care if y’all had six towels on it,” Chan grumbled, “that is unsanitary.”

“Anybody else got anything to say?” Jisung asked as you burst into laughter. Unsanitary. That is hilarious. 

“Hey, man,” Minho said, raising his palms in somewhat self-defense. “What you two do on your own time…”

“Yeah, whatever,” Seungmin agreed. “Just don’t give me details, okay?”

Felix grinned widely. “I love,” he said, “that you two love each other so much that you just couldn’t wait to show each other. You had to do it right now. Isn’t it romantic?”

“It’s gross,” Jeongin protested.

“It’s kind of sweet, actually.” Hyunjin nodded. “When’s the last time any of us felt like that about someone, huh?”

“I don’t care.” Chan huffed loudly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “That is disgusting, doing that where…”

“I wouldn’t talk,” Hyunjin interjected. “Especially since you and Yuri did it in the shower not two weeks ago.”

“What?” Chan’s face turned tomato red. “How did you…”

“You left the door open.” Hyunjin shrugged as he brushed a piece of hair out of his eyes. “By the way, has she called you since then?”

“Said something about her mom’s dog being sick… she’s not calling me, is she? I mean just because I… whoa, whoa, whoa! This isn’t about me! It’s about Jisung and (y/n) being unhygienic!”

“Unhygienic!” you wheezed as you dissolved into laughter.

“We use that shower!” Jeongin yelped. 

“It cleans itself!” Chan shouted back. And with that, the seven of them left the room, squabbling the entire way; Changbin doubled back, cheesecake in hand, and ran up to the two of you, fist raised.

“Awesome,” he said. “Mad respect, you guys.” 

Jisung laughed as he gave Changbin a fist-bump; you gently tapped his fist with yours as well. 

Changbin flashed a toothy, goofy grin at you as he ran back out of the room.

“I’m sorry about them, as usual,” Jisung said quietly as you laughed.

“Oh, baby, no need to apologize. Sounds like Hyunjin got custody of the brain cell today, though.”

It was Jisung’s turn to laugh. “Seriously, though? This has been the best night. I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” You pressed your lips to his as his arm snaked around your shoulders, drawing you closer.

“Oh!” He pulled back suddenly, taking his arm off your shoulders. You cocked your head to one side in confusion, watching as he pulled one of his silver rings - his favorite, you noticed - off his finger.

“Jisung? What are you doing?”

“I want you to have this,” he said, almost shyly. “You are the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, and I want you in my life for a long time. I don’t know that I’m ready to be married just yet, but I know that I don’t want to be apart from you for any longer than I have to. I promise to always be near you, whether that’s in person or not. And I… I want you to take this as a reminder of that promise.”

Tears rimmed your eyes as he slipped the ring onto your finger (you are very lucky in that your hands are about the same size). “Oh, Jisung. This is so sweet, thank you.” You reached up, kissing him softly. “I guess I shouldn’t leave you hanging and tell you I feel the exact same way, right?”

Jisung laughed quietly. “I figured you did, love. I just… I love you.”

“I love you.” You snuggled into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you again and he unpaused the show. Your thumb rubbed softly against the metal band now circling your finger. You loved this man, more than you’d ever dreamed you could love anyone or anything, and it was a thrill to know he loved you too.

[azertyrobaz]

Comfortember: Day#5 - Coping

“You’re not going to be able to fix it.”

Din sighed and chose not to listen to Paz. They’d started evacuating all the remaining members of the tribe, which was not saying a lot – mostly younglings and older warriors who’d been spared the recent suicide missions. Command had fallen and the armorer had been made de facto leader. Words like ‘annihilation’ and ‘purge’ were starting to circulate among their diminished ranks, but he refused to let them get to him.

“If I can fit it with laser canons, it will be a great assault ship,” he replied, focusing on his welding again.

“So you’re a mechanic now?” mocked Paz, before suddenly catching himself. “You know there’s no point waiting here, right?”

Din shook his head, even if part of him had decided he wouldn’t move from the hangar until the last minute. It had been days, and it was no use. But just in case a ship should arrive, he’d be one of the first to know.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” Din lied easily. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t Paz’s fault he had returned and she hadn’t. After all, many others had fallen on that day and he wasn’t the only one who had lost someone. But yes, he was still angry. If not at Paz, then at himself for not having been there.

“She’d want you to fight. She’d want you to avenge her.”

This was crossing a line, and Din dropped the soldering gun and jumped from the platform to face the other man. He’d just turned 18 and Paz would always be older and bigger, but maybe punching him would make him feel better.

“You have no idea what she would want,” he seethed, and he was surprised to see Paz take a cautious step back. Yes, the temptation to run head first into danger and kill some Imps was strong, and he knew most warriors had chosen vengeance and violence as retribution, but it wouldn’t be what she wanted. Joining her in the Manda sounded good, and he’d thought about it a lot in the last few days – but ultimately vain. She’d want him to survive, and it was so painful a concept at the moment that fixing a decades-old ship was the next best thing.

“We’re evacuating at dawn,” Paz said, huge shoulders lowering – he didn’t want to fight. “If your stupid piece of junk is ready by then, I guess you can fly it.”

Din stared at the ST-70 assault ship. He should have time to fix the canons. But the sides deserved a new coat of paint as well. Maybe in that shade of amber she had chosen for her helmet when she’d received it, all of three years ago. But the rest would remain silver, like his own helmet.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (22) (org.) || atz

trigger warnings: gunshots, blood, injury, whipping

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body goes taut, a cold shiver running down your spine. The arm around your waist is firm, strong and from the almost unbreakable grip he has on you, he doesn’t intend on letting you go any soon.

“I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” The man behind you purrs, his breath ghosting over the sensitive shell of your ear. A squeak escapes you as the barrel of the musket digs into your temple. You might be terrified to the point of near unconsciousness, but part of your mind registers that this isn’t the same lieutenant that you had seen yesterday. “The rest of you, show yourselves.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as the rest of your crew come into sight.

Most of them are tied up in groups with rope, their heads hanging low as Navy soldiers kick and push them out of the cargo hold, where they had been hidden from sight. So that was why the ship had been so strangely silent when you and Wooyoung had returned to the Treasure.

They had been captured.

“Hello, hello, hello, my two dear pirates.” The man behind you locks one arm around your neck, dragging you up the gangplank with him and you choke, your fingers scrabbling fruitlessly against his arm. His well polished boots click smartly on the deck of the Treasure as he addresses all of the pirates on board. “Now, we’re finally all here together. I’ve been waiting for this the whole night.”

There’s poison in his voice, sweet as honey and as dangerous as snake venom. You don’t dare to struggle against him for fear of being shot point blank in the head, but his hold on you is making you panic and he’s crushing your windpipe, making every breath an arduous effort.

Before you, you see Jongho on the ground, arms in heavy iron shackles used only for slaves, beaten and bloodied black and blue by the Navy soldiers. Your eyes widen in horror at the sight of him. Glancing around more desperately, you try to spot your master, Yunho, Yeosang, the captain.

“Ahh, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m head of port investigation, Leon Bastiville. I heard two of you had a fun trip to the governor’s last night.” The officer behind you yanks your head back by the hair and you let out a muffled whimper, tears trailing down your cheeks as he twists the musket playfully against your temple. “Did you enjoy yourselves? I heard one of you got shot by my men… Was it you, sweet one?”

Every alarm, every warning bell, every danger alert you have in your instinct is screaming in your head at full volume, telling you to get the hell away from this man and put an entire ocean between the two of you, but you’re too terrified to move an inch. Something seems off about him, as if you can feel the sheer madness radiating from him like some sort of black miasma. You’re scared. You don’t want to die.

Leon suddenly rams the musket against your temple hard enough to bruise and your face snaps to the side from the force, fresh tears springing from your eyes at the pain. “Answer me!”

“Yes…” You choke out, voice trembling beyond your control. Behind you, Wooyoung snarls and yanks against his bonds, but his two guards are too strong for him to do anything.

“Since you replied so nicely, let me tell you what you missed last night.” The officer sighs, stroking your hair gently. You’re so used to the same action being done to you by San and Wooyoung, but this man’s touch feels corrosive against you and you try your best to flinch away from him.

“Stay still.” Leon’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper, silken and dark. “I don’t want my finger to slip.”

Terror, cold as frost, spreads through your entire body. You can’t move.

“While the two of you were off causing your little commotion back there at the official’s building,” The officer drawls, playfully resting his chin on your shoulder as he addresses the crew, “one of my men ran back to the harbor to report it to me. My colleague that saw to you yesterday, Yoongi, was already suspicious of you. He smelled gunpowder on your ship, but your little de facto captain told us that you hadn’t been fired on.”

Every movement he makes, you can feel.

“So when I heard about the events of last night, I decided to check the ship out for myself.” His cheeks press against yours when he smiles. “And lo and behold, what did I find? The Pirate King himself, with his one green eye and his Treasure.”

Something cold wraps around your throat.

It was your fault.

You remember everything. The book, the guards, the delay because of your injury.

Captain.

“Bring him out.” Leon clicks his tongue and you see your captain shoved forward, head bowed and hands bound in front of him. Part of you desperately wants to run to the man who named you, to insist he never incline his head to someone he doesn’t respect, but you are completely powerless now. He looks so small, so defeated that you want to cry. Your captain’s head is bowed, and it’s all your fault.

“So, I wonder what you were trying to achieve by coming to Nassau.” The officer sighs, rolling the question on his tongue. Captain simply remains silent, not saying a word as he averts his eyes to the deck. You can feel Leon’s mood darkening at your captain’s refusal to speak.

“Bring me the cat.”

Cat? Why would this officer call for a cat, of all things?

Your question is answered when a young soldier steps forward, holding a thin, dark shape in his hand. Dread fills you when you realise what it is.

“I hope you can bear the claws of a cat o’ nine tails, milord.” Leon smiles, looking rather amused. Disgust and loathing rises in you at how sick in the mind this man is. He jerks a thumb at your captain. “Flog him till he talks.”

Your heart drops in your chest.

“Or stops moving.”

Your head jerks up before you can stop it.

No.

The members of the crew have similar reactions, all of them screaming some protest or another, but they are quickly silenced by their guards with some sort of blow or slap. Yunho gets backhanded so hard across the face that he collapses to the ground, blood trickling from his mouth. You see Yeosang at your right, face pale as a sheet and tears silently streaming down his cheeks.

Before your eyes, your captain is stripped of his shirt. He doesn’t make a sound, only stares forward, and you can feel the irritation pricking at Leon’s skin when he doesn’t react the way he wants him to.

An officer raises a whip to your captain’s bare back and brings it down.

You flinch at the sight and your eyes close instinctively against it, you can’t bear to watch. You hear the whistling of the cat o’ nine tails as it comes down against your captain’s back, the sharp stinging sound it makes against his skin, the soft cry it tears from Yeosang’s mouth. Then the sound repeats, again and again and again, till you lose count and tears rolls down your cheeks, your chest heaving with silent sobs.

Leon’s hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing your eyes open. “Watch, or your captain dies.”

You’re weeping openly now. Hongjoong’s back is a mutilated, bloody mess of raw flesh and shredded skin, crimson streaming from several open wounds. Your captain is on his knees, face pressed against the floor, body trembling. You can’t even begin to imagine what absolute agony he must be in, your musket wound was nothing compared to this. But your captain remains silent, teeth gritted against the torment brought on with each swing of the whip.

He doesn’t make a sound.

Why? Why doesn’t he try to fight back? Why isn’t he trying to escape?

The whip comes down.

A muffled scream leaves your captain’s mouth, it tears at your heart like claws.

The whip comes down.

You can barely see any untouched skin, your captain’s back is nothing more than a raw, bloody piece of flesh.

The whip comes down.

Your captain’s arms give out from under him, and he collapses to the ground, choking from trying to gasp for air and stifle the cries that fight to leave his mouth at the same time.

“Not willing to talk, huh?” Leon breathes, but you can hear the barely restrained fury in his voice. He must not be used to having people resist him like this. The musket digs deeper into your temple, but honestly you don’t care anymore, at this point, you’d rather he just shoot you and spare you the pain of watching your captain get flogged. “Should we move on to another victim?”

The officer’s eyes search the trembling crew for his next victim, but a soft groan from your captain stops him.

“Are you tired already?” Leon turns back in shock, only to see Hongjoong forcing himself back into a kneeling position, arms shaking against the pain as he looks at the Naval officer with a chuckle. “Maybe you’re not training your men hard enough.”

You want to slap your captain for the sheer stupidity of his words. His back is completely torn and ravaged, and if they continue whipping him they’ll be cutting into raw flesh or worse, his spine. And even if he does survive the whipping, the size of this wound is so huge that there’s no way it’ll be able to heal without him getting some sort of major infection.

If the whipping doesn’t kill him, the infection will.

What is your captain doing?

The young guard administering the lashes looks every bit as uncomfortable as you feel, glancing at his superior officer in worry. “Sir, I’ve already administered fifty lashes, but he might die if I continue-”

“Carry on.” Leon spits, voice rising in vindictive glee. But before the young guard can protest or carry out his orders, the officer pauses. “Wait.”

Silence drags across the deck as the commanding officer seems to be contemplating something. Then he turns to look at you, in his arms.

A terrifying smile looms on his face and for a second, your heart stops beating.

Leon turns back to address your captain.

“If you’re not willing to talk when being whipped…” He pauses for a short moment, glancing over at your captain. “... I wonder if your tongue will loosen if I do it to one of your crew, then?”

The question sinks in.

“No!” You hear San, Yeosang and Wooyoung scream simultaneously at once, but you can’t register the words that Leon has just said. They’re going to whip you, probably flog you to death, just to get captain to talk...

Your eyes meet your captain’s, blood roaring through your ears. And ever since the whipping started, your captain looks afraid.

“No-” Hongjoong begins to say, but then Leon’s fingers are at the front of your shirt, pulling at the clasp.

Your eyes fly wide in realisation. Your bindings!

This may seem like the worst time to think about this, but you can’t have your gender revealed now. Not when the rest of the crew already had begun to trust you so deeply as one of their own, not when Wooyoung had confessed to you the some of the deepest, darkest secrets of his heart.

Uncaring of the gun at your head, you flail and thrash against him, to no avail.

Leon growls, fury vibrating through him. “Stop struggling!” With that, he shoves you to the ground, the sound of cloth tearing filling the air as you crash to the deck next to your captain.

There’s a sudden silence as everyone takes you in. You can see every emotion in Hongjoong’s green eye, shock, pain, realisation, then betrayal.

“A woman…” Leon steps over to you, sheer wonderment and interest in his voice. You don’t like where this is going. He yanks you to your feet by the hair and you scream in pain as every nerve ending on your head floods you with a sharp agony. The smile on his face is something you’ll see in nightmares for days to come. “She’s coming back with us. I hope you’re pure for sale, my sweet, but I suppose that may be difficult when you’re on the same ship as so many men.”

Terror swallows you whole.

He wants to sell you as a-

Hongjoong lunges to his feet faster than you can blink. You gasp at the sight of your captain, who’s somehow standing despite the fact that he should be physically in too much pain to do so. His green eye is burning with fire, an uncontrollable fire that ravages everything in its path and burns the world around it to cinders.

The look in his eyes alone lets you understand why he was named the Pirate King. Nobody could ever match the sheer determination and will that burns in his very soul, a roaring blaze that even the ocean cannot put out.

For a moment, he’s as blinding as the sun.

“Wooyoung!” Hongjoong shouts, and immediately the head gunner bursts into action, his ropes falling from his wrists as he tosses three smoke bombs you know were hidden in his shirt to the ground. The deck explodes into a smoky mixture of ash, fine sand and ground glass that San had concocted a long time ago, sending the Navy officers into a panic as they scatter, eyes watering from the blinding powder. The crew of the Treasure, already long familiar with this ever since Yeosang started experimenting with these smoke bombs, turn away from the wind and keep their eyes and noses shut tight against it.

Wooyoung takes this opportunity to use a knife hidden in his boot to cut through the bonds of Jongho and Yunho, who roar into battle like two furious lions. You watch as Jongho tears the sword of a officer off him with his bare hands, before picking the unfortunate man up and tossing him into the sea mercilessly, before smashing through anyone in his way like a one man battering ram.

Yunho rips a spear from the hands of a younger soldier, kicking him to the side before tearing through the deck, freeing as many of his crew mates as possible, all of who join in the fight, armed or not.

In a single second, the tides have shifted.

Leon hisses in rage as the battle happens before him, dragging you back with him as he moves towards the gangplank. The gun has long left your head, Leon using it to sweep the area for any potential intruders.

“You’re coming with me.” He growls, yanking you back. You try to fight back, but he simply smacks you so hard that you feel like you’ve been knocked silly for a moment, head swimming as you try to get your bearings. “I need to call for reinforcements, so-”

Hongjoong raises a short piece of rope with two knots done on it. For some reason, you immediately know what it is, the power thrumming through it too immense to be that of any human.

“Pulling the first knot could yield a gentle, southeasterly wind, while pulling two could generate a strong northerly wind, but the third knot would unleash a hurricane. Hongjoong-hyung has one of these, but he’s used the first knot already.”

But you’re already on the gangplank, and if Hongjoong pulls the second knot now, you’ll be left at the harbor alone, never to see them again. Your eyes meet your captain’s, and for a second, you see them falter.

Suddenly, he flies out of nowhere, lunging for your captor. Leon snarls and tries to kick him away, but then he raises a short knife and buries it in Leon’s arm. The man holding you stumbles back onto the gangplank, falling onto the ground and your saviour takes your hand.

“Let’s go!” He shouts, yanking you with him as the two of you sprint for the ship. Seeing this, Hongjoong raises a hand to undo the second knot on the rope.

You glance back, only to see your captor’s face twisted into one of hatred, the loaded musket pointed straight at your backs.

Hongjoong pulls free the second knot on the rope.

The hand holding yours yanks you in front of him and into his chest, shielding you with himself.

The sound of successive gunshots fill the air.

You feel his body jerk once. Twice. Thrice.

The wind picks up in speed, and all of a sudden the Treasure is speeding away from Nassau, leaving the port island a mere speck in the distance.

“Chin... Hae…” You hear him gasp out through ragged breaths. His chest is heaving against you. You can’t breathe. You can’t think.

Like an insect trapped in amber, you watch, frozen in time, as the arms holding you close slacken, falling from your shoulders. Then he crumples to his knees, crashing to the ground, and that is when you see the blood pouring from three different holes in his back.

Your mouth opens in a scream of his name.

[kisskissbanggang]

What You Don’t Know

[15Min Read/4.5K Words - College AU - Jisung x Female Reader - NSFW/Smut, 1/3 Plot - Femdom, Dom/Sub, Finding Kinks, Hair Pulling, Sub Awakening, Drinking Buddies, Friends to Lovers(?)]

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It's not like you hated Jisung when you met him. It wasn't like you liked him, either. Really, you didn't anything Jisung the first time your friends invited their new roommate out for drinks. All Minho had mentioned was he was a bit of a nerd and a bit of an introvert, but he definitely didn't seem that way when you got to the bar after work. Jisung was slamming a shot with your friends and laughing in only the way you can when it's not your first of the night, and you were already vastly indifferent to him. 

The only person who showed any extraneous interest in him was Stephanie, the group’s very own groupie. She'd slept her way through their whole house, starting with Felix back when they still lived in the dorms, and now they could never really shake her. Stephanie was fine, she was pretty and smart, but she didn't bring much else to the table and she certainly never made any efforts of her own to become friends with you as the guys suggested you try yourself at multiple points. Lately, she'd had her eyes set once again on her original goal: Chan, the name on the house’s lease and the first of them to graduate -- but to perpetually no avail. You had to applaud the arrogance in such a venture. Chan would be too busy with work for the foreseeable future to humor a girl like Stephanie, but she tried nonetheless. 

Until Jisung moved in. Now she had her sights set on him, and none of the guys interfered as this near rite of passage took place. Presently, she was sitting hip to hip with him in the booth, completely oblivious to his discomfort and trying hard to crack through his inhibitions enough to do anything resembling flirting. You and Minho had simply watched, amused, judging from the other side of the booth and sipping your drinks. 

What wasn't nearly as amusing was catching sight of your professor's new TA when you walked into the first class of your last college course. Jisung definitely made eye contact with you, but froze in a way that convinced you that he either didn't remember your name or desperately didn't want to socialize with you, both options suiting you just fine. Jisung didn’t say anything during class, he barely interacted with students, and he mostly kept to himself as Professor Brown droned. 

For the first three days. 

Finally, once Friday hit, the boys invited you back to the bar and you knew you shouldn't be surprised to see Jisung there. You and Minho watched as Stephanie tried and tried and tried to get Jisung to dance with her, until she finally gave up and cajoled Felix into doing it. And, once Minho left to get you a second round, you found yourself sitting next to the mousiest, quietest boy you’d ever met. That stumped you, seeing as he was just fine with the guys. You didn't feel jealous because, of course, you didn’t anything Jisung since you knew next to nothing about him, but it was interesting to watch him switch gears from friends to strangers. 

“I liked your outline.”

“What?” You asked, whipping your head around to find Jisung quickly averting his gaze back into his beer. He coughed up a little more confidence. 

“I liked your outline that you turned in.”

You blinked, impressed that he could actually make a move to just be nice to you. “Thanks,” you smiled genuinely, “it’s something I've been thinking of writing for the last year or so.”

“I look forward to reading your draft,” he said with a small grin. You were able to prod him after that, really pick his brain over the better parts of your outline and how to best represent that in your draft. “So,” he began one more beer later, now much more loosened up and relaxing back into the booth seat, “how do you even know these guys?”

“I met Chan in sophomore year,” you thought back, “and we almost got together, but you know Chan. He’s too busy for anything, even then he still was.” Jisung choked on his beer for a second but motioned for you to continue despite his quiet coughing. “So Chan and I are friends, and I sort of just became friends with everyone else, but especially Minho.”

“They’re good guys,” Jisung nodded into his drink. 

“What about you? You just moved in but aren’t you graduating soon, too? How does that work?”

Jisung shrugged. “Tired of the campus apartments and finally had enough money to move out. It’s like a nice transition from college to the real world.”

“So you're enjoying it?”

“Yeah,” Jisung smiled his small smile as he looked at you, “I'm loving living off campus. And it’s great opening up my circle of friends.”

Becoming friends with Jisung was incredibly easy. So now you liked Jisung, but not much else. He was friendly now to the point of occasional annoyance, but who didn’t have their moments? He waved hello during class and would sometimes hand you back assignments with little non sequiturs or drawings scribbled on post-its stuck to the back. Every once in a while, he could be convinced to hang out in the cafe on campus if you caught him walking by. 

It was really easy to be friends with Jisung, until Stephanie decided she was tired of just being friends and wanted to begin her conquest. Now you had to deal with her tagging along everywhere, constantly cooing over Jisung and dressing him up and parading him around. The first time he showed up to the bar with a scarf, you knew better. It was March. You stood up, grandly asking the boys to give you their attention as you made Jisung face you in all his confusion until you whipped his scarf off, revealing a giant hickey the hue of black cherries. The boys all groaned in unison and proceeded to razz Jisung for joining their de facto club all night until, of course, Stephanie showed up. You and Minho grimaced as the night went on and, sure enough, three beers later Stephanie had climbed into Jisung’s lap in the booth and proceeded to make out for twenty minutes. 

You weren’t jealous, of course. You just missed when Stephanie wouldn’t constantly be around. She didn’t even really know how to be with Jisung. Every time he reached his arm under hers to hold her hand, she shuffled him around to put his arm around her shoulder. Every time he went to kiss her cheek, she insisted that he kiss her lips. She was always getting him to hold her by the hips or waist when they were out at the bar or at parties, but he always seemed so compliant, so bored, so underutilized. 

One night at your usual booth, you were squished in between Minho and Jisung, fighting with Min over how you were very much a switch, and he was a liar for insisting he wasn't as well. 

“I’m a bottom,” Minho shook his head defiantly. 

“No, you’re not! What about the cute guy from your art class in sophomore year?”

“A phase,” he shrugged. 

“What about the tall girl from the volleyball team last summer?”

“A different phase,” he insisted. 

“You’re a liar and a fiend,” you laughed. “You’re a switch through and through.”

“What’s a switch?” Came Jisung from your other shoulder. 

“What?”

“What's a switch?” He laughed, practically pushing off Stephanie who was still trying to steal all his attention. 

“You know,” you searched for the words in the bottom of your beer, “there’s tops, and bottoms, and switches. Where they can be either.”

“Well Jisung is absolutely a top,” Stephanie insisted, stunned as you laughed out loud. 

“Jisung?! A top?!” 

“Babe,” Minho jokingly warned behind you, trying to calm you down before you got too rowdy. You patted his hand off of you. 

“Jisung is not a top,” you shook your head firmly. “Jisung is a switch, too, and a total sub to boot.”

“Oh, come on!” Jisung laughed boisterously, “And a sub?!” 

“Jisung is not a sub,” Stephanie whined. 

“You’re too busy telling him what to do to notice,” you guffawed, “Jisung is a sub. Watch.”

You curiously watched your own hand move before you even thought, outside yourself as your fingers ran up the back of Jisung’s neck and into his hair to firmly grip him at the root before manhandling him around to look into your eyes as he leaned into you. And you would've been mortified that you made such a rash decision, if Jisung didn’t compound this whole thing by his surprised yelp coming out sounding a lot more like a moan. His bright eyes drank you in as you both sat in the booth, your fingers still tangled in his hair until Minho grabbed your hand. 

“Beer,” Minho grumbled behind you. 

“Beer?”

“Beer, come get more beer with me.” Minho tugged you out of the booth and right into Chan as he finally entered the bar, his work bag still slung over his shoulder. 

“Hey!” He smiled wide as he clapped a hand on Minho’s shoulder. Chan looked at you now, eyebrow raised as he noticed something. “You’re red. What happened?”

“Caligula here just dommed Jisung in the fucking booth, in front of Stephanie.”

Chan blinked and he immediately grabbed your hand. “That’s not great. That means it’s time to get you home.”

You stubbornly shook your head, “No, no no, you just got here.”

“Good. I'll take you home before I start drinking.”

Chan marched you out and expectantly held open the door of his dumpy little commuter car, waiting for you to give up and get in. 

“So you did what now?” He asked as he revved the engine. 

“I don't know!” You insisted. “I was just playing around but I, you know, pulled Jisung’s hair.”

“Hot,” Chan smirked, “but I'm sure Stephanie hates you now.”

“Oh,” you rolled your eyes, “like she didn’t already.” 

“She doesn’t, but you and Jisung are just friends, and you’ve been known to make trouble like this.”

“That was one time!”

“Yes,” Chan nodded exaggeratedly, “and we almost slept together.”

You slouched in the passenger seat, watching streetlights as they passed overhead. 

“You’re right, of course.” Chan remarked offhandedly. 

“What?”

“Jisung is such a sub.”

It was pretty easy to avoid Jisung outside of class, but you did, admittedly, miss him. You kind of missed talking about movies, or sitting and watching dumb videos online, or sharing music back and forth. You sort of missed how he brought you snacks and complimented your outfits and always tried to mind your feelings even when he was critiquing your work. So it sort of sucked when Minho asked you to run to the house before coming to the bar because he forgot his wallet. 

You prayed and prayed and prayed that Jisung was already at the bar, but of course he was the one to open the door. 

“Hey,” he greeted awkwardly.

“Hey,” you stiffly returned his nod, “Minho forgot his wallet.”

Jisung stepped aside to let you into the old house, and was a couple steps behind you as you made your way up the creaky stairs. “Following me?” You laughed. 

“Oh, excuse me,” Jisung giggled, “I’m just trying to get back to my room to finish cleaning.”

“You? Cleaning? Lies.”

Jisung jokingly scoffed and passed you to head into the door opposite Minho’s. You set about looking for the lost wallet, finally finding it having fallen off his nightstand and almost under the bed. You stood up, dusting yourself off and cracking your back before you turned, gasping to see Jisung in the doorway. 

“Is it dumb if I say I missed you?” He admitted, almost shy with his small smile. 

You jokingly gasped. “How dare you have emotions?”

“Because I did,” he shrugged. “I've missed you. Just thought you should know.”

“Oh, Jisung,” you grinned affectionately, “I missed you, too. Hurry up with your cleaning and we can go to the bar together.” You squeezed his hand as you passed him in the doorway, taking a quick second to toss your arms around his shoulders and give him a quick hug. 

The hug lingered, just a beat longer than usual to not surprise you when you noticed Jisung breathing you in from the crook of your neck. You let yourself pet his hair for a moment before you began to pull away, but Jisung caught you, his hand snaking back to yours on his hair. Even as he stood a little taller than you, Jisung’s eyes were bright as they silently implored you, and you couldn’t keep resisting the curious urge you were feeling. 

Your fingers wove into Jisung’s hair, letting him feel everything before you firmly gripped him by the root again and pulled him in, making him have to hold back where he was, leaning in from the door frame and his lips hovering moments away from yours. And then you came back to your senses. 

“Wait,” you croaked, quickly relinquishing him and dipping away, “wait wait wait, I’m sorry, this is great, I want to, but Stephanie -- and you know -- I’ll see you at the bar.”

You spun on your heel to get downstairs and get the hell out, wishing more than anything your racing heart would calm down. 

“I broke up with Stephanie on Tuesday,” Jisung piped up behind you. 

“What?” You stopped in your tracks, your hand still on the railing. 

“I said I broke up with Stephanie on Tuesday.”

You slowly turned to look at Jisung at the top of the stairs. “No one ‘breaks up’ with Stephanie.”

Jisung sighed defeatedly. “I know. I told her I don’t want to fool around anymore and then she said whatever and implied I don’t know how to use my dick.”

“So you chased off Stephanie on Tuesday, but you didn’t tell me?”

“No. None of the guys know. I mean, except for Minho. Stephanie is fine, she’s pretty but talking to her is like trying to make a bonfire out of toothpicks.”

You stared at Jisung’s obliviousness. “You chased off Stephanie on Tuesday,” you emphasized, “and you didn’t tell me?”

Jisung shook his head, big eyes still curiously watching for your reaction, and widening as you stormed back up the stairs. You picked up right where you left off, only now hopping up to wrap your legs around his waist as you tangled your fingers back into his hair and finally kissed him. 

“Should I have told you?” He meekly chuckled against your lips. 

“You should've told me. Bedroom, now.”

“Bedroom? Why the --”

“Bedroom or else I'm going to fuck you right here in the hallway.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Jisung fell back against his bedroom door with you in tow, your fingers gently tugging on his hair as you kissed him hard. Your tongue provoked his own to respond in kind, Jisung hungrily licking into your mouth and his moans sounding more like whines in your ear. He pushed open the bedroom door, sending you both stumbling in as he carried you to bed. You were set down softly and you caught your breath for a moment. You briefly took in the sight of Jisung’s side of the room, smirking at the piles of books and CD’s heavily contrasting with Felix’s much tidier side. 

“This is clean?”

“Well,” Jisung floundered despite (or in light of) your devilish grin, “it’s cleaner.”

Jisung leaned down to join you in bed before you pushed him back off of you. He stood up straight and waited, patiently wondering what you were up to. 

“Strip.”

“What?” 

“Don't pretend like you didn’t hear me,” you laughed, “take off something, and I’ll do the same. Got it?”

Jisung nodded, eyes wide again for a moment before he decided to first kick off his shoes and socks, waiting to see if you followed through. He watched intently as you did the same. Next, he looked you both over before sliding off his jacket and letting it drop to the floor. His Adam's apple bobbed as you did this as well, dropping your jacket off the side of the bed. You watched as Jisung openly switched between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his jeans, unable to decide just what to do here before settling on his shirt. It was nice seeing him like this, not seeing his body like this for the first time in bed, but playing around in the dimly warm light of his bedroom. His chest was smooth, not sculpted but still defined, and the faint lines of his hips leading your eyes down to his jeans before you remembered how the game was supposed to work and to slip your top off as well. Jisung watched, caught up in the way you undressed, in the way you looked as you unclipped your bra for him and dropped that off the side of the bed, too. He gulped, almost comically, before he unbuttoned his jeans and dropped them. You didn’t hide how you stared at the growing bulge tenting his briefs as you unbuttoned and slid off your jeans as well. Jisung’s fingers wavered as he went to tug his underwear down over his erection, standing tall and blushing against his neatly trimmed hair. You crooked a finger to him, beckoning him closer as he stood naked before you in the room. 

“You do this part,” you smiled sweetly, laying back on his bed. Jisung nodded and leaned down to slide his warm hands up your thighs and pull your panties down. You gently cupped his face before you couldn't resist tugging on his hair again, loving the soft whines it made him produce, how it made him wince and shiver just a little when you were less intense. Your lips met again as you brazenly reached for Jisung’s rigid cock, massaging his length in your hand as you finally pulled him into bed with you. “So you’re already plenty good at listening,” you teased, “what else are you good at?”

“Whatever you want me to be,” Jisung smiled breathlessly. 

“What did I tell you,” you giggled, “you’re such a sub. Now lie down and call me ma’am again.”

“Yes ma'am.” Jisung eagerly lay down beside you, surprised yet again as you climbed on top of him, the heat of your bodies enough to blanket you in his cozy bedroom. You softly kissed his lips and he watched patiently, obediently, as you kissed his forehead next and moved up to ultimately perch yourself on his chest, your exposed pussy on full display in front of his parted lips. A smirk preceded you pushing Jisung’s head back as he instinctively leaned forward to lick you. 

“Ask first,” you gently warned him. 

Jisung licked his lips, his throat dry from how much he’d already whined for you. “Can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Can I lick your pussy?” 

“I don’t know,” you cracked a mean smile, “can you?”

Jisung threw his head back in the pillow with a laugh. “Come on, please, may I lick your pussy?”

“Yes, baby, lick my pussy.” 

“Yes ma'am.” You stroked your fingers into Jisung’s hair as he closed his eyes and dove into your glistening folds. He more than deserved some encouragement from just how eager he was, moaning as he tasted you and laved at your clit. In fact, he was good enough that you predicted you would have to be careful to not cum too fast. You lightly pulled Jisung off of you, standing up over him and giving him quite the view as you turned around to reposition yourself to face his feet instead. “May I continue?” Jisung breathed, and you were impressed. He just wanted to please you and play by your rules. You couldn’t see a disobedient bone in his body, and if he had one he didn’t give any hints of it. 

“Yes, baby, you can continue.”

Jisung hummed contentedly as he began licking you again, his hands pulling at your thighs as he moaned against your pussy. He jumped as your hand closed around his hard cock again, lightly stroking his length that had the smallest curve upwards. His moans against your clit drove you wild, and it provoked you to stroke him harder until you could hardly stand it. You finally dipped his length into your mouth, stroking his cock as you sucked on him as well. Jisung apparently couldn't control his small thrusts into your mouth until you spanked his thigh to calm him down, and his hushed whimpers were an amazing undercurrent to the room. The faint taste of precum was coating your tongue. All of it -- Jisung’s licking, his whines, his cock in your mouth -- was serving to create an orgasm that you refused to have yet. You dipped Jisung’s hard length deeper into your mouth, almost into your throat, and loving how he had to stop licking you for a moment from the force of his moan before you rolled off of him. 

The both of you caught your breath for a second, chests heaving as Jisung absently reached his hand under yours to interlace your fingers together. You smiled softly, leaving over to kiss his brow. 

“Are you good to keep going?” You asked quietly, almost proud of Jisung’s eager nod. You climbed back on top of him, the entrance of your pussy set right on the head of Jisung’s cock. You could've sworn Jisung held his breath as you firmly mounted him and took his length inside you. He watched, rapt as you took your time rocking your hips on his. “Why aren't you touching me?” You teasingly purred. 

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” Jisung rasped, and quickly set to stroking your clit while intermittently fondling your breasts as you rode him. 

“Is it good, baby?”

“So good,” Jisung choked out between moans. 

“Be grateful,” you gently reminded him. 

“Thank you, ma'am,” Jisung whimpered as your tight depths massaged his length, “thank you for letting me fuck you.”

“Of course,” you smiled warmly. “Now do you think you can make me cum?”

Jisung let out a loud groan at your words, his thumb on your clit becoming a little more earnest. 

“Say it,” you lightly chided as you pinched his hand currently on your tit. You lit up at his small yelp from the pain. 

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung struggled. 

“Louder,” you encouraged. 

“Yes ma'am!” Jisung moaned louder now, his hips now also rolling along with yours to drive his length harder against your spot. 

“Good, baby. Now remember it’s not your turn yet, alright?”

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung groaned, fully wrecked by now as your moans grew a bit more desperate. 

“Fuck me, Jisung,” you mewled, “fuck me and make me cum.”

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung breathed, his other hand now holding onto your thigh as he bounced you hard on his cock in tandem with his stroking thumb. He watched, enraptured, as you threw your head back and came with a cry, your pussy clenching and shuddering around his throbbing cock. 

You took a moment to breathe and come back to earth, the thin sheen of sweat on your brow likely matching Jisung’s as you collapsed onto his chest. “Ready to keep going?” You panted. 

“Are you?” Jisung chuckled. “You just orgasmed, after all.”

“That’s when it’s best,” you assured him with a grin as you absently stroked his chin. “You’re doing so good. I feel so good. I need you to finish.”

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung nodded gravely. “How do you want me?”

You leaned over to kiss his cheek as you reached for his hand and pulled him over to face you, ultimately pulling him up and between your legs on the bed. “What a quick learner,” you praised, “you’re so well-behaved. Now fuck me. I bet you're cute when you cum.”

Jisung shivered at the condescension as he buried his leaking cock inside you. He already filled you out so well, so satisfyingly, but you wanted to see how far he could be pushed. 

“Come on,” you taunted, “don’t be afraid to get a good angle. Actually fuck me.”

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung groaned, invigorated to hoist one of your legs up to drive into you deeper. Actually, after a few thrusts like this, Jisung paused, grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed, and gently manhandled you to slide it under your ass. With this improved angle, Jisung got your leg back up and easily slid back inside you, the proudest grin on his exhausted face as you cried out and gripped the sheets from the way he filled you up now. In fact, he was hitting your spot in a way you hadn’t encountered much, in a way that could maybe make you cum again if you weren’t so worn out. “Please ma'am,” Jisung begged sweetly, “may I cum?”

“Yes, baby,” you pleaded, “please cum.”

“Yes ma'am--!” Jisung grunted out a strangled groan as he clutched onto you, bucking hard into you and screwing his eyes shut as he came. 

It was Jisung’s turn to collapse onto you and suck in lungfuls of air, his cock still throbbing deep inside you with your legs finally easing back against the bed as you held him close. 

“That was so good,” you softly praised, kissing the top of his head where he lay on top of you. “Have you ever done anything like that before?”

“Never,” Jisung exhaled a chuckle onto your chest, his breath lightly tickling your skin. “Never eaten pussy before, either.”

“What?!” You blurted. “You had me fooled. Was it good?”

“So good,” Jisung laughed softly against you. “You taste amazing.”

“And how was it? Letting someone have control?”

“Everything I didn’t realize I'd been daydreaming about for years. I expected you to be rougher, honestly.”

“You should take it slow,” you shook your head. “Besides, there's always next time.”

“Next time?”

You patted Jisung's shoulder to signal you wanted to sit up and he let you, rolling onto your side. “Yeah, next time. If that’s what you want?”

“Of course I do,” Jisung smiled giddily as he finally rolled out of bed to get dressed again. He threw you your jacket and clothes. “By the way, jog my memory: what did you originally come here for anyway?”

“Minho’s wallet,” you shrugged, pulling it out of your jacket pocket to show him. Jisung blinked hard at it. 

“That’s not Minho’s wallet.”

“It isn't?”

“Not his new one, anyway. I saw him put his new one in his pocket on his way out to the bar.”

You thought hard about it before sighing out a laugh. “He's waiting for me to say something, then. Do me a favor and don't mention this at all when we go to the bar.”

Jisung cracked a sly grin for you. “Yes ma'am.”

[five-rivers]

Cloak/Plague

Zombies!

.

.

.

The night was dark beyond the fire, pitch and clinging, as if someone had dipped the world in black paint.  Jacob stood at the edge of the light, on watch, one hand resting on his gun, the thumb of the other hooked around its shoulder strap. Behind him, either Sharktooth or Jade—He wasn’t sure which woman was which—tossed another log on the fire.  

He was nervous.  This was the largest group he’d been in for a while.  Over fifty people.  Little groups squished together by circumstance and the fact that scavenging only got harder as time went on.  There was talk of finding a town somewhere, one that hadn’t been damaged too badly, and making a settlement.  Something permanent.  Something secure.  

Jacob’s stomach turned over.  He’d tried that before.  The Coliseum.  It hadn’t worked out well, even if that was where he had met Mack.

Some of them were talking about trying for Sacramento or Rock City or the Valley.  There was civilization there, just a touch of it, according to radio waves one of the techies picked up on good days.

Jacob had tried that, too.  Sacramento, at least.  That hadn’t turned out well, either.  

Of all the things to fear during a zombie apocalypse, other humans were definitely at the top of Jacob’s list.  Heck, he was only here in the first place because of Mack and how much they needed information.  

“So,” said one of the women, Jacob thought it was Sharktooth, languidly.  “Who’s bored?”

Bored was probably the wrong word to describe anyone living through this mess.  At the same time…

Well, Sharktooth got quite a response.

“We’re from all over, right?  So, we’ve probably all got stories.  Tales.  Places we’ve seen or hear of.  Might as well share while we’re here, right?  Who knows when we’ll be around this many people again?”

“You’re not staying?” asked Jade, clearly taken aback.

“Haven’t decided yet,” said Sharktooth, shooting a glance at leader of the largest of the gathering’s constituent groups. “Maybe if there was a plan…”  She shrugged.  “But, hey.  All of us are here, now, right?  We might as well make the best of it.”

“Why don’t you start, then?” asked Mack, a little belligerently.  So, yeah, that was definitely Sharktooth.  She and Mack had been having a thing since Jacob and Mack joined the group. Not a romantic thing, Sharktooth had to be a decade older than Mack, but still a thing.  

“Sure,” said Sharktooth.  “Why not?”  Jacob watched her crouch down next to the fire out of the corner of his eye.  “Ever hear of the phantom city?”

There was muttering.  “Everywhere’s a ghost town, now,” said someone, a little louder than the rest.  “You don’t need to rub it in.”

“And we don’t need more nightmares,” added another.

“Nah, this isn’t a ghost story.  Just a weird story.  Well, the town was supposed to be haunted before, but I’m pretty sure that was just a tourist thing.  Anyway, they’re a broadcaster.  You know, radio spam.  All that ‘Hey, here we are’ stuff.  Like Sacremento.”

“Yeah?” prompted someone.  “What’s the city called?”

“Amity Park.  And if you’re in Illinois, you can probably catch their broadcast.  But good luck finding it.  There’s a reason it’s called the phantom city.  When I was going up through Ohio, I met people who’d tried to find it.  Never could.”

“Why were they in Ohio if they were looking for a city in Illinois?” asked Mack.  “Seems kind of dumb.”

“Well, they’d given up,” said Sharktooth.  “Couldn’t justify searching anymore.  They were mad about it, too.  They had maps, they had coordinates, radios to pick up the broadcast, everything. Heck, they said they had road signs. Exits off the highway marked with the name.  But as soon as they got close…”  She waved her hands dramatically.  “Nothing. Even the broadcast went silent.”

“Hey, hold up, I think I’ve heard of that!” interjected a member of Sharktooth’s audience.  “There was just a hole in the ground or something.”

“Yep.  But when they got farther away, the broadcast started up again.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t a ghost story.”

Sharktooth shrugged.  “Might not be ghosts,” she said.  “Might be people trying to lure people in.  A trap, or something.  Or maybe they had some kind of automated broadcast set up, and it kept going after the town got wrecked.  I don’t know.”  

Jacob looked over his shoulder just in time to see a corner of Jade’s lip twitch up.  “If you want to talk about ghost stories, why not the Phantom?”

Jacob groaned.  He wasn’t the only one.  

“Oh, come on!” said Mack, protesting.  “Don’t be like that, he’s real!”

“Have you ever met anyone who actually said they met him?” asked Sharktooth, practically.  “It’s all friend of a friend stuff.”

“So’s Amity Park,” muttered Jade.

“I’ve met him!” protested Mack.  

“Wait, what, really?” asked Jade, sounding like she’d just been slapped.  

“Yeah!  It was before I met Jacob.  I was traveling with…”  He trailed off.  “Some… People.  We got jumped by a pack, and I thought I was going to die, but Phantom showed up and he fought them off with just a machete!  It was super cool.  And, like, I got bitten, but he injected me with that green stuff, just like in the stories, and I was fine!  Well, not completely fine.  I was kind of sick, after, but I didn’t turn, obviously.  And then he brought me to Mastersoft Coliseum, because it was, you know, before it got wrecked.  That’s where I met Jacob!”

“What did he look like?” asked one of the younger members of the group.  

“Well, I never really got a good look at him, to be honest?  He was sort of wearing, uh, layers.  Not quite one of those, um, hazmat suit type deals, I don’t think, but he had a mask. And his eyes were super green!  It was wild.”  He shrugged.  “Also, I was kind of out of it…  Like I said, I was pretty sick.  Barely remember what he said to me…”

“Cool story, bro.”

“Yeah, maybe if you told it better, we’d believe it!”

“Hey!  I’ve got the scars to prove it!”

“Whoa, hey,” said Sharktooth, mercifully stopping Mack from stripping.  “You don’t have to—"

“Hello the camp!”

Jacob cursed and brought up his gun, his action mirrored by the others on watch.  That voice was far too close for comfort.  Even in the dark, someone should have noticed something.  

Why was this guy wandering around in the dark?

“I come in peace!  I bring medical supplies and zucchini!”

“Show yourself!” barked Jacob.  

“I’m just—Ah.  I’m just right here.”  

Finally, movement.  Jacob thumbed on his flashlight (and tried very hard not to think about how soon he’d have to replace the batteries).  

“Ow.  Bright,” complained the teenager in front of him.  Jacob stared.  The kid was even younger than Mack.  

Was Mack even a teenager anymore…?  It had been years.  They’d missed some birthdays.  

Point being, there was no way this kid was out here on his own.  

“Where are the rest of you?” demanded Jacob.  

“Uh,” said the kid.  “Nowhere?  I’m out here on my own.”  He waved his hands back and forth expressively but was careful to keep them in Jacob’s line of sight.  His poncho flapped back and forth in the night breeze, concealing his figure.  

The kid could be wearing anything under there. Guns, bombs, swords... anything.

“Poncho,” snapped Jacob.  “Take it off.”  He was aware that the whole camp was tense and awake behind him, searching for other enemies, bracing themselves to run at a moment’s notice.

“Okay,” said the kid.  “I really am alone, you know.  Sorry to startle you all.”  He pulled the poncho off, revealing that, despite it being the least likely thing on Jacob’s very short list of possibilities, the kid was wearing a sword.  No, he was wearing two of them.  

“What are the swords for?”

“Uh,” said the kid, giving him a look like he was an idiot.  “Killing zombies?  I mean, what’s the gun for?  Who walks around without a weapon, these days, right?”

Closer to the fire, the group’s illustrious de facto leader was giving orders to search for whoever the kid was with.  

The kid rolled his eyes.  “Do whatever you want to make yourselves feel better, but I am alone.  I’m not bait, or whatever you’re thinking.”

“You’re, like, fourteen,” said Sharktooth.  “You would have been, what, eleven when the plague hit?  No way you’re on your own.”

“Excuse you, but I’m eighteen, thanks.  I blame my permanent baby face on my parents. Speaking of, you don’t happen to have a Jack or Maddie Fenton anywhere in there, do you?”

“There’s no one out here!” shouted one of the searchers, voice echoing slightly.  

The kid shrugged.  “I told you.  I mean, I get why you’re cautious and all, I’ve been jumped a couple times, but still.”

The group watched him uneasily.  

“You’re looking for your parents?” asked Sharktooth, finally.  

“Yep.  For a while, now.  They were away from home when, you know, everything went down.”

Alright.  Now this was just getting awkward.  And a little pathetic.  

“Do you know where they were, at least?” asked Mack.  Of course, Mack would sympathize.  He had his own parental issues.  

There was something odd about his tone, however. Something off.  

“Yeah.  Nevada. Specifically, Phoenix.  But it’s been years, so they could be anywhere.  Hence the searching.  I’ve actually been to Nevada.  It kind of sucks down there, to be honest, because, well, it’s a desert, but that also means there aren’t as many zombies, because apparently they get dehydrated, too, after a while.  So. That’s interesting.”

“You’ve been to Nevada?” asked their wise leader.

“Yeah.  A bunch of other places, too, like I said, I’ve been searching.  I can do a story swap if you’d like.  Also, I have zucchinis.  Yesterday, I stayed at this one house and there were just.  So many zucchinis.  Like, the entire yard was overrun with zucchinis.  Zucchinis are edible, and you can’t turn your nose up at fresh produce in this economy, but I have no idea how to prepare zucchinis, and they’re honestly a little, uh, bland?  Let’s call it bland.  To just eat raw.  So, I’m willing to trade for, you know, not being shot.”

“You said you had medical supplies?” asked Jade.

“Yeah, a bit!  Not, like, a huge amount, but it seemed like the thing to say.  Is anyone hurt?”

Their heroic leader took a moment to consider this. “Not right now.  But, alright.  We can swap stories.  What’s your name?”

“Danny.  Danny Fenton.”  The kid made a motion that might have been intended as a salute.  

“Right.  Jacob, you can stop it with your tough-guy act.”

Very reluctantly, Jacob lowered the gun.  The kid, Danny or whatever, was way too cheerful for an eighteen-year-old walking through a zombie apocalypse on his own. Something was up.  

Of course, that something might just be godawful coping mechanisms.  

“Anyway, here are the zucchinis.”  The boy held out a bag, a hopeful smile on his face. “So, uh, stories?  Preferably about places where there’s a bunch of people, because that’s the kind of place they’d go.”

“Right, sure,” said the man who claimed leadership. “What are your parents, anyway?”

“Ah, they’re doctors!” said the boy.  “I want to bring them home, so they can figure out a cure.”

Okay.  So, the kid was delusional.  Right. Well, it happened.  

“I mean, we’ve had some success, but they’re specialists, you know?  When I say ‘we’ I mean Amity Park as a whole, by the way.  I’m the one who had the basic idea, I guess, but I didn’t have any way to follow through on my own.  Observing a fact doesn’t mean you can take advantage of it, after all!”

“Amity Park?”

“Yep!  That’s where I’m from.”  Danny shot finger guns at Sharktooth.  “We’ve got an environmental deterrent for zombies.  Chemical in the air screws with the virus.  Some get in every once in a while, but they usually die in a week, even if you leave them alone, which we don’t.  It’s pretty safe, there.  I can give you a map.”

“Is this a joke?” demanded the ‘leader.’

“Um, no?  Why would it be a joke?”

“I met some people who tried to find your town, but it was a crater,” said Sharktooth.  

“That’s still going on, huh?”  Danny shook his head.  “Yeah, we don’t really know why it does that, either.  Or was that a couple years ago?  We were trying to fix it…”  He trailed off.  “What?”

“You said you had medical supplies?” prompted the man trying very hard to stay in charge.  

“Ah, right.”  The kid reached into his bulkier bag and pulled out a large box. “Speaking of, I don’t suppose you’ve heard of anyone else trying to make a cure?  Mom and Dad could be working with them, and if not,” he shrugged, then flipped up the lid of the box, “collaboration is always good.”

Half the box was full of various bottles, packets, and smaller boxes.  Normal enough. The other half, though…

“Is that radioactive?” asked Jacob, unable to stop himself as he stared at the…  God, were those epi-pens?

“Not in the sense you’re thinking of, but yes.”

“Oh my gosh,” said Mack.  “I knew it!  You’re Phantom!”

Danny looked up.  “Um.  I guess we’ve met?”

“Yeah, you took me to the Mastersoft Coliseum! That’s the stuff you injected me with!”

“Oh, you were the kid the Boom Box Raiders were dragging around!”

“Oh.  Yeah,” said Mack, weakly.  “That’s me.”

“Nice to see you’re still around.  Anyway, to answer your next question, this is the prophylactic.”  He picked up one of the glowing green injection pens.  “At least, that’s what some of the doctors back home call it? If you get it within a minute of being bitten or scratched or whatever, preferably in the area near the wound, you have an eighty percent survival rate.  Sometime more can help fighting off the disease, but if you’re not acclimated, you can go into shock with too much, and there’s really no way to get acclimated out here.”

“You’re willing to trade something like that?” asked Jade, dubiously.  

“Why not?  Like I said, it’s environmental where we live.”

“But you’re not there, now.  You’re out here.  Same as the rest of us.”

“That’s true.  But I’ve got enough of this in my bloodstream to straight-up kill any zombie that wants to bite me.  Really. I can show you the scars if you want.” He raised an eyebrow.  Then he turned to their ever so brilliant leader with a sharp smile.  “By the way, you should rethink robbing me.  I am very willing to trade, but if you attack me, I have dozens of ways to kill you.  Most of them don’t even involve my swords.”

“It’s true,” said Mack.  

“You know what?” said Jacob, stepping a little closer to Danny, or Phantom, or whoever this kid was trying to be.  “Why don’t you show us those scars.  Then we can decide if we even want to trade with you.”

Phantom shrugged.  “Fair enough.”

[hydromessenger]

A Different Place

A Genshin Impact AU verse - Starring OCs and canon characters. Please do not hesitate to leave a review on what you read~

Mondstadt was beautiful once. At least, that was what the old women said when they were telling their stories to anyone who would listen. Ella wasn’t so sure she believed them, though. Their stories sounded like the fairy tales her grandmother used to spin for her, to help her sleep.

It was a nice story to think about, though. That once upon a time Mondstadt had been covered in green, and the people were free to come and go as they pleased. And their beloved God, Barbatos, would walk the streets with his people, playing music and telling tales of his own.

At 19 years old, Ella had long since grown out of fairy tales. And the stories that she used to listen to with such delight, now only made her feel old and weary. She leaned back, bumping her head against the old stone behind her, her gaze locked on the pearly walls that separated Sector 13 from the rest of Mondstadt and released a sigh as the clear ringing of bells echoed through the streets.

A new day had begun in Mondstadt. Any minute now the men and women who worked the streets at night would leave their places of business and retire to their homes, and the merchants who were allowed would start opening their shops. And, like clockwork, within half an hour of the shops opening, the Knights would emerge from their lofty tower to make sure everyone was following the Grandmaster’s edicts.

“Ella!” She was pulled from her musings as a young boy ran over to her. “The Boss has a job for you.” He said, shoving a ball of paper into her hand, before he ran off, likely to deliver other messages from his boss.

She unballed the paper, already knowing what was on it. And she was right, pressed in the center of the paper was the anemo symbol in crisp black ink. She was being summoned.

Ella sighed once again, and shoved the paper into her pocket, before she pushed herself to her feet and started the long trek to Farrier’s shop, which was on the opposite side of the slums from where she liked to watch the sky. She was able to dodge the Knights with the ease of someone with a lot of practice. Though avoiding the Hawkers in their alley was a lot harder.

All of the people in Sector 13 were all a single bad day away from starving to death, Ella included. In fact, the only person who didn’t have to worry about food or the Knights was Farrier. It was an open secret that her Boss was the de facto leader of Sector 13. He was the wealthiest. The meanest. And the largest employer.

In fact, Ella had been his employee since the day that she received her Hydro vision when she was still a teenager. And oh, she hated him. From the top of his smug little head to the bottom of his designer shoes.  And yet…

Ella stopped as she came to the largest building in the slums, taking a moment to steel herself for what she was about to see, and then she pushed open the doors. 

Farrier’s shop was much more than just a shop. In fact, you couldn’t buy anything from Farrier at all. You could borrow Mora from him, if you felt like owing the impossible interest. And no one in the lowest sector could afford his interest. It didn’t stop the desperate and hungry from going to him for aid, of course.

Farrier got richer, while everyone else got poorer.

“Ah, Ella! I see my boy found you!” Farrier was a short man, built rather like a teapot. He reminded Ella of a rather large fly with his large eyes, and his constantly twitching fingers. He seemed fond of her though, which meant that Ella wasn’t like to starve.

“Yeah. Poor kid needs a raise, Boss.” Ella pointed out.

Farrier laughed, “Nonsense! The boy is here working off his parent’s debts. I don’t pay him in anything other than food.” He laughed even harder for a long while, before he sobered, “Ella, you’re my favorite person here in these slums, my girl!” He boomed, “You’re so competent, and you even have a vision, which makes you valuable!”

“You’ve mentioned that before,” Ella pointed out casually, “You said you had a job for me?”

“I do, I do.”He leaned back in his chair, “You know the old abandoned sector?”

“I do. It’s growing by the year, if no one does anything the 13th sector will all be just like that part.” She replied, folding her arms over her chest, “But I don’t have the ability to fix that boss.”

“No, no. That’s not really all that important in the grand scheme of things.” He said, “No. I need you to go into the Abandoned sector, to the old library, and bring back as many books as you can.”

“Uh. Okay?”

“They’re valuable, lass!”

“They’re also illegal, Farrier,” Ella pointed out, “Going into the Abandoned sector is very, very illegal. For everyone who isn’t a knight.”

“True, true. The grandmaster is kind of a jerk,” Farrier pointed out, as if he was unable to see the irony in his statement, “but, I still need you to do it.”

“Fine! Fine. I’ll do it.” Ella sighed and folded her arms, “I’ll need my goggles and my mask though.”

Farrier beamed, and it made Ella’s skin crawl, “Of course, of course! Your mask and goggles are where they have always been. Also, I recently purchased protective gloves from Sector 1, so you don’t have to worry about getting burnt if you have to touch anything.”

“Fab.” She replied as she turned and walked into the storage room on the other side of the room. Hanging on a hook next to the door was a blue bag labeled Ella, and inside were the protective equipment that she would need to stay healthy in the abandoned sector. She dug through the bag for a moment, and then stuck her head into the main room, “Farrier! The sewer key is missing!”

“Oh, yes. I had to have all of the keys destroyed. The Knights found that entrance. You’re going to be going in through the old church in the south of the slums.” Ella walked out of the storage room, and caught the key that he threw at her, “This will unlock the church, make sure you lock it back behind you.”

“Obviously,” She said, slinging the bag over her shoulder, “Is there anything else I should know?”

Farrier remained silent, a wide grin on his face, “Well. There is one thing.”

Ella waited, “Well?” She asked, after he didn’t say anything for a whole minute, “What is it?”

“Ah, right. The original team I sent to get the books...they never returned.”

“What.”

“I’m sure they just weren’t wearing their protective gear well!”

“What?”

“If you can find their supplies I’ll pay you a hefty bonus.”

“...fine.”

“Splendid! I’ll see you when you get back!” Farrier’s creepy smile was back, and Ella turned to leave so she wouldn’t have to see it anymore. “Oh! Watch out for Knights! Rumor has it that they’re poking around the abandoned zone!”

“You couldn’t-” Ella spun to yell at him, only to be, not so graciously, pushed out the door and had the door slam in her face. “-have mentioned that first?” She sighed and spun away from the building. Farrier was a dick, she wasn’t sure why she was surprised at how he had treated her.

She walked away from the Farrier House, and ducked into a small alley to pull out the map of Sector 13, “Hm...southside church. Abandoned…” She trailed her finger over the map, squinting at the small letters, “Oh, there it is. The Church of Barbatos.” It was actually quite a distance away from where she was currently. So she let out a sigh, shoved the map back in her bag, and started the long trek towards the old church.

While all of the Slums were bad, the southside was the worst. Merchants never traveled out this far, due to the proximity of the abandoned sector. The knights never patrolled so far into the slums either, meaning the crime rate was almost 100%.

The only power in the Southside Slums was Farrier.

And if that wasn’t a damning statement for this part of the slums, Ella wasn’t sure what was.

The only plus to coming to the Southside, was that her bag clearly labeled her as one of Farrier’s, which meant that the people who looked like they were going to risk trying to mug a vision user, decided to take their violence elsewhere.

However, the deeper into Southside she traversed, the fewer people she encountered. Until she was only a few streets away from the church, and Ella realized that she hadn’t seen a single person in several minutes.

Although, as she turned a corner and saw elemental corruption clinging to the street and walls, she understood a little better. Ella paused long enough to pull her mask on, as well as her goggles, and she pulled her hat down so that it covered her ears, before she continued.

Elemental corruption was strange. In some ways it was harmless, for example you could walk through a cloud of elemental energy and not be harmed at all, even if it did feel strange against your skin. If you tried to use your vision while in a cloud of elemental energy, your elemental power would be increased, but there was always the chance of it backfiring on you, especially with the more volatile elements, like anemo, pyro, and electro.

In other ways, the elemental energy was so dangerous. If someone were to walk through a cloud of elemental energy while not wearing protective gear they would suffer from lung infections, eye infections, and eardrum ruptures. And that was just the short term. Long term, the effects could be much worse.

If a lot of pyro elemental energy got into your lungs, it could, and would, cause a pyro swirl reaction inside your lungs. And, well, there are less painful ways to die.

Once Ella was sure that she was properly protected, she stepped through the clouds of elemental energy, grimacing at the feel of it prickling against her skin. It would be an electro day.

Fortunately, the church wasn’t far away by that point, and she was able to jog the few remaining streets to reach the old, and yet well kept, building. She used her key to unlock the front door, and carefully shut and locked the door behind her.

The church had long been surrendered to the elements, none of the old pews remained, some had been turned to ash, while others sprouted into brand new trees. Walls were crumbling and the roof was almost completely gone. And yet, at the front of the church, was a statue of Barbatos, seemingly untouched by the elements.

She carefully made her way to the front of the church, stepping over the missing pieces of floor, or trying to avoid the more worn looking pieces at least, and she stopped in front of the statue. Ella stood there for a short moment, sending a silent prayer to the missing god for her own safety, before she lightly touched the base of the statue.

She took a deep breath, and stepped around the statue, hopping over a broken piece of floor, and opened the door that would lead to the abandoned sector.

As soon as she stepped over the threshold, Ella felt several different elements brush against her exposed skin. She turned to look over the abandoned sector and her breath caught.

It was beautiful, but tragic. There were elemental reactions happening all over the place, houses were covered in ice, even as the land around the building burned. Electricity arced through the air, until it got caught up in an anemo reaction, sending the lightning in every direction.

People had once lived here, long ago. Ella couldn’t help but wonder if they escaped the elemental energy, or if they died without knowing what was happening.

She shook her head, putting those thoughts to the side, and started scanning the buildings. Libraries were normally large buildings, so logically, she was looking for a large building. And, if she was lucky, it might even still be standing.

Eventually, as she turned her gaze towards the west, she caught a hint of a large building that seemed to be covered in trees. Possibly the library, and trees were a heck of a lot safer than the fire tornados that were everywhere else. Decision made, Ella hopped down from the ledge that she had used for shelter, summoned her polearm and began to walk.

Elemental reactions were a thing here, yes. Fortunately for her she had her own element.

One hour later, Ella was irritatedly taking shelter under what used to be a cafe. A massive cryo and electro reaction forced her to seek shelter if she didn’t want to turn into a crisp. However, the time did allow her to take note of the fact that the building she was heading towards was, in fact, a library. And that there seemed to be a remarkable lack of elemental energy around it. Or the area around the building was a hot spot of dendro or geo elemental energy.

Annoyingly, she was only a short distance away from the building too.

It took 2 hours for the cryo-electro storm to pass, and Ella hurried in the direction of the library before another storm could start. All things considered, the storm she had to live through was better than most of the alternatives.

Amazingly, the library was still in one piece. Sure, she had to climb in through a broken window, due to the door being blocked by a massive tree, but other than that, it actually felt kind of safe.

She looked around the room, taking in the walls of books, and, for a moment, felt totally overwhelmed. How was she supposed to know which of these books would be worth the most to Farrier? She rubbed the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath to try and settle herself, and she grabbed a book off one of the shelves.

It was a book on the various nations of Teyvat, before the walls were erected. Valuable? Maybe. She tossed the book onto one of the remaining tables. And pulled another one off the shelf. A cookbook. Less valuable.

For over an hour, Ella skimmed through the books, looking for ones that might be valuable for her boss. And she was about to leave when a thin book, hand written rather than printed like the others, fell from inside a children’s novel.

“What’s this?” Ella asked the empty room, as she picked up the book and flipped to the first page.

I spoke to Morax today, he agrees with me. The situation is getting worse, not better and our actions don’t seem to have any effect on the creatures that the Abyss pulled from somewhere. They seem almost...immune to our elements.

Ella turned a couple of pages, making a note of the date at the top of each page. It appeared that this was a journal, or a diary of some sort.

The creatures got into Mondstadt today. I…

They killed everyone. 

I’ve had enough. I’m going to go to the other archons and demand that something be done.

Ella stared at the last line she read. The things that she was reading, it implied that this book belonged to Barbatos, and that he was keeping a journal before the walls were built. But, who was this Abyss? And what were these creatures?

She flipped towards the last entry.

It’s done. The walls have been built. The creatures can no longer get to my people.

I created a cage for my people, in the hopes to keep them safe.

I am tired. Building the walls took a lot out of me, more than it should have.

I’m going to sleep. Maybe someone, someday, in the future will find this account, and if they do, I hope it helps.

May the wind guide your path.

Barbatos

Ella closed the book gently, and slipped it under her sweater. This was valuable. Valuable enough that she was not going to give it to Farrier, that’s for sure.

She turned to the pile of books she had sorted out earlier, ready to make her choice for what books to bring to Farrier, only to hear voices coming from the other side of the library.

“Why are we searching this place again?” A deep male voice asked.

“The grandmaster believes that some of the roaches from the slums might try to get here to earn some easy money,” A second voice, a female, replied, “Like the three we caught last week.”

The man snickered, “You really think we’re going to find someone else?”

Ella didn’t wait around to hear the woman’s response, she just grabbed her bag and ducked through a cracked door, ducking down behind the wall. That explained what happened to Farrier’s original expedition; she wondered if they were still alive.

The voices were closer now, “I have to wonder why the grandmaster doesn’t just let us purge the Slums. They make Mondstadt look bad,” The man said, his voice now distressingly close.

“We get some good people from the slums. Desperate people will do anything, after all.” The woman sounded further away, though she suddenly stopped moving, “There’s someone here.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Someone’s been going through the books.” She said sharply, “Spread out and find them. We’ll bring them before the grandmaster.”

Ella shifted further away from the door as the two knights began scouring the room for her. Her eyes darted around the room, looking either for an exit or a better hiding place, but the room she was in seemed to be one of the only rooms in the entire library that was largely undamaged.

The footsteps got louder, and she silently moved away from the door, though she froze when in her haste, she stepped on a loose tile. The door to the room she was hiding in flew open, and the knights peered into the room, their faces hidden from the protective gear they were wearing. 

“Looks like you were right, we found a little rat.” The man said, and Ella could just hear the sneer in his voice. For a moment, she toyed with summoning her weapon again and just forcing them to let her leave, but the choice was taken away from her when the two adults both attacked her at the same time, ripping her mask and goggles off, replacing them with a much more industrial face protector, and then her arms were bound behind her back, and the male tossed her over his shoulder, like she was a sack of potatoes. 

If it wasn’t for the fact that Ella was pretty sure that she was about to be executed, she would have taken a moment to marvel at how Sector 1 looked. All of the buildings were clean, there was no trash on the ground, and the people were all well dressed and clean. 

At least, the part of Sector 1 she was able to see was like that. The Knights had been careful to bring her to the headquarters of the Knights of Favonius through alleys and hidden passageways.

She supposed she wasn’t too surprised when one of the passageways led right outside the clearly labeled Grandmaster’s office. And she wasn’t too shocked when the Knights forced her right in and pulled the mask off of her face.

Ella only had a moment to look up at the Grandmaster, an older man with salt and pepper hair and a stern face, and almost a foot taller than she was, before she was pushed to the ground. She tried to struggle to her knees, but a pair of rough hands kept her on the ground, “We found her in the old library, sir.” The woman said in a clear voice.

“Hm, I heard.” The Grandmaster’s voice was as rough as his countenance, “Pull her up, I want to see her face.” Ella let out a slightly pained grunt as she was forced to her knees, “Hm. One of Farrier’s I assume.” The man said, “I am Grandmaster Ferdinand, I lead both the Knights of Favonius as well as the Church of Favonius. Who are you?”

“My name is Ella Hesse.”

“Hesse. Oh yes, the Hydro user who was forbidden from joining the Knights and the Church. Seems like I was right in my judgement of you,”

“Yeah, imagine that. Someone with no options took the only one left. Go figure.” She spat out angrily, only to let out a cry of pain when the grandmaster’s boot slammed into her cheek, knocking her back to the floor.

The grandmaster watched her impassively, and then turned his back on her, “Get her to her feet and unbind her. I do not kill vision users.”

Ella was forcefully dragged to her feet, and her wrists unbound, though the bindings had been so tight that her wrists were bleeding and bruised. “But you kill other people?” She asked scathingly.

“I do what’s best for Mondstadt.”

“Best for Mondstadt? The elemental corruption is spreading, people are starving, and you’re up here in your ivory tower acting like you’re some kind of god!?”

The grandmaster turned and, with surprising swiftness for someone of his build, slammed the flat of his greatsword against Ella’s chest, knocking the wind out of her. She hit the ground hard, coughing and gasping for air.

The Grandmaster loomed over her, “I am the Ruler of Mondstadt. Barbatos abandoned us, and I will lead us to a brighter future.”

“You’re not the ruler of Mondstadt,” Ella gasped out, crying out in pain once again as the Grandmaster pressed his boot on her chest, applying an uncomfortable amount of pressure. “Mondstadt belongs to Barbatos.” She managed to gasp out.

The pressure lifted suddenly, “Your loyalty to a god no one has seen in decades is commendable, if misguided.” The grandmaster walked across the room, giving Ella the time to get to her feet, though the way she was clutching her chest implied that she was hurt far worse than she let on. “Tell me, what did you learn in the library?”

“I learned the recipe for chicken and mushroom skewers,” Ella replied.

“That’s it. You learned nothing about Abyss?”

“Never heard of it.”

“You’re lying.” The Grandmaster turned and regarded her with ice like eyes, “No matter. The outcome of this is the same no matter what you said. Take her bag, and then deposit her outside the walls of Mondstadt.” He flashed a cruel smile, “If she’s so sure that Barbatos is ruler of these lands, then she doesn’t deserve the safety of my city.”

“Yes sir,” The two knights, who had remained silent until that moment, said in unison, before they grabbed Ella and propelled her out of the room.

They said nothing as they took her bag, and they said nothing as they split up, the woman going to take her bag to the archives and the man bringing her to the gate.

It was only after the gate had opened, and Ella was about to be shoved out that the man spoke, “There are other vision users outside of the walls,” He said, “People who were exiled for speaking out against the Grandmaster. If you’re lucky they’ll find you.” He said quietly, “If you’re not...well, just hope that you’re lucky. Godsspeed.” He then shoved her past the gate, and it slammed shut behind her. For the first time in her life, Ella was outside of the city walls.

The first half an hour outside of the wall was strange, but freeing. But after that, things started to get more difficult for her. Her footsteps became more unsteady, and she started struggling to breathe.

45 minutes after she was exiled from Mondstadt, Ella collapsed to her knees, coughing hard, with blood coming from her mouth. The Grandmaster had broken her ribs, intentionally probably. Just as her vision started going dark she felt a warm breeze against her skin.

“Hold on,” A boy with green eyes leaned over her, a smile on his cheerful face, “Don’t worry, I’ll get you somewhere safe.”

And then Ella blacked out.

On the other side of Mondstadt, on the border between Mondstadt and Liyue, Diluc, an exile from Mondstadt, and Fay, a visitor from Sumeru, were finishing up their patrol for the evening. They were having a nice conversation, after having a peaceful patrol.

Though, just as they were about to make the turn that would lead them back to their safehouse, the wind suddenly picked up, blowing dirt and debris into their faces, and when the wind stopped, a young woman lay several feet away.

“Oh!” Fay shot forward, dropping to her knees trying to determine what was wrong with her, while Diluc quickly made sure that whoever, or whatever, brought her there hadn’t lingered.

“How is she?” He asked, once he was sure they were safe.

“Badly injured,” Fay replied seriously, “We must get her inside immediately.” She looked down at the girl, who’s eyes cracked open for a split second, “It’s okay, you’re going to be alright, I promise.” The girl’s eyes fluttered shut again, and Fay turned her attention towards Diluc, “We need to get her inside,”

“Yeah, I got it.” He carefully scooped the girl into his arms and allowed Fay to lead the way into the base.