#pretty much all of them have to do with an inability to pay the sharply rising cost of rent in this area

[jukeboxhound]

In the last eight years or so -- which means it's not just COVID-related issues -- I've lost my favorite local coffee house, my favorite local bookstore, my favorite local quirky restaurant, AND my favorite local Irish pub with the 1916 Easter Rising mural, and now I'm about to lose my favorite local secondhand clothing shop. 😭

[thedevillionaire]

The Twentieth

Okay. ~5,000 words of Underworldian stuff that happens. Well, primarily one thing, really, but not all at the same time. Sort of. Ask me anything, thank you so very much for reading, and...well, here we go.

--- This was not at all how he’d planned for the day of their anniversary to unfold.

In the back of his mind, in corners he’d quite deliberately not lingered for a moment longer than absolutely necessary, he’d known that trouble was possibly oncoming as early as the night before last, the descending fog of nascent illness as recognisable as it was unwelcome. But it had been…at least a year, perhaps close to two, since he’d last felt this way, and he was hoping that he was wrong, and that what were seeming like potential signs of bad news weren’t actually signs at all.

They were.

Cerberus sniffled.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He’d tried, he really had. Discounting those signs as unimportant even as he took precautions because of them, he’d risked nothing, pushed his luck with nothing. He’d even gone to bed several hours earlier than usual last night, and fallen asleep almost immediately on top of that. Unlike his bonded, who’d had a late night and come home at some uncertain hour from one of those social catch-up things she so enjoyed that he was…less inclined towards, even in times when he was feeling entirely well – not that he’d given that as the reason for his disinclination to participate, of course.

Hardly relevant, anyway.

And he’d slept soundly enough that he’d not woken to notice her join him – in fact, he’d been so sapped of energy that from the moment the warmth of the hearth and bedcovers enveloped him, he was out – which just made it all the more ominous that he’d woken feeling like he’d got no rest at all, bone-tired as if no respite had been granted, with a constant, dull headache that so far had refused to resolve, and yesterday’s mild discomfort at the back of his throat sharpening significantly into an active and intrusive concern.

Getting caught in that ridiculous downpour on the way here wouldn’t have helped matters either, he thought bitterly. Although brief, it had been intense, and sudden, and heavy, and though the mercy of Teleport could not have been a more welcome escape, the short time spent in headblurry indecision about whether or not he should utilise it had nonetheless been long enough that his coat had been soaked through. The refuge of the radiant heat of his Office was helping somewhat, at least, and most of his clothing had dried by now – though his hair, which he’d tied back with a loose bow of slender black velvet ribbon to keep errant strands from his face, was still noticeably and uncomfortably damp against his neck. Less so than had he left it unbound, but still…

If he’d ever regretted choosing to walk rather than taking the lazy option before – gods, the damn irony of thinking that the walk would possibly benefit him tonight, of all things – he was sure he’d not regretted it as much as he did right now.

He sniffled again.

Fuck.

---

Closing the folder of Requiem’s surprisingly competently done assignment, he sighed and added it to the small stack of completed works, vaguely wondering if he’d been too generous with the grading. Although he knew the content backwards and could in fact get away with paying very little serious attention, his mind was nevertheless, for the most part, almost entirely on other things.

This was supposed to be the night where, once respective regular mundanities and commitments were out of the way, he would take his beloved to indulge in whichever of the things she most loved to indulge in while on a Visit, utterly at her behest, and completely guilt-free for her with no mandated set goal to achieve, no limitations on immersion, no regulations at all; just an unscheduled and spontaneous trip to the mortal plane, a high-end cocktail bar all dress codes and decadence, and a veritable array of delicious, oblivious Takings there for her pleasure – ahh, darkling, a smorgasbord! – all eyes upon her because nobody, not in the Underworld and certainly no mortal, can compare, and despite his usual personal antipathy towards bothering with the mortal realm, he knew of certain excellences all the same, and he’d put his own preferences aside and simply present her with the glories and spoils she deserved, watch her dance from the shadows and delight in it.

Darkling, I will give you the world.

He’d had every intention of doing precisely that.

And it was also really starting to feel like he was definitely not going to…not going to let this happen, damn it. You’ll be fine, stop putting unnecessary emphasis on transient discomfort, it’s nothing, you know these things pass, just…

He sniffled again, more sharply this time, claimed another tissue and blew his nose, trying to disregard how doing so did nothing much to stop the continuing drip and irritation.

Just get on with it. Honestly. Vaporising the tissue, he took another sip of the honeyed tea that wasn’t doing nearly as much to counteract the sting in his throat as he’d hoped it would, and returned his attention to the job at hand. He noted with distaste as he opened the new folder that yet again it seemed that Hellion hadn’t bothered to proofread the simplest of…

Oh gods.

His breath caught, thoughts ceased, focus helplessly crumbling.

“Hh-hh…”

He rolled his eyes at the inevitability of it, and grabbed another tissue, and another, as the insistent need made itself unstoppably and urgently known.

“Hh-TSCHH-uu! *snff!* Huh-TSSCHH-uu!”

Therion, across the room and in the midst of cataloguing a stupidly confusing array of recently rediscovered and yet unsorted secondgen scrolls, glanced back over his shoulder at Cerberus briefly. “Gesundheit,” he commented offhand, not remotely surprised by this development. Given the constant sniffling that had been going on for the last couple of hours or so, he’d pretty much been expecting that to happen sooner or later. No matter how infrequently the Demon king may catch cold, symptoms were symptoms. Sounding like shit there, boss, he thought, but decided against voicing it.

Cerberus managed a quick thankyou before the demanding urge once again overtook him, and he inhaled deeply, desperately, the force of the sneeze almost doubling him over.

“hhh-AHHTSSCHHUU!”

Therion glanced over again. “You okay, man?”

Cerberus, with a strong sniffle, cleared his throat and made an incidental sound of dismissal. “Mm, fine,” he murmured, which he knew at this point was a complete lie, his head pounding. “Pardon me.” He blew his nose, sniffling again immediately. Ugh. “It’s, um…it’s nothing.”

He returned his attention to Hellion’s paper.

It was, however, no matter his assurance, becoming undeniably something.

Fuck.

---

The hours had somehow simultaneously dragged and flown by, some goals achieved, others – and, to be honest, the ones he’d most been counting on – unfortunately not so.

Cerberus sighed heavily, put aside the last of the assignments he’d reviewed, and, having had quite enough of honeyed tea for one day, poured himself a substantial glass of cognac from the decanter on his desk.

On the plus side, he’d got through a decent amount of the papers, all things considered. On the minus, though, his oncoming cold, rather than resolving into the insignificance he’d hoped for, had instead settled in undeniably, pouring into his head like cement, and he pressed the back of his hand firmly against his nose with enough force for pain to overtake irritation. He vaporised yet another bunch of used tissues, sniffling again, and tried to take his mind off Kia and what she might be thinking, expecting, dreaming, anticipating…

..and what he feared he was not going be able to deliver.

Acceptance of such, however, was still not something he was willing to entertain quite yet.

Damn it, it’s one night. Surely you can at least delay this ridiculousness for one more night. With a lengthy, determined sniffle and heavy exhalation, Cerberus, elbow on desk and hand against forehead, lost himself in a mix of annoyance and self-pity for a moment before an intense rising fury at the situation overtook it, and he frowned, sat up straighter, and drained the glass of cognac entirely.

Do. Better.

With a brief shake of his head, he rubbed his nose and opened the next assignment in the pile, read the name. Ah, Cenotaph, he noted with a slight satisfaction. Shouldn’t be dreadful. Although he nearly always…

His thoughts were jarringly interrupted by the intrusive ring of the telephone, and despite him dearly wishing he could palm this off to Therion, the phone was on the desk, and proximity demanded he be the one to answer. And to make matters worse – apparently that’s possible, and of course it is – he could feel the rising, inexorable need to sneeze again.

No. This is not happening. Just… The idea of being defeated by such a simple, base physical weakness infuriating, he sniffled with sharp determination, crushing a hand clutching a tissue against his nose, and answered the call.

“Demonics.”

Aera took a moment. “Cerbie? Okay, wow. What are you doing in Office?”

I…work here? Cerberus couldn’t quite parse what her intention was, what sort of answer she was expecting. Was that rhetorical, or…? “I don’t… What do you…” He sniffled again, his breath catching momentarily, but he fought the urge back once more, and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. “What?”

“‘Debodics’,” Aera said in mimicry of the congestion destroying his consonants, her tone flippant and biting at the same time.

Frowning in annoyance, his patience worn thin enough as it was, and in no mood to engage, Cerberus snarled a curt, “I’m fine,” and wiped his nose.

Aera scoffed. “You’re seriously going the denial route? Hate to break it to you, but you sure don’t sound fine.”

“Do you have a point?” Cerberus asked tersely, internally cursing his inability to comprehensively prove her wrong – not that she was necessarily wrong, but that was hardly the issue.

“Godssake, Cerbie, you’re such a…” Aera began, but recognised she was probably wasting her time and decided to just let it go. She knew his pattern with this sort of thing, and so she backed off a little – though by no means completely. “Okay, fine, alright, I could be wrong, maybe you’re not sick after all. So, you know, if you’ve been crying or punched in the face or something, go right ahead and clear that up for me.”

Cerberus, exasperated and increasingly distracted, just wanted an end to it all. “Damn it, Aera, can you please try to tear yourself away from the apparently fascinating state of my health for a moment and just tell me what the hell it is you want? *snf!* And you could be a bit more pleasant to me, you know,” he added pointedly. “It is my anniversary, after all.”

Aera gasped lightly in realisation, the date having escaped her notice completely. “Oh, shit, it is too! Ah, fuck, sorry, happy anniversary. But, no, anyway, this call does actually have a point. I think I might have left a scarf in your Office yesterday. Do you have it? It’s blue.”

You couldn’t have just asked that immediately? Cerberus glanced around the Office perfunctorily, not seeing anything of the kind. “N…” His breath caught again and he scrubbed his hand roughly under his nose, sniffling sharply, and took a moment before trusting himself enough to answer her. “No.”

“Really? What the hell have I done with it, then?” Aera wondered, partially to Cerberus but mostly to herself, before returning her attention to the conversation at hand. “Oh, and bless you.”

“What?” Cerberus frowned in confusion, his head clouded enough that he wasn’t entirely certain that he hadn’t missed or forgotten something that surely he ought not to have been able to miss or forget. “I…I didn’t sneeze.” It was…inescapably true that he needed to, but he’d not…

Aera chuckled briefly, quietly. “You will.”

She hung up.

The freedom afforded him by that disconnection, one staggered, desperate inhale was all it took. And in the moment, he didn’t even care that she’d been right. At this point he just wanted relief.

“hh-HH… Ahh-HEHTSSHhuu!”

“Gesundheit,” said Therion again, smiling grimly to himself. He usually minded his own business about this sort of thing – not that it came up much – and indeed still considered staying out of it altogether now. But he hadn’t known about the anniversary factor before, and playing substitute Leader for a few days was hardly the worst fate in the world, and if not tonight it was almost certainly going to come to that fate soon enough anyway, so…

He put the scrolls aside, walking over to stand opposite where Cerberus was seated at the desk. “Hey, man…”

“Huh-AHSSCHuu! *snf!*” Cerberus groaned. “Gods. Excuse me,” he murmured with a heavy sigh, his head and sinuses throbbing. He sniffled wetly, blew his nose, excused himself again, and looked up at Therion somewhat hazily. “Mm?”

Therion half-smiled, casual, non-committal. “Happy anniversary, dude. Didn’t mean to listen in or anything, just…you know. Overheard.”

A small smile of appreciative thanks crossing his face, Cerberus sniffled again and nodded in otherwise silent acknowledgement.

“Just a thought, though,” Therion continued. “If I had a choice between going home to my mad-hot bonded… How many years now, man?”

A heartbeat. An eternity.

“Twenty.”

“Fucking what?!” Therion stared at Cerberus as if he was out of his mind. “Fuck, man! Congrats and shit, but for real? If I had a choice between going home, like, immediately or staying in Office for a few more hours marking shit I could pretty easily get my Understudy to do, actually? I’d be out of here in a fucking microsecond. But, you know, you’re the boss, man. Do whatever. Just saying.” Reaching across the desk, he picked up Cenotaph’s paper and scanned its contents quickly. “I mean, this looks pretty good, I guess, but, you know, Kia probably looks better.” He grinned as Cerberus gave a dark smile in response, and paused only for a short time, but enough that the pause be noted. “Seriously. You know she’d spoil the fuck out of you.”

Cerberus sighed again, regret, bitterness and castigating self-reproach evident in his eyes beneath a haze of sickness he really could no longer deny. Yes, I know, of course I know, but... “The spoiling really was suppo… hh-HH…” He hastily took another few tissues from the box, burying his face in them just in time to catch another fierce sneeze he had no chance of stopping. “AHHTSCHUU! Goddamnit. Pardon me.” He wiped his nose, sniffling again immediately – disturbingly liquid, entirely ineffectual, and with a weariness behind it that he could not disguise. Looking back up at Therion, he returned to his point. “I’d really intended the providing of spoils to be my job tonight. And this…utter ridiculousness—” He made a vague gesture towards his face. “—was supposed to have improved, not worsened, damn it.”

With another heavy sigh, disappointment palpable, he capitulated. “I don’t suppose you keep any cold medication in Office, do you?”

“Sorry.” Therion shook his head. “Go the fuck home, man. I got this.”

Standing, Cerberus nodded briefly in reply, giving Therion a firm pat on the shoulder as he passed by. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and vanished.

---

And naturally half the damn Underworld seems to be here.

Well, he most certainly was not going to queue.

Ignoring the mixture of hushed mutterings and soft gasps from the others in the Healing centre – none of whom he recognised but it was evident from the expressions on the faces of the…many people staring at him that the reverse was not the case – Cerberus walked to the front of the line with only the most cursory of glances at those who he had no intention of waiting either for or behind, greeted Riviera at the front desk perfunctorily and, abruptly beyond caring to hear any more of the continuing intrusive sussurance, froze the entirety of the waiting room’s occupants under Stasis with a crisp wave of his hand.

Dear gods, shut up. I will set you all on fire and I won’t regret it for a second.

He sniffled strongly. “Aldiss, please,” he said to Riviera, who had already Mindsent the Healing Leader in anticipation of precisely that directive.

“On her way,” Riviera replied. She indicated the Stasis-held others. “Um, is that…are they…?”

“Entirely temporary, just expedient. I’ll undo it soon enough.”

Aldiss appeared beside Riviera at the desk, Mindsending her :Cover me for a bit. Room 5, burns, not serious, mostly dealt with already,: and Riviera duly vanished.

At a loss and clearly awaiting clarification, Aldiss turned her attention to Cerberus. “Alright, what are you doing here?”

Cerberus frowned. Why is everywhere I am apparently a surprise tonight? “I’m ill, obviously. Why else would I be here? I need cold medication.” He sniffled again, as if in emphasis, though not intentionally so, and wiped his nose.

“Again? Already?”

Again? There IS no again. I literally just got here. What the hell is going on? Cerberus briefly wondered if he could be hallucinating this entire sequence of events, so little of it seemed to make any coherent sense. “What do you mean ‘already’?” He winced as his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, which did little more than cause him a different kind of discomfort, a convulsive cough following in short order, his nose running again as a result. He sniffled sharply, repeatedly. Gods. For fuck’s sake. “Excuse me.”

“I’m not giving you anything more if you’ve taken the other lot already.”

“Damn it, Aldiss, do I sound like I’ve taken anything?!”

Aldiss did have to concede that point.

Thoroughly exasperated, Cerberus exhaled heavily in annoyance. “Why is everything always such an ordeal in this place?” And suddenly another strangeness occurred to him. “Wait – what other lot?

“The meds Kia picked up, obviously.”

“What?!” Cerberus, a fresh fear striking him – one he was entirely unprepared for, one that actually managed to distract him from his own discomforts for a moment – stared at Aldiss in unconcealed horror. “Kia’s unwell?!”

With a wry smile, Aldiss shook her head. “I swear I never personally get to experience it, but rumour has it you’re actually quite a clever man, Cerberus, so try and stay with me here, alright?” She looked at him with a certain sardonic encouragement. “The meds Kia picked up for you.”

Unfortunately, this didn’t make much more sense to him, if at all. “But what reason would…” He sniffled again. “Why would she do that?” He rubbed and wrinkled his nose against a building itch, took a tissue from the box on the desk, then another, and tried to stay focused.

Aldiss, in mildly amused bafflement that he could actually be this oblivious, stared at the Demon king as if he was a complete imbecile. “Because you’ve got a cold?”

Annoyance clearly evident despite the hitch in his breath, Cerberus frowned at her. “Yes, Aldiss, we’ve established that, but Ki…Kia doesn’t…” Ah, fuck. Bringing the tissues to his face as the itch became sharply definite, he turned away hurriedly. “Huh-ATSSCHH-uu!” He groaned, sniffling immediately, the force of the sneeze bringing to the fore anew the pulsing headache he’d almost, almostbeen able to forget, his breath still a little shaky as he excused himself. He claimed another tissue and wiped his nose, sniffling again, and took a moment before returning to his earlier point. “Kia doesn’t know about *snf!* this yet.”

“Yes, she most certainly does,” Aldiss countered. “What, you didn’t think she’d notice?”

“Well, of course she’d notice now, damn it, Aldiss,” said Cerberus in open irritation, “but I wasn’t nearly this…���

“Oh, for god’s sake, Cerberus. How long have you been together?”

“As it happens, it’s our twentieth anniversary tonight,” Cerberus replied, a bitter and rueful undertone unmissable despite increasing congestion, “which I am attempting not to completely ruin.” Another sharp sniffle. “Apparently a futile pursuit,” he muttered resentfully, and pressed the back of his hand against his nose in an attempt to see off a newly threatening, vibrantly insistent itch.

“Twenty years and you think she’d miss a thing? She knows you. She knows you really well. How do you not…”

“Ahh-HEHTSSHhuu!”

Aldiss sighed as Cerberus, thoroughly losing the battle, sneezed again, wetly and powerfully, and she passed him a handful of tissues as he murmured both an apology and a thankyou. Looking out at the significant number of people yet to be seen, she allowed him some necessary moments of recovery, then made her point. “Listen, I’m sorry you’ve managed to catch cold for your anniversary but you do have both medication and a devoted bonded waiting at home. Please go there. Kia’s probably wondering where the hell you are anyway, since – if I can I remind you – she knows you’re sick. Oh, and you can undo your…stopping people in time thing or whatever it is now, too, thank you very much.”

“As always, Aldiss, it’s been a delight.” Releasing his Stasis hold with a short wave, the murmurs and mutterings picking up precisely where they’d been cut off as if there had never been a break, Cerberus turned his gaze briefly upon his unbidden rapt audience, disregarded them all equally, internally cursed himself for having even bothered to come to this ridiculous place, inclined his head in crisp farewell, and promptly vanished.

---

Leaning back against the loungeroom wall in weary resignation upon his Teleported arrival home, Cerberus stopped still, his attentions resolutely redirected in an instant at the entirely unexpected sight of his beautiful lifebonded reclining languorously across the couch, dressed – or almost dressed, it could technically be said – in diaphanous babydoll chemise and finest lace lingerie, soft brunette darkestness falling silkenwild around her shoulders, a vision of breathtaking boudoir fantasy he was quite thoroughly unprepared for, and he paused for a moment to simply gaze at her, enchanted.

:Darkling, you are perfection.:

Kia looked up slowly, and with a sultry, indulgent smile, dropped her book onto the coffee table and stretched before sitting up just a little, beckoning him to join her with crooked finger and open invitation.

“Took your time, sweetheart,” she said, gently teasing, and opened the bottle of cognac, pouring a glass for them both. “I’d almost decided to start without you.”

“Love, I…” Cerberus began but was torn from his words unstoppably, unable to do anything about the sudden, desperate need overtaking him, and, expression crumpling and focus destroyed, he had no choice but to give in to it. “Huh-TSCHH-uu! Ah-HEHTSCHuu!” He pardoned himself with haste, groaning quietly.

“Aw, bless you, hon. Come here.” Kia repeated her beckoning motion. She regarded him a moment, frowning in puzzlement. “Where’s your coat?” She’d not seen him leave the house this morning, but she was entirely certain he’d have worn one.

“Hmm? Oh, um…” Cerberus sniffled, wiped his nose and glanced down at himself, not having given any particular thought to his outfit – his standard fine linen shirt, brocade waistcoat, tailored black pants – since leaving Office.

Which was, of course, where he’d left his coat.

“Got rained on. Earlier, that is, not… A while ago, anyhow.” He sniffled again and tried to focus. “In Office. The coat, I mean, not where the…rain was.” He sighed in exasperation as anger at the situation overtook tiredness again. “Honestly, it would be nice if I could at least form a damn sentence!” Gods, what the hell is wrong with you. Get your damn shit together. “Sorry, love. I, um…used Teleport after that, though, so I’ve not really been outside since.”

“Well, coat or not, you were supposed to have given up and come home ages ago.” Kia laughed gently. “You know, like a normal person. Why are you always so stubborn about this stuff?” She caressed his face affectionately as he sat beside her, curled an arm around the back of his neck, and kissed him with warm promise. :And don’t you even dare say a word about not wanting to give your cold to me,: she Mindsent preemptively. :Yes, I know, no, I don’t care, and there is no way I’m not kissing you on our twentieth anniversary.:

“Anyway,” she continued in satin murmur, tracing a finger along the angular contours of his jawline and kissing him again, “you know I’ll spoil you.” She looked at him directly then, sapphire eyes narrowing in challenge. “You do know that, right?”

“I…” He did, but between the desire not to need her to – at least not tonight – and rather for him to be, as he’d so very much intended, the one fulfilling any fantasies, and the desire to just try and forget failed plans and expectations and immerse in her…frankly stunning sanctuary, and his head was far too clouded to explain himself right now, and technically he had left Office early anyway so he wasn’t that late really, especially considering he hadn’t realised that he’d been expected, but what did any of this even matter when this goddess before him was so…very… He sniffled again, claiming a tissue and wiping his nose firmly, and wished he was at least a little more functional because she was so incredibly breathtaking, and that was all he could think about in the moment, really, aside from feeling like he was fairly sure he was going to sneeze again – which, when combined with the first and…infinitely preferable reason that he couldn’t think straight, provided a particularly strange contradiction in where his attentions were directed, and now he couldn’t with certainty remember exactly what she’d asked him anymore, and she was just…gods, she was everything, and his head was a mess and he…definitely had to…

He blinked rapidly, his breath hitching in escalating intensity, and turned from Kia to bury his face in crooked elbow. Gods, fuck, just…

“Huh-TSSCHH-uu! Ahh-HUHTSSHhuu!”

The force of the sneezes combined with the pounding throb of sinus-heavy headache to set the room spinning, but despite that had done very little to quiet the insistent irritation he just could not seem to escape tonight. Another staccato breath and fuck ano… hh-HH ..another and a Mindsent apology because he was entirely unable to voice one, doubling over in thrall to desperate demand, powerful, possessing. “Hhuh-AHTSCHUU! Huh…hh-TSSCHH-uu!”

“Oh, sweetheart, bless you.” Kia indicated the medications she’d collected on the table, though she wasn’t sure there was much point, his ability to focus entirely and…mesmerisingly hijacked. “You should probably…”

Cerberus, with a brief shake of his head, held up a finger in a gesture indicating that she had to wait a moment, the relentless need not done with him yet, and he inhaled deeply, unable to do a thing about it other than succumb once more, and he sneezed again – undeniable, absolute, violently ferocious. “Hh-hhAAAHTSSCHHUU! ..uhh…” A quiet groan and he pressed the back of his hand against his nose, sniffling fiercely, more than a little breathless. “Damn. Sorry.”

“Wow, bless you!” Kia said with softriveted, emphatic appraisal, and flashed him a wickedwarm grin. “Impressive. You should get a prize for that kind of effort.”

“Gods, love.” Smiling wryly despite himself, Cerberus managed a brief disbelieving laugh before having no choice but to give in to sharpburning sensation, his breath catching abrupt, deep, jagged, pleading. “hh-h-huh-TSCHH-uu! Huh-TSSCHH-uu! *snf!* Huh… huhhTSSCHHUU! For fuck’s sake! *SNFF!* Ugh, sorry.” Sniffling repeatedly, he excused himself again with clear irritation even as Kia offered him a tender blessing. He took a fresh multitude of tissues from the box and blew his nose, muttering under his breath that in any reasonable world he’d get to kill at least one person over this, and if…

“Oh, look!” announced Kia with cheery brightness, breaking into his thoughts and picking up one of the medication vials. “You win drugs.” She handed the vial to Cerberus with a kiss to his cheek, effectively short-circuiting his rising fury at the situation, and trailed a languid hand down the length of his arm, dropped her voice to a sultry purr. “I’ll even throw in the glamorous assistant.” She semi-curtseyed, winked in play.

With a soft laugh and a sigh both appreciative and self-effacing, Cerberus accepted and took the meds as proffered, curling an arm across Kia’s shoulders, drawing them closer together, and leant his head against hers, Mindsending a heartfelt, sincere :I adore you.:

“I’m so sorry, darkling.” He ran an index finger under his nose, sniffled quietly, exhaled with dismayed heaviness at the thought of having let his beloved down, in any way. “I really did mean to give you everything you desire tonight.” He sat back again; smiled at her, a little sadly. “And I truly do wish to bring you the world you deserve. All the worlds, come to that.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I know. And I know that you’re, like…literally able to do it, which still just amazes me and will forever, I swear, you’re incredible, but…really, you don’t need to be disappointed. See, I want you—” Shifting her position smoothly, Kia moved to sit on his lap, her legs astride his, and caressed his face in her hands, kissing him with passion burning. “Mmm. I want you—” Another kiss. “—to think for just a minute—” And another. “—from a different view.” Reaching behind his head, she untied the velvet ribbon constraining his hair, allowing it in release to cascade over his shoulders. She wove a gentle hand through freed midnight, tucked a few stray strands behind his ear. “If things were reversed, if I was the one who’d come home sick tonight, what would you have done?”

Cerberus chuckled wryly, softly, as he recognised her viewpoint. He didn’t pretend otherwise. “Anything you wanted, love, as always.”

Kia gave him a knowing smile. “Mm-hm.”

Wrapping her arms around him, she kissed him again, slower, deeper. “So, then, babe,” she purred, tracing a trail of kisses down his neck, shoulders, chest, “you should know that you are everything I desire, everything I dream of, and the only way you could ever let me down is to not be with me tonight, and now I am going to order you into the bedroom and you are going to do exactly what I say and that is pretty much what would have happened even with you in perfect health with your perfect plan, because you should know—” She broke off again, kissing him with a craving undeniable, abandoning speech for silksultry Mindsend.

:that all I want:

One hand now twining through his hair, the other first toying with then smoothly untying the topmost bows on her chemise, allowing it to fall away, and she pulled him closer to her again, deepening the kiss at his involuntary resulting moan.

:is…this.:

Another kiss and her hand reaching down, loosening clothing and caressing him to urgency, and he moaned again, curling one arm around her waist and another behind her head, holding her around him and returning her kiss with a fire straight from his soul, feeling her breath quickening, demanding, as she pushed back against him, heat rising. A soft growl, a gasp, a sharp inhalation as they joined together, and she met her beloved’s famed emerald gaze eye to eye, consummate, profligate, incendiary.

“Oh, and sweetheart? Tonight I am going to make you wish you caught cold more often.”

---

[helena-thessa]

Command suits him.

Short snippet taking place in the hour before they infiltrate Liberio. Inspired by Mikasa absolutely kicking ass against the War Hammer Titan while the others sat back and idly watched in confidence. Jeankasa!

Rivamika followers, please forgive me ahah 

Command suits him. Mikasa watches more than she listens, unsurprised that the others devote their undivided attention and ask their questions without concern. They trust him, even those who have never fought beside him, and she doesn’t fault them for it. It’s the thoughtful but placid manner he strokes his short beard over his jawbone. How he maintains eye-contact and doesn’t blink when addressing risks or potential for casualties. And despite height that demands presence, there’s an easy-going roll about his broad shoulders.

No, it’s not just the all-black infiltration garb. The days of him flustering over horse-face insults have passed.

Jean used to be willfully arrogant. She thinks that he probably still is, but not like when they were cadets. What used to be adolescent selfishness, a short temper and sharp tongue, has matured to more of a keen awareness. His conviction is grief-shadowed. What is worth knowing has been learned through loss; there’s an undercurrent of humility in his confidence now.

“Wait a minute,” someone says sharply, and for the first time it’s an interruption that invokes actual disagreement.

“What is it, Lobov?” Jean is unbothered at the outcry and waits patiently for the critique.

It’s a good thing she started to pay attention. Lobov not only turns toward her and looks directly at her, but he also lifts a hand to hesitantly gesture at her. The entire squad follows his line of vision.

“You’re saying the plan is to basically sit back on the rooftops and watch while Mikasa single-handedly takes on the War Hammer Titan?”

Mikasa remains impassive. The question wasn’t directed to her.

“Not single-handedly,” Jean answers, focusing on Lobov until the previous Garrison soldier turns back to him. “Eren will be with her.”

“But you said she’s only to intervene if Eren shifts and if his titan loses,” Lobov adds earnestly.

Jean’s laugh is short and dull. “No. I said if Eren’s titan appears like he’s losing. Eren starts to lose all the time. But he doesn’t lose.”  

A few feet over to her left, Connie snorts and Sasha shoves him half-heartedly.

For the first time Jean turns toward Mikasa, no less steadied than the moment before. “But if he transforms too many times or is otherwise incapacitated, Mikasa will be able to protect him and take down the War Hammer on her own. Our job is to focus on the lights for evacuation and to stall their reinforcements.”

Mikasa simply blinks at him. There’s a reluctant hint of admiration when he speaks about Eren, but he’s nothing if not neutral when referring to her capabilities. She should appreciate the vote of confidence from command, but she is too busy wondering about the underlying sentiment of a comrade and friend. If Jean has personal thoughts on the matter, he guards them well enough in front of a crowd.  

There’s shifting glances and a general fracture in the atmosphere that leans toward uncertainty for the first time. Mikasa feels more duty-bound to support Jean’s first mission in command than to actually provide comforting words to worrying comrades.

“Thank you, Lobov,” she says, a kind but firm dismissal. “I’ll be fine. I’ll have enough thunderspears to destroy its nape three times over.”

Jean’s steadfast gaze lingers on her for one second, and then another. Though he’s less wild-mannered and expressive than their younger days, Mikasa can at least read this well enough. The concern he carries for her can’t be sorted out in strategy sessions. Jean belatedly turns back to Lobov and the other soldiers.

“Not to mention we have the surprise advantage, and the War Hammer Titan has no experience with defending attacks coming from vertical maneuvering equipment,” Jean adds. “But our squad and Captain Levi will be near if things turn too far south.”

“Alright sir,” Lobov nods enthusiastically, and then turns to flash Mikasa something of an excitable smile. “Will be pretty cool to see the girl worth one-hundred soldiers in action, too.”

She could go without the additional attention. Mikasa nods in acknowledgment and returns her sight to Jean, hoping the rest of them fix their focus back onto him too. He’s good for that too, she thinks. Like the pull from magnetic force, it’s so easy to watch him, to listen to him.

After a final review, Jean dismisses them with instructions to gather all their gear and a reminder that they’re roughly 1-hour out from Liberio. Mikasa watches them shuffle out of the cramped room, but she remains propped against the opposing wall. Connie offers her an eager grin in departure and Sasha passes a hand over her shoulder.

Jean doesn’t leave yet either.

Once it’s only the two of them, he takes a seat at the table previously occupied by the others. She supposes he’s forfeiting the role of command by doing so, but he was the same Jean then as he is now. Mikasa steps forward and decides on the seat across from him.

“Think I’m doing alright?” He asks, sparing her a wary glance.

She looks at him for a moment. There’s calculative concern in his gold-flecked brown irises, but not fear. Jean’s not unconfident with his plans. He’s just aware of the inevitability of casualties and his inability to prevent them.

He’s far more selfless than her. Mikasa considers the list of whom she cares will return home and it’s far shorter than the one Jean must count in his head.  

“More than alright,” she answers evenly.

His breathy exhale suggests he’s mildly surprised, if not grateful, for the sentiment.

“Kind of ironic the one point of contention was fear for your safety,” Jean says, a weak grin of amusement.

“I’m strong enough,” Mikasa says, shaking her head once.

“Oh, I know,” Jean agrees, relaxing his shoulders into the back of his chair. “But still, be careful out there. We don’t—...”

He studies her for another second, deliberating on whether or not to speak further. Mikasa waits, knowing he will. If it’s in relation to worrying for her, he always does.

“We don’t know everything that’s going on with Eren. We can’t really predict what he will or won’t do.”

Mikasa is well aware of that. It wouldn’t be an understatement to say it’s all she’s been able to think about. There’s too much to say, and nothing to say at all, so she settles both hands into her lap and stares over his shoulder. No longer surrounded by strangers, her hardened mask starts to slip off its ordinarily well-hung frame. 

She bites her bottom lip, certain fear is exactly what Jean observes in her own lavender-dusted irises.

There’s fear for Eren. That’s ordinary, that’s familiar. But there’s also fear over what Eren might be capable of, which is not entirely new but decidedly worse. There are endless lengths she would go to protect his life. Her stomach turns to lead at the thought of what lengths she’ll have to go to protect his choices, though.

“Are you worried?” Jean asks, quieter than before, almost gentle in manner as he leans forward.  

Gentleness from Jean is something she’s only recently started to notice. He’s always cared for her, perhaps more than he should have, but back then it was too loud. He was a stranger, he was not on the short list she kept, and any overt sign of affection was unwanted. It felt abrasive.

Now though, his affections are quieter yet somehow more pronounced. Maybe it’s the contrast. That the soft words come from a Jean who’s taller than her, who’s voice has deepened to a calm and even timbre, who’s face has filled out into lean but rugged features.

Mikasa lifts her hand from her lap and places it on the table between them, just a few centimeters shy of touching his hand.

He asked if she was worried. She wonders if he’s referring to her own safety and ability to succeed against the War Hammer Titan, or about her concerns for Eren and what he might do. Jean knows her well enough though, so she assumes he means both.

Finally, Mikasa shakes her head. Despite the delay, she’s resolute. “No. You’ll be right there watching from the rooftop.”

He spares a thin-lipped smile for her, aware that she discerned that his planned placement during the assault is by no means incidental.

Jean flexes his wrist and cracks a few of his knuckles. When he places his hand back onto the table, his thumb rests near but not quite touching the outside of her little finger.

“Yeah,” he answers, thinking of both unspoken concerns. “I’ll be right there.”

No, it’s not just the contrast that has shown her how gentle Jean can be. Despite her best efforts to be practical and ruthless, Jean is on her list of whom she cares will make it out alive. 

Mikasa relaxes her posture so that her hand slides forward until they touch. She needs him to come home, too.

[silentprincess17]

Sometimes Things Have To Get Worse Before They Get Better

This is essentially a darker, heavier alternate take on Memory #7 - Blades of the Yiga. I wanted to write a fic with a competent Yiga Clan. (Yes you read that right). It is very angsty in the beginning and then becomes fluffy (hence the title!)

Summary: Link and Zelda have returned from Vah Naboris with Urbosa and have spent the night in Kara Kara Bazaar Inn. Link wakes up and finds her missing.

Cue the angst.

This story is complete and I will post each chapter daily on here but you can read the whole thing on AO3

Rating: Mature (Graphic descriptions of violence) Pairing: Link/Zelda (Zelink) Characters: Link, Zelda, The Yiga Clan, Master Kohga

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Chapter 6: Dusk of the First Day

TW: rope burns, emotional trauma.

They left her there

In the sun

With a shirt half ripped, mercy to the wind, sand and heat.

He didn’t know where to look.

He wanted to see if she was okay.

But he didn’t want to ruin whatever shred of dignity she had left.

So, he stood sideways. If anything moved into her vicinity he would know. Not like he could do much, but it would be better for him to at least know.

Would it though?

The guilt seared through him, branding him more than the wound under his eye could. He pressed his head against the bars. He felt so wrung out, so weak. He was used to fighting, to being able to actually do something. He’d never been so helpless before. The irony was that he’d received training to deal with interrogation in case the Yiga ever captured him. He’d been trained under Sheikah tutelage, specifically, about methods to hold in one’s emotions and pains whilst imprisoned by the enemy.

But… he had not received training for what to do when it was the Princess being tortured. Whilst he watched. Powerless. What was he supposed to do when the person whose life he was meant to defend with his own was being humiliated in such a vulgar way? The worst thing was that he’d completely and utterly failed to handle the responsibility he has given. She was entrusted to him by the King, and he had failed. He’d failed not only as her Appointed Knight, but as her supposed Hero, and that seared the most. Some counterpart he was to her soul if he couldn’t stop what was happening to her.

Eventually the same researchers came back, this time accompanied by some Yiga Foot soldiers. Link felt unbridled fury run rampant through him at the sight, because despite his fatigue, he still had enough strength to swear on the Golden Three he'd avenge her. He'd find them, and he'd make sure they regretted even setting eyes on his Princess.

"No change still. Hm. Prolonged exposure made no difference. Well, that's... good news. Let her down, now."

Link was extremely confused, at this whole scenario, but he ignored that, right now his focus would be on Zelda. And trying to help her. He pulled his tunic off and turned his gaze away from the world outside.

���Don’t fight Hero, or we’ll put her in chains. Don’t think we won’t. You might want to cover her up. Or maybe you’ll enjoy the sight too, not like she ever gave you much joy otherwise."

Link was too emotionally drained to pay much heed to their words, he'd already seen the clamps in their hands before they brought Zelda over and hence knew it was useless trying to intervene. The same thing that happened earlier today would repeat itself and this time Zelda would much closer and he just-

They snickered away, teleporting out once they shoved her in.

He didn’t look at her, couldn't bring himself to. He felt so ashamed. He offered his tunic to her, with his hand behind his back, still not looking.

He felt her take it.

And then he heard her sink to the floor.

He didn't know what to do. Did he try to step closer? He wasn’t sure that was what she would want right now. Hell, even at the best of times she hated his presence, and whilst it had felt like they’d turned a new leaf last night… a lot had happened since then.

She sniffed. And his heart broke. “Is the sight of a tainted Princess so disgusting that the Great Hero of Hyrule, blessed by Hylia herself, can’t lay his oh-so-holy eyes on her?”

He spun and was by her side in a second, kneeling. “You could never be tainted.”

The sand clung to her hair, and all the way along the side of her face and neck, both of which had reddened a little from all the exposure to the sun.

She laughed but it was sarcastic, dripped in venom. And it made him scared. “That’s the first I’ve ever heard you speak. Keen to defend your honour Hero?” She scoffed. “I’m sure somehow father will still find a way for this to be my fault. If only you spent more time in dedication to the Goddess, then maybe she would have blessed you with the powers that would have allowed you to get out of this situation. You would have been stronger than them. You would not have allowed yourself to be humiliated.”

Goddesses above. The power. Fundamentally, everything came back to the Calamity... It was so powerful, hell, even it's impending arrival had already wrecked havoc with their lives. He didn't have the answer to her powers, but he wasn't so sure the key was with prayer to the Goddess. He was just as clueless with the sword, and if it would be enough, but it wasn't right to bring that up now. It would be like rubbing salt into her wound. Because at least he had the sword. And... he sort of understood what she was doing. And he’d let her do it. She was hurt. He was too, but he’d shoulder any burden of hers he could. “And he’s silent again.”

Crap, he hadn't meant- “I’m sorry Princess. I’m really sorry.” He didn't know what else to say. He bowed his head, the sight of her burnt and upset felt like a stab to his soul. He heard her sigh, and then she knelt back against the very bars his hands had become blistered, red and swollen from hitting so much.

He hesitantly sat down next to her, wary of her boundaries.

They stayed like that for a while, until she caught sight of his hands. She reached over and traced a faint line over where his skin had split open from the abuse it had received. Sand lined the edges of the wound and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that it stung. And then she shuffled just a little closer.

Link took a series of small half-panicked breaths. He moved, very slowly, as though she was made of glass that could shatter and touched his fingertips on her shoulder. She leant back a little, so his whole hand was now touching her. He took that to mean it was okay to touch, and slowly wrapped his arm around her fully. She shivered, and he started to rub his hand up and down her arm, in an attempt to warm her up.

He observed her throughout. At any sign of discomfort, he would stop, but she hadn’t shown any yet, only leaning into his arm slightly.

Her lower lip trembled. He immediately stopped. She shook her head, “I’m overreacting. I just asked for forgiveness yesterday and look at what I’m doing today.” She blinked rapidly; he could tell she was holding back tears. “It. It could have been worse. I still have my chest guard on. So. They didn’t cut through that.”

He was relieved, honestly, because she’d been spared that, but regardless it was humiliating. “It doesn’t make your pain any less valid Princess, regardless of how many layers they cut through.”

She stiffened at his validation, his corroboration that it wasn’t her fault, because that is what this was about truly, that is why she brought up her father, and her inability to unlock the power. She angrily brushed back the few tears that had dared to make their way through.

He felt sick, bruised and battered, watching her. It was heart-breaking. “It’s okay to cry Princess. It doesn’t mean they’ve won.”

She stared hard at his chest, before slowly looking up to him, as if she was seeing him for the first time. Truly properly seeing him. He guessed it was hard to know someone's intentions if they remained silent. He’d promised himself today though, there was no one here to put a façade on for. And he vowed that he would at least try to help her, even if he didn’t know how.

She latched onto his other arm, fisting the fabric in her hand, and slowly laid her head down on his shoulder. He assumed he said the right thing then, and he slowly exhaled a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding in.

Something his mother had always done for him whenever he’d hurt himself as a child was to brush through his hair. He wasn’t sure that would be appreciated here though. He didn’t want to touch her more than she allowed. What else could he do?

… the lullaby. He knew the lullaby. He could hum the lullaby. He waited for a while, letting her breathing settle a little. He wasn’t sure how she’d respond. She felt so fragile in his arms, like a frightened deer and he was terrified of scaring her away, of hurting her more than she had suffered through already.

A few minutes passed and she was still gripping his shirt, still rigid and tense, and he decided it was worth a shot. He could always stop if she told him too.

She inhaled, sharply, once he started. And then she leaned closer still, until her head was practically on his chest, her ear pressed against his sternum. Could she tell his heart rate had tripled since she moved closer?

He felt, rather than heard, her tears. They pierced through his thin undershirt, blot by blot, each one a stab to his heart.

He would be lying if he didn’t cry too, and it messed up the rhythm a little.

And she looked up, sitting up a little so she could see more of him, probably wondering why his voice had cracked halfway through. And she gasped. “What-”

She raised a hand to his face, and gently brushed the tears away from his left eye and then hovered over his right.

Oh. Oh yes, he’d been hurt. He imagined it probably wasn’t a pretty sight, a fairly deep gouge into the skin between his eye and cheek. He didn’t have her needles so he couldn’t fix it. Even if he did have thread, it wasn’t like he could even see it. It throbbed but it felt nothing compared to the turmoil that had run through him the entirety of the day.

“I refused to look.”

And his gaze flitted from her over-filled eyes, the dull haunted look in them making his heart twist for the umpteenth time today, to her wrist.

And he almost had a heart attack.

Dear Goddesses, he was going to end up with severe cardiac problems after this.

He gently grasped her hand and turned it so he could see properly. Her entire wrist was mangled, red, sore… Chapped from rope burns, no doubt, as she tried to wrench free at the posts.

She sighed. And held up her other hand, and then brought her ankles close, all of which were in a similar state, her ankles less so because it was harder to twist against rope with them.

And then she got out her kit. She moved to him first and he was horrified, snatching it out of her hands and pointing towards the designated bed area. She frowned. He didn’t back down. To hell with her taking care of him, after today.

She shuffled across, probably realising that this was a fight she was doomed to lose. As he moved to clean the wound with the little cup of water the Yiga had left them when they’d dropped Zelda off, she stopped him. “We shouldn’t waste water this way, Link. We both need to drink it rather than clean wounds out. Dehydration trumps infection in the causes of death order, Sir Link.”

He accepted; she was right. Who knew when the next water-cup would come? He keenly felt the loss of his pouches, for the small first aid kit he always carried, and the antiseptic cream he had. He did the best he could, using small pieces of Champion blue cloth to bind around her wrists and ankles, in a makeshift bandage. And then he got unceremoniously pushed into the wall, and he grimaced at the sight of the needle in her hand. He wouldn’t be asleep this time.

He still couldn’t really look at her though, he felt guilty, because the wound was proof that he had failed to protect her honour, even from himself.

“None of this is your fault Link.”

How did she know him so well? Perhaps she’d spent more time observing him that he’d thought. “I failed you Princess. Again. I let them take you. I-” His voice broke. He couldn’t actually voice the rest of his apology, the words scraped against his throat, foul and bitter as shame paralysed him.

She swallowed. “We could play the whose-fault-is-it game all day. Ultimately neither of us are to blame. I’m tired Link. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

He nodded his assent, and he let her fix the wound. She used small careful stitches which he could tell she did as quickly as she could, so that she didn't cause him excessive pain. And then she wrapped some of the material around his hands in a makeshift bandage. The pain was nothing though. Nothing compared to the dread he felt as to what would come next.

Because today was just day one. What would happen tomorrow?

She eventually finished, and then came to sit next to him. They split the water, and although he tried to make sure she got more than he did, she refused and they each got half equally.

“Hypothermia.” Is all she said afterwards, and he knew what she meant.

This time, though he felt her tears instead of her smile, and he felt completely and utterly useless. She didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this. He understood, that perhaps right now they were in survival mode, and that is why she didn’t want to think about it too deeply because who knew what horrors awaited them tomorrow. But he worried for her, he always did, because he knew the scars this whole experience would have would be lasting.

That was a depressing line of thought and he was treading dangerous waters. He needed to think about how they were supposed to get out. He needed to make sure this didn’t happen again. He needed to actually protect her damn it. He leaned back. What could he really do, stuck as they were? What were the tips he'd been taught on how to handle an imprisonment? Perhaps the first thing to do was to try to figure out what the captors wanted. Usually that was pretty obvious, information or money but it wasn’t so clear cut here.

It just didn't make sense, and he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly the Yiga Clan wanted from this. The thing the researcher had said when stopping the Blademaster- something about it not working... was he talking about Zelda's sealing powers not awakening? He must have, seeing as the Blademaster more or less confirmed that when he taunted Zelda for being unable summon Hylia. And then when the researchers had come to let Zelda down, it seemed to be more of a... conclusion to their experiment. Link wasn’t a scientist, but he’d silently observed plenty of simulations that the Sheikah and Zelda had run on various parts of Ancient Technology. It was a process akin to what happened today- there was some sort of plan beforehand, then the “subject” - most often a Guardian - was prepared, and the planned programming was completed and then the results recorded.

But... Link couldn’t match that criteria with what had happened to Zelda. Just what were the researchers trying to get out of the whole thing? What was their initial plan- i.e why conduct, this-this experiment to torment Zelda to try to get the power to show itself? Surely that was counterintuitive to their overall aim? Because awakening her powers would mean the Darkness would be sealed and that was completely against what they wanted? Which brought him back to what, exactly, was their end goal? Had it changed? It didn’t seem so... And why had the Yiga changed their plan from assasination to... torture? For the life of him he couldn’t understand...

Chewing on his lip he decided it was worth a shot, to try to sift through the memories of lives he’d had but not lived himself, and… he even decided to try to look through the last Hero’s one. He sighed, he always felt uncomfortable with the memories. The thing was that they were like snapshots in time, and they were not… organised in any meaningful way. The whole thing was one big mess of emotion, because most of them were glimpses of things that his predecessors had felt strongly about, those were the ones that they unconsciously imprinted on the sword, and it carried those memories through for each wielder that followed. Maybe it thought there was a lesson to be learnt from each one, or maybe it just wanted a memento of each Hero. Who knew, the sword had a mind of its own.

So, whilst he knew he’d transformed into a wolf, he had no idea why or even how it had happened. The only time he'd get a semi-coherent sequence of events was during his dreams. Those often flowed a lot better than him trying to access the memory whilst conscious, which confused him but really, was anything about the Master Sword simple?

And that was why he’d found it so hard to understand just what was going on in the life of the Hero who was his direct comparator, the one who had succeeded the last time this had happened. The truth of the matter was, Link felt incredibly depressed, every time he thought of what happened 10,000 years ago.

For starters, the guy had it all. Link could only vaguely remember something glowing blue with a distinct sense that it was “Sheikah” so he assumed that was from the inside of one of those shrines, and it was accompanied by a feeling of “training programme”. And the rest of the memories pre-calamity were of… well. This was the part that used to disturb and plague him the most, because clearly, this Hero had a good working relationship with his Princess, and it was probably not just working. Okay it was definitely not just working, but Link refused to think further on that before, especially considering his own tenuous relationship with His Princess. The only other significant thing, alongside a bucketful of reminiscences with the Princess of that time, was some sort of glowing hand, which Link for the life of him couldn’t figure out but it seemed important. Oh, and also a crimson-coloured mist thing, but he wasn’t sure- because the whole thing seemed to be blurred around the edges. What was even more bizarre, was that there was barely any feeling of fear associated with the two things, it was weirdly relief more than anything else. And that frankly made him very frustrated. Relief at facing destiny? Just how prepared was this Hero? The whole thing left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, more so than the others because Link felt anything but prepared.

He sighed, the other thing with the memories were that he couldn’t just summon up what he wanted, and it would appear. It was more like he’d have to file his way through, and hopefully happen upon whatever it was he was searching for. And only now, after revisiting Mr Successful, did he actually remember that the Sheikah were still united back then, so there was no Yiga. They just didn't exist. Wonderful. Another reason why he hated to dwell on the seemingly illustrious journey that Hero had had.

He refocused. This wasn’t about that time. Why else would the Yiga have captured them, other than a sick sense of humour with the whole experiment? Was there any other purpose for this whole thing? His mind continued to wrack with the problem, and he watched as the moon moved across the sky.

Eventually, the Princess’s breathing evened out, as she fell asleep in his arms. At least she’d managed to sleep, he wasn’t sure she would, all things considered.

He sighed. The only other idea he had was that the whole thing was a farce, so they could exact revenge against the Royal Family for the humiliation they underwent all those eons ago and were banished. Clearly, they still used Ancient Sheikah Technology, the likes of which he’d never seen before. But still, surely the aim would be to kill them both to ensure Ganon’s revival would be unhindered? Not that he minded they hadn’t killed them yet; it was relieving to know they still had a chance, even if it was due to some sort of study.

He was distracted when she started to shiver, flinching inwards and he could only imagine what horrors she was seeing in her dreams. He grasped her tightly, running his fingers through her hair as he hummed her lullaby, hoping it would calm her, just as much as it did for him. Thankfully it worked, she settled back down, although now her knees were also pressed against his abdomen. He didn’t think it was a very comfortable position, but he didn’t want to disturb her, given she’d only just relaxed.

He, meanwhile, remained wide awake, tensed as bowstring. He would be ready next time.

[lochrannn]

Hi! For the Diego and Lila prompt thing, I was thinking about 44, 46 or 50, whichever inspires you the most ❤️

I know I’ll end up doing all of them but the first one I got an idea for was 44. Thanks so much for the prompt! I’m so glad I’m not on my own in my love for these two idiots!

Read “A Moving Gesture” over on AO3 or below the cut.

Prompt: “You’ve always felt like home.”

No Warnings.

Diego pours syrup over his waffles and bacon strips and looks up to watch Lila push something around in her frying pan with a spatula, while he idly uses his fork to tear off a bit of his waffle and pop it in his mouth.

They both have a day off work and whenever that happens they try and spend a lazy morning together before going off to deal with their respective errands. They couldn't agree on breakfast, as Diego wanted waffles and Lila wanted a full English so they've each made their own.

While he chews he takes the time to let his gaze roam over Lila's body. It's fine, she tells him she likes it, so he feels like they both get something out of his inability to keep his eyes off her.

She's wearing nothing but underwear and one of his white undershirts, which she's tied a knot in the front of. Diego is currently following the line of her leg up to the swell of her butt, admiring how her dark skin accentuates the tone of her slender muscles and he thinks if he licked a strip up her thigh, her skin would probably taste sweeter than his waffles.

That's weird.

He's glad he didn't say that out loud.

Diego doesn't always know how to put into words how absolutely insane Lila drives him, but he hopes she knows and he tries as best he can to show her.

“Get your head out of the gutter, Knife Boy” Lila says sharply, and Diego looks up to see that she's spotted him staring.

He can't come up with a quick response, so he lets a lazy smile break out on his face, one he knows she can't resist, and quirks his eyebrow a little suggestively.

True to form, Lila rolls her eyes, but lifts the heavy cast iron pan up from the burner, saunters over to him while she holds the pan out and away from her in an impressively strong grip, and stops in front of him to plant a solid kiss on his lips.

When she pulls away, Diego watches her lick the syrup off her lips and the images that evokes shoot straight to his groin. Lila smirks at him, knowing full well the effect she's had and somehow Diego feels like he's lost a game he didn't know he was playing. He doesn't actually care as long as it involves making out with his super hot girlfriend.

Lila uses her spatula to push the fried eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes, as well as some gunk she calls black pudding on to a plate that already has beans and toast on it, and sits down in her chair after leaving the pan on the stove, which she's turned off with a twist of the dial.

Before she starts tucking into her food, Lila lifts her legs and pops her feet on Diego's lap and while they eat in comfortable silence, he uses his free hand to massage the sole of one foot at a time.

Diego has finished his breakfast and is using both his thumbs to push into the bottom of Lila's foot, making her twitch a little on occasion but he can also tell that her posture is steadily relaxing, when she asks him, “So what're you getting up to today, then?”

“Was gonna head over to the mansion. Luther wants some help fixing up one of dad's old cars and I think Allison told him it would be a good opportunity for the two of us to bond. We've been doing just fine, I don't know why we need organized play-dates...” Diego says, laughing a little sheepishly.

“Don't tell me you won't enjoy getting all greasy and tinkering with heavy machinery!” Lila chuckles and kicks him very lightly in the chest, causing a slapping sound to reverberate around the kitchen when the sole of her foot hits his naked torso.

Diego grabs her foot and holds on tight, as he's pretty certain she's about to do it again from the way she smirked at the silly sound.

He ignores her antics and goes on, “Was gonna swing by the post office as well and get my mail from the PO box...”

Diego had set up a PO box after his third move in six months when he was nineteen and it had served him well through the years. He'd even held on to it after living at the gym for a few years, because with the anger he drew from Al if he had to take a call for him, Diego never wanted to imagine how the old man would respond if he had to take in his mail as well.

“I was thinking about that, actually...” he begins a little uncertainly and he isn't sure whether Lila is properly listening, as she is concentrating on cleaning up her plate with her last bits of toast.

He squeezes her foot meaningfully to get her attention and when she looks at him, he swallows a little nervously and goes on, “... I was thinking... uh, maybe I could start putting this address down...”

He's not quite certain he's brought his point across, at first, but the way Lila's eyes go wide and then narrow, makes him think that probably he has and there's a sinking feeling in his gut at her reaction.

“You want to use my address for you mail?” she asks harshly, and Diego tries to interject, to explain himself better, but she goes on, “ 'cause you're tired of having to collect it at your PO box?”

“That's not... no, fuck... why does everything have to be a confrontation with you?” Diego tries not to be exasperated but this is not how he wanted this conversation to go.

“Oh please,” Lila scoffs, “You threw a hissy fit last night because I chucked out the tooth paste before properly squeezing out the absolute dregs out of the tube.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, but Diego notices that she's not pulled her feet off his lap, so he thinks this situation might still be salvageable. “I just don't like being wasteful,” he says in a small voice with a half shrug.

Lila pulls one of her feet out of his grip again and puts the sole against the side of his stomach, the way she might her hand if she were closer and wanted to reassure him.

“You know, for a man who has seen his fair share of apocalypses, you seem oddly hung up on the small stuff...” She gets up and takes their plates over to the sink.

While she rinses them under the tap Diego sighs heavily, “It's not just my mail. I was thinking I could pay rent here, bring my stuff over... you know... move in... officially...”

Lila shuts off the water, puts the dishes on the draining rack, dries her hands on the dish towel, and turns around to lean on the counter. “Why?” she asks bluntly.

“Huh?” Diego says dumbly, a little surprised at her question.

“Why do you want to move in here? We talked about this when I first got the place. I like my independence but you're always welcome here, you know that. Why do you need to live here 'officially'?” she even does air-quotes on the last words.

Diego feels crestfallen. Not only does Lila not want him to move in, which was always a possibility, he knew when he started thinking about it, though he's more disappointed than he expected, but on top of that it seems like he really hasn't been able to convey to her how much she means to him, how much he needs her.

Sure, they tell each other they love each other, but maybe that's not always enough.

He starts rubbing his hands together. He wants to explain himself, but before he even opens his mouth he can feel the words slipping from his mind, he knows for certain that his tongue won't co-operate, so he stares down at his hands a little miserably instead.

But Lila must work out what's going on, because she walks over to him, strokes her hand through his hair and then unceremoniously plops down in his lap. While he reaches out to grab her waist and thigh, to make sure she won't slip off, she says none to gently, “Come on, spit it out!”

Diego huffs a laugh at the way the harsh and insensitive words contradict her gentle gesture. He takes a deep breath to settle his nerves, tries to work out what he wants to say, arranges the words in his head and says, “Whe-hen I left the mansion when I was s-s-seventeen, I didn't think I'd ever find a home again, let alone want one,” he's struggling to control his breathing, ironic as he doesn't need it to survive, but he does need it to talk properly, so he takes another deep breath, “but with you that's changed! You've always felt like home to me, Lila, and I just don't understand why we can't build one together!”

He looks her in the eyes and is trying to read what she's thinking but he's finding it hard to tell.

Then she leans in and kisses him on the temple and when she pulls back there's a little smile on her lips that has his heart stutter in his chest and she says, “Good answer! I'll call the landlady tomorrow about the rental agreement, I need to talk to her anyway about the light fitting in the bathr-mmmmmhhh”

Diego cuts her off by kissing her deeply. Right now he couldn't give two shits about the light fitting in the bathroom, but he's already looking forward to that being another one of their shared problems.

[the-angst-chronicles-fanworks]

Draco’s Wish [Pt 1/14]

> | >>

WORD COUNT: 4411

PAIRING: Drarry

TAGS:

hidden identity

Down and Out Draco Malfoy

Pretty Draco Malfoy

Talented Draco Malfoy

Auror Harry Potter

Smitten Harry Potter

Harry Potter Being an Asshole (just for a while)

Angst

Fluff

Angst with a Happy Ending

Falling In Love

Torture

SUMMARY: Draco does a good deed and is granted a wish - 12 days of anonymity in a world that hates him

COMMENTS: This was supposed to be my take on a Christmas romcom, but I missed Christmas so now it's just my take on a romcom. This chapter is very angst, but it will get much more fluffy later on I promise

I tried new things with my writing this story. Hopefully it works out well.

CW: Sexual Assault

on FF.net

on AO3

STORY:

December 4th, 2007

Draco wakes up to a day like any other in the dull mundanity that is his life. He opens his eyes to a barren ceiling with cracks and spots in the plaster and sun shining in through the holes in his tatty curtains. His tiny apartment is freezing, containing neither a fireplace nor a built-in heating charm. Winter is Draco’s least favourite time of the year, the cold seeping into his bones and threatening to freeze them still for eternity.

There is no desire to curl up under his cover – his single blanket is too threadbare to offer any meaningful warmth, and the two minutes of warmth that his shower can manage is a much better option. Draco gets out of bed quickly and goes about his morning routine of a quick shower, his bath a race against the limited hot water. He gets out, dries off as quickly as he can before the water on his body freezes in he cold air of the apartment, and pulls on his baggy oversized clothes. He dresses fully, fingers shaking as he does up his ragged winter coat and slips on his holey gloves. Only once he’s dressed does he go back to brush his teeth, carefully avoiding getting anything on his clothes.

He glances over at his ‘kitchen’ – a battered old stove that only works half the time, a tiny ice box, with a folding table as a counter – but the only food he has left is a half-frozen loaf of bread. He weighs the effort of toasting some on the stove, but there’s no guarantee that it will turn on and he’s has limited time before he is due at work. Besides, he’d had breakfast yesterday – eating again so soon would be wasteful.

Draco slips his money pouch into his boot and gives his apartment a quick once over to double-check that he hasn’t left anything behind, then slips out into the dank hallway. He pulls his door closed firmly, jamming it as much as he can to assuage the fact that it doesn’t lock. It’s expected that the resident will use a locking charm, but Draco doesn’t have a wand. His had been lost to Potter and there was no-one willing to sell him another. When his mother died, he’d been too caught up in grief to consider asking to keep her wand, and it had been buried with her. So now he’s here, unable to lock his door or heat his apartment.

Draco shakes his head, forcibly banishing the thought. There’s no use dwelling on things that he cannot change. He tugs his hood up over his head and turns, making his way downstairs into the lobby and out into the street. It’s a cold day, and blustering, and Draco fights the wind as he makes his way down the street. It stings at the skin it finds through the holes in his gloves and lifts the ends of his coat. Draco sticks his hands into his pockets with a huff, lowering his head against the stinging snow blasting against his face in tiny pinpricks.

Then the wind catches his hood and whips it away from his head. Draco panics, grabbing at the fabric to pull it back over his head but it’s too late. From behind, he hears a snarl of “Filth!”, and then hands are suddenly shoving him roughly from behind. Draco yelps, flinging out his hands to catch himself and he lands hard against the cold cobblestones.

He feels his gloves tearing more, palms scraping against harsh stone. Draco can’t help his yelp of pain, looking wildly over his shoulder, but nobody is looking at him. With an inhaled hiss, he pulls himself to his feet, double checking that his hood is back up before bringing his hands up for inspection. As he’d suspected, the gloves have ripped and the scrape against the ground has broken through the skin and drawn bloody scratches across his palms.

He flexes them, and bites back a whimper at the pain it brings. There’s nothing he can do about it now, though, so he steels himself and braces against the wind, leaving his hands to get blasted so that he can hold on to his hood and prevent it from being blown off again.

Thankfully, it is not too much further to his job, and he’s soon slipping into the back door of Forsythe’s Potions and Apothecary. He releases a relieved breath as a wave of warm air hits him, and just takes a moment to stand and relish the feeling of comfort it brings. The sting in his palm makes itself known again after another moment, and spurs Draco to action.

He slips off his coat and gloves and hangs them on a hook on the back wall. He takes a moment to lean his head against the wall, exhausted already though the day has just begun, then turns and goes up to the door separating the backroom from the front of store. He pauses there and draws a deep, fortifying breath, steeling himself – facing his boss is never a pleasant process – and raises a hand to rap sharply on the door.

There’s a moment of waiting, then the door is yanked open and Draco is face to face with his boss, Edgar Forsythe Charles, a short, squat, beady-eyed man with a pencil thin moustache and oil-slicked black hair. “Malfoy,” he barks. “What have I told you about disturbing me?”

“My apologies Mr. Forsythe,” Draco says, making a tone to keep his tone deferent. He holds up his hand, displaying his bloodied palm. “I don’t want to handle the ingredients with bloodied hands, so I was hoping you could heal them?”

Forsythe scowls deeply. “Do you think this is St-bloody-Mungoes?” He rages. “I’m not your personal servant Malfoy. You can bloody well deal with this shit yourself!” Draco stares into his reddened face and swallows down his frustration.

“If I have to go out and buy a healing potion it will take up time. Surely it would be better to just –“

“Don’t tell me what’s best!” Bellows Forsythe. He steps forward menacingly, and Draco can’t help his own step back. “Your inability to cast a simple healing charm is not my problem Malfoy. Deal with this.” His face twists into a mean sneer. “And don’t think I’m going to pay you for any time you miss,” he hisses.

“Yes sir,” Draco grits out, vividly imagining hexing Forsythe to bits.

Forsythe gives an oily smirk. “Get to it then,” he says, “and don’t think of shirking out. If you’re not back by noon you’re fired.” Then he sweeps off back into the front room, leaving Draco standing there trembling with anger.

How he wishes he could just tell Forsythe what for and leave this ignominious job behind, but the truth is that he’s lucky to had it. When he’d been released from Azkaban, he’d found a world that had no place for him – he was hated from both sides, both for being a Death Eater and not being a committed enough one. He’d been at wits end, on the brink of starvation, when he’d found Forsythe who had been thankfully more enticed by the idea of exploitable labour than he was turned off by who Draco was. He may hate Draco, treat him like shit, underpay him – but he’d given him the job, and that was more than Draco can say of anyone else.

So, he swallows his anger and turns with a sigh to return to the chilly street. With the requirement to return by noon, there is no time to go to St. Mungo’s, and neither is there a guarantee that he’ll be seen there. It depends on who’s in front when he goes in, and which Healer he ends up with.

No, there is only once place that he can go – the only shop that will sell to him at only moderately extorted prices. It’s also Draco’s least favourite place to be.

The trudge to the shop is long, as it’s all the way at the other end of Knockturn right on the corner of Diagon. Draco spends the whole walk with his head down, hands thankfully tucked in his pockets as the wind is to his back, steeling himself.

The shop is not very large – tall and narrow and unassuming. A faded sign above the entrance declares it Ugbert’s Emporium. Draco pushes inside, the bells above the door tinkling to announce his arrival. The dark room is empty of another human presence, but a shout of “I’ll be right with you!” echoes from the back room.

Draco takes a steadying breath and walks up to the counter as the curtain to the back room is pushed aside and the shop’s proprietor enters. He is a long, spindly man with rich, thick chestnut hair and a well-groomed beard. His dark, sunken eyes dart to meet Draco’s, and a greasy smile crosses his face, revealing several gold teeth.

“Little Malfoy,” he says in an unctuous voice. “What a pleasure to see you.”

“Ugbert.” returns Draco, keeping his voice as bland as possible. “I require a healing potion.”

Ugbert steps closer, around the counter so that he can see Draco fully. “Aww, you poor thing. Are you hurt?” He asks.

Draco digs his nails into his own bloodied palm and forces down his disgust. “It is just a scratch. Nothing to worry about,” he answers shortly.

Ugbert is not dissuaded by his aloofness. “Good, good,” he says instead, running his knuckles down Draco’s cheek. Draco twitches, but resists pulling away. He’s learnt that lesson, knows what is expected of him here if he is to get anything he’s looking for.

Ugbert pulls him in closer, a hand sliding down Draco’s torso and hip to cup his behind. Draco raises his chin, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “The potion, Ugbert,” he reminds him. Ugbert leers at him.

“I will need to see the injuries, so I may determine which potion will be best,” he says. His hands are now massaging at Draco’s ass, and he shudders in revulsion.

“If you show me your stock, I can pick out what I need,” he tries.

Ugbert chuckles. “I don’t think so,” he says right against Draco’s ear, grinding his hips forward. Draco feels his erection pressing against him and shudders. He quickly brings his hands up and turns his palms to Ugbert.

“Here. It’s just scratches, as I’ve said,” he says. Ugbert pulls back, looking down at his palms. He looks almost disappointed.

“Very well, let me check my inventory,” he says, stepping around the counter. Draco waits impatiently as he ducks down and inspects the wears in the lower shelves. “I can sell you a Minor Wiggenweld for twelve Galleons,” he eventually offers, straightening up with the bottle of potion in hand.

Draco stares at him in disbelief. “A Minor Wiggenweld? That’s overkill Ugbert. Don’t you have just a Healing Potion?”

“I might have one at home,” Ugbert leers, and Draco grimaces in disgust. It’s way too much, a huge chunk of his salary that will leave his food budget for the foreseeable future considerably lowered, but –

“I’ll take it,” he says hurriedly, pulling his coin pouch from his boot. He counts out twelve Galleons, inwardly wincing at the amount as he places them onto the counter.

Ugbert slides over the potion bottle and collects his Galleons. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he says with his sleazy smile.

“Likewise,” Draco answers stiffly, collecting his potion and money pouch to his coat pocket. He tugs his hood over his head and hurries back out into the street, relieved to be away from the old pervert.

He makes it back to work with no incident, and just a single sip of the potion is enough to heal his scraped palms. He looks at the expensive and mostly full bottle dejectedly. What a waste of money. He tries to look at the bright side – at the very least he will have a stock of healing potion at home now. It doesn’t make him feel much better.

With a sigh, Draco puts away the potion and goes to wash his hands in the little sink in the corner. He stops by the door to the front room, rapping on it sharply once to alert Forsythe that he’s back. He waits for the answering thump – signalling Forsythe’s annoyance that he’s being disturbed, but now he can’t pretend he doesn’t know that Draco’s back and withhold pay – before making his way over to his desk beside which a pile of boxes sits waiting. It’s a new shipment of ingredients for him to sort and package, and with a put-upon sigh Draco pulls on his Nugskin gloves and gets to work.

The work requires practically no mental input, and Draco finds his mind wondering as he counts and packs ingredients. In the front room, Forsythe has the wireless playing as he often does, and Draco hums along to the muffled melodies he can hear through the door. Customers come in sometimes, but they rarely provide interesting conversation.

Draco does listen to their questions though, mentally criticizing where Forsythe’s answers could be improved, either with the potions he suggested for their issues or – more rarely – the brewing instructions he gave them for potions.

By late afternoon, Draco has finished sorting through the new shipment and moves on to preparing the ingredients Forsythe with need for the list of potions he’d left on Draco’s desk. There is a lull from the front of house, no customers having come in for the past forty or so minutes. The wireless fills the silence, now into a newscast about the case that Potter and Granger have presented to the Wizengamot.

The case has been on the wireless often in the past few months. The pair have been championing house-elf rights or some such, and the case has now apparently been presented and the Wizengamot is in discussion. The witch briefly recaps Potter and Granger’s journey on this objective this far, and then Potter is brought on. His voice is rich and warm, and still sends shivers down Draco’s spine as he talks about how he is confident that the Wizengamot will make the right decision.

Then a customer comes in and demands that Forsythe change the channel. She and Forsythe begin wanking each other off about how very insulted they are about Saintly Potter trying to take away their servants. Draco rolls his eyes, but he can’t help feeling a little relieved that they’ve changed the channel. It’s hard for him to hear Potter’s voice – the feeling it brings up is mostly shame at how low he’s fallen while Potter is a shining beacon for the wizarding world, but there’s also the lingering feeling of lust that thoughts of Potter always arise.

The new channel is recapping this weeks Quidditch scores, and Draco half listens as he ferries ingredients over to the cauldrons, each with their own long table on which Draco sets the ingredients for the night’s potions in the order they’re needed. It seems it’s been a good week for the Falcons and, predictably, Forsythe soon starts gloating.

“I always knew the Falcons had potential!” He proclaims loudly. “They just needed the right push. Good job that new bird joined and whipped them into shape.” Draco rolls his eyes. The ‘new bird’ – Ginny Weasley – has been with the team for over three years now. The customer opines that the Magpies are going to take back the title, and Draco tunes out the conversation as light bickering ensues.

Finished with the ingredient prep, he tidies the work area, sweeps and mops the floors and locks up the ingredient cases. As he’s finishing up, he hears the customer leave and Forsythe locking up behind him. He pokes his head into the front room and calls “I’ll be off then Mr. Forsythe!”.

Forsythe glares at him and snaps “Just go, how many times have I got to tell you not to stick your pointy little nose into my store?”

Draco pulls his head back and closes the door, rolling his eyes. It’s not like anyone will see him now that the store’s closed, so he doesn’t bother heeding Forsythe’s request. It’s in his best interest to ensure that Forsythe can’t pretend that Draco’s ducked out early.

It’s warmed up a little, so he takes his time walking back to his apartment, enjoying the fresh crisp air. He takes a little too long, because by the time he gets to his apartment Mrs. Doxley, his next-door, has also arrived home and is standing in her doorway arguing with her husband as she does every day.

Draco groans inwardly as he sees her, his steps faltering a moment before picking back up in resignation. Mrs. Doxely looks up and sees him, her face twisting in disgust. “If It isn’t Lucius’ boy,” she spits. “It’s your father’s fault I’m living in this shithole you know!”

So she’d told him every time she saw him, although he had yet to learn what exactly his father had done to cause her predicament. He likely wasn’t going to learn it this time either. “I’m sorry Mrs. Doxley,” is all he says, not wanting to antagonize her further. She leans close and spits at his face in response, and Draco doesn’t quite duck out of the way in time.

He does avoid the kick though, and she glowers at him before storming into her apartment. Grimacing in disgust, Draco lets himself into his own apartment and tiredly goes to the bathroom and scrubs his face clean. Then he returns to the main room to slump onto the bed, feeling properly downtrodden.

His life really has gone to shite, and it’s not as though he doesn’t deserve it but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. He thinks about his past self, that carefree spoilt child that he’d been, and mourns for him. He wishes he could go back to that time and stay there, suspended in cruel ignorance forever. Some days, he wishes he’d died at the Battle of Hogwarts, gotten caught up in the Fiendfyre after all or perhaps caught by a stray curse on the battlefield, or sentenced to death by the Ministry. Surely it would be preferable to struggling to eke out the miserable existence he had now.

But he hadn’t died, he was here, and so live he would. Draco forces himself to his feet, putting his potion and money pouch on his bedside crate before changing into his pyjamas and washing his clothes for the next day.

December 8th, 2007

“I’ll be heading out now Mr. Forsythe,” Draco calls, poking his head out into the front of the store.

Forsythe whips around. “No, you won’t,” he snaps. Draco stiffens, half expecting a reprimand, but Forsythe just says “I’ve got an appointment to make. You’ll have to close up front too.” He starts to leave, then pauses and turns to glare at Draco. “Don’t mess anything up or it’s coming out of your salary.” He barks, and then he’s gone.

Draco sighs but obligingly steps into the front room. He’s not allowed here often – Forsythe doesn’t want customers seeing him and doesn’t half trust him besides. But the man had always been self-serving first, so if it was in his best interest to let Draco close the front he would do so, trust or not. Draco locks up the cases here too, sweeps and mops the floor, and wipes down the windows, door, and case-fronts. He knows that Forsythe doesn’t do all of this daily, but it’s expected when Draco’s the one closing the front. He doesn’t mind, and he works languidly – he has nowhere to be after all, and the shop is warm.

He locks the front door then returns to the front counter to count the till and put the money into the safe under the counter. This is the special Draco-safe of course, here for the specific case of Draco closing the front. He isn’t to know the combination of the actual safe, or even it’s location. He isn’t complaining though – the less he knows, the less Forsythe can blame him for if there ever is a robbery.

That done, he turns to his final task of wiping down the counter, humming a tune that had been playing on the wireless earlier as he works. He picks up a crumpled-up bag that Forsythe had left on the corner, expecting it to be garbage, but to his surprise he finds that there is some weight to it. Confused, he peers inside and finds that Forsythe has discarded a pair of bagels.

Draco can’t believe his luck. Fresh bagels? All he has to look forward to at home is frozen bread – he could jump for excitement at this find. He carries them to the back room and tucks them carefully into his back pocket before returning to the front and double-checking that everything is in order. Finally, he shuts off the lamps and returns to the back, donning his coat and gloves and stepping out into the Alley, locking the door firmly behind him.

It’ s a cold evening, but not windy. Draco briefly considers the thought of going back to his apartment, but quickly discards it. He’s tired of looking at those four cracked walls, and it’s not like the apartment will be any warmer than out here. He’s been trying to learn wandless heating charms, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of them yet.

Instead, he sticks his hand in his pockets and walks down to the dead end of Knockturn, pushing on the slightly off-colour brick near his left kneecap to open the portal to Muggle London.

The Knockturn entrance is not quite as nice as the Diagon entrance. This way opens out to a rundown little street with cracks in the road, small houses with chain-linked fences, a brightly lit little corner shop, and a small park that was scarcely more than some grass and three trees. Nevertheless, Draco makes a beeline for the park, enjoying spending some time in the outdoors. It’s peaceful and serene here, the world blanketed by a layer of snow that seemed to insulate him, making it feel like he’s the only person in the world.

In moments like this, Draco can forget who he is and just exist.

He opens his eyes after a moment, sighing into the calm of the night as his stomach rumbles restlessly. He smiles slightly. He’ll have something better than stale toast tonight at least.

Turning, Draco makes his way to the only bench in the park so he can sit and eat his supper. When he gets there, however, he finds that it is not empty for the first time in the years he’s been coming to this park. There on the bench are a woman and a little girl, shivering, huddled together under a blanket for warmth. They are gaunt in a way that Draco recognizes, that he’s seen in the mirror during the bad months, and they’re clearly no more equipped for winter than Draco in his threadbare coat.

The woman looks up and catches sight of Draco. “Excuse me,” she says. “do you have any money for food? Please, we haven’t eaten in days!”

Draco hesitates. He has no muggle money on him, only the bag of bagels in his pocket, and he doesn’t want to give that over – he rarely gets much to eat and something so fresh is a treat. He has the last of his frozen bread at home, yes, but with the expensive purchase of the potion earlier he wasn’t going to have to reduce his food spending for the next little while. He has so little – surely the plight of these people shouldn’t be his to reduce?

He opens his mouth, about to tell her “No, sorry,” when something in her eyes stops him. It’s the desperation, something he has experienced so often in his own life – how often had he wished somebody would just give him a helping hand? Now it appears that he’s in the position to give the helping hand. He has little, but he has enough to help.

Draco curses quietly but stops and turns to her. “Here,” he says brusquely, shoving the bag of bagels at her. He doesn’t wait for her thanks – he doesn’t want it, not really. She calls it after his back anyway, and the sincere gratitude in it gives him pause. Somehow, he doesn’t feel too bad as he goes home and toasts the last of his frozen bread.

The night is still thankfully not too cold as he tucks himself in for bed, and he has a deep, uninterrupted sleep. The dream that comes to him is strange – he’s alone in a black place, or at least seems to be alone. His instincts ping though, with the feeling that he’s not alone.

“Hello?” He calls out, turning in a circle. “Is someone there?”

Before him, a figure blinks into existence. It at once looks human and not, bright and glowing with a shifting iridescence. Draco startles and stumbles backward.

“Who are you?” He asks.

The presence answers, but not verbally. Its answer seems to reverberate all around them, and within Draco’s own head. “I am a wish,” it says, “made by a child in her hour of need. You have fulfilled that wish. We thank your generosity Draco Malfoy.”

Draco blinks. A wish made manifest – a child’s tale from his bedtime stories. Merlin, he’d done one good deed and now his subconscious was dragging up a fairy-tale reward for his dreams. He rolls his eyes at himself.

“Great,” he says, not wanting to entertain this but also not wanting to waste time arguing with dreamt-up wish magic. “What are you here for then?”

“A wish granted is a wish given,” answers the light. It floats closer. “And your wish, Draco Malfoy, shall be anonymity. Twelve days, I grant you. During this time, you shall be recognized not, even by those looking plain upon your face. After this time, memories made of you shall not be connected to you unless the recaller lays eyes upon you. This you are given.”

Then the light grows, bright and brighter still, until Draco is surrounded by white.

[heystephwrites]

The Peace Referendum

Originally published on October 13th, 2016 I wrote this blog post to answer questions I received about the peace referendum in Colombia.

The week before last, in the midst of the SENA strike aka the impromptu and undesired holiday, I began to write a blog post titled COLOMBIA SIGNS PEACE DEAL. Well, two weeks after the referendum I can say that someone certainly signed a peace deal but it wasn’t Colombia.

President Juan Manuel Santos, a man of polarised opinion, was seemingly making good on his pre-electoral promise of peace since, three weeks ago, he signed a historic peace deal with the FARC rebels. The FARC, whilst not the only rebel group involved in the 52-year conflict, are by far the largest and most influential. It was assumed that if this deal had been accepted by the Colombian population other groups such as the ELN would follow suit in the coming months and years. Alas, they did not and thus it’s back to the drawing board for the peace talks.

The decision against the peace treaty has left many, Colombian and extranjero alike, scratching their heads in confusion. Why would the people vote no? Are Colombians not interested in resolving the longest-running armed conflict in the Americas? The answer, as always, is it’s complicated. Nothing here is straightforward; not the conflict; not public opinion; not even the referendum itself.

In theory, referendums seem like a wonderful avenue of direct democracy in an otherwise imperfect system, in reality, this couldn’t be further from the truth. Referendums are extremely rarely used, although 2016 does seem to be the year of the referendum (here’s looking at you Brexit, Thailand, and Italy among others) because alongside other flaws they have the tendency to be incredibly unpredictable. In this case, up until the day of the vote the polls had forecasted solid support for the ‘yes’ camp but it was not to be. To determine why this was, one must look at what drives voters in a referendum. Is it a carefully deliberated conviction based on clearly explained facts? Probably not.

In this and other referendums, the voting public was not sufficiently informed to make decisions on such a complicated and technical issue. This wasn’t merely a vote for peace (to which all would agree) but on a specific peace treaty, one that the details of which were not made abundantly clear. There was a sense of secrecy about it and secrecy always breeds mistrust. What we do know about the peace treaty is that it was particularly lenient towards the FARC. It was extremely lenient in fact, no-jail-time-and-10-seats-in-parliament-to-a-diminishing-and-discredited-rebel-army lenient.

This should really have been foreseen, however. Santos is still in power because of his promise to do what his predecessors could not and secure lasting peace. His second term of presidency was secured by the skin of his teeth, just 50.95% of the vote as opposed to 68.9% in 2010. Many of his supporters that tipped the scales were those among the left that hoped for peaceful negotiation with the FARC. One can assume this is what drove his tactic of peace “at any costs" - a tactic criticized by his old buddy and former Colombian president Alvaro Uribe.

That said, buddy mightn’t be the best word to describe their current relationship as although Uribe helped win the presidency for Santos in 2010, the two later split. Uribe’s campaign against the peace deal is thought to be one of the principal reasons that the no vote prevailed.

The basis of Uribe's campaign was that the FARC should be punished harshly for their crimes.

“Peace is exciting, but the text of the Havana deal is disappointing,” said Uribe

Uribe’s campaign took advantage of the widespread hatred of the FARC. Honestly, the phrase widespread hatred might be an understatement. For many Colombians, there is a special place in hell for members of the FARC as the most recent period of violence was started by the FARC’s insurgency and the violence has been pretty horrific. The numbers reported vary but most agree that it has left; more than 260,000 dead with the large majority being civilian; 6.9 million people internally displaced (which, for reference, is even more than Sudan and Iraq combined), and over 75,000 people have disappeared or been kidnapped. Somewhere in the region of half of all Colombians have lost a family member to violence over the years and many understandably lay the blame at FARC's door. Yet, when looking at the evidence that doesn't come directly from the Colombian government, one can't help but feel the hatred is, in some cases, misplaced. If you read nothing else in this post please read this:

“The United Nations has estimated that 12% of all killings of civilians in Colombian conflict have been committed by the FARC and ELN guerrillas, and the rest, 80%, by government forces and paramilitaries.”

So yes, the FARC have undoubtedly done some atrocious things but the Colombian government also have A LOT to answer for.  

This has obviously never been mentioned. In the same way that many voters in the UK were swayed by xenophobic propaganda, strong personalities such as Nigel Farage, and expensive advertising campaigns during the Brexit movement, the hatred of the FARC was a much more beneficial political tool for Uribe’s campaign. In the UK, voters were lured with falsified promises, all of which have fallen to the wayside, leaving many regretting their decision. Whether this happens in Colombia remains to be seen.

In addition to hatred, many citizens mistrust the FARC. This, as has been mentioned, is not the first attempt at peace or a peace deal. In previous endeavours, the FARC have gone back on their word and this also played a major factor in the outcome.

Interestingly though, the areas in which one would expect people to have the most hatred towards the FARC voted for the peace deal. It seems the area’s most affected by the violence just wanted it to stop. They were not interested in vengeance, just peace.

For this reason, the phrase "tyranny of the majority” is often associated with referendums. This situation is an example of the worst kind because the whims of the majority have superseded the needs of the minority. Although in this case, "the tyranny of whoever bothered to leave their house on that rainy Sunday" would be more apt.

Referendums are only direct democracy if people bother to take part in them. Turnout for this one was a disappointing 37%. Reasons for this low turnout vary from the weather to general indifference. Another thing to remember is that unlike Europe most Latin American countries are new to direct democracy (the exception being Uruguay) and Colombians especially, weary from years of violence and disappointment, are particularly politically apathetic.

Another difficulty that plagued this referendum was a problem with separability. This is the inability to separate the facts before them from other issues. There were a few somewhat direct issues; others were completely unrelated. One less related issue was Santos and his government.

Everywhere except Colombia Santos’ popularity is soaring but here in the country itself, it’s at an all-time low. Colombia’s economy has been struggling of late and unemployment is at 9 percent. He has made some highly questionable moves during his presidency but this isn’t all Santos’ fault; the low prices for oil and trade relations with China have a lot to do with it. Regardless there are many Colombians that believe he has been far too preoccupied with peace negotiations to really deal with the economy. Peace should bring eventual prosperity to the country but for now, the Colombian peso has fallen sharply against the dollar since the talks began in 2012. Although before the referendum a yes appeared certain to anyone paying attention, nationally or internationally, it seemed to many nationals that his interest lay more in international public opinion. This only fortified the perception within Colombia that, now nearing the end of his time in political office he was pursuing other honours and that his haste for a deal was not for the good of the nation, but to secure the Nobel Peace Prize.

Whilst campaigning overseas Santos made the Secretary of Education, Gina Parody, the face of the yes vote in Colombia. No one is sure why, Parody is even less popular than Santos, but we can be sure that this backfired on him. One of the ideas that Parody tried to push was gender-specific care for victims of sexual violence, however, because Parody is openly gay, right wing activists twisted this when it was reported to the general public. Somehow it ended up being explained to already concerned Christians as a “gender ideology” that sought to promote sexual diversity. Many voted no because they believed the treaty to be a threat to the nuclear family. Sadly after months of having her sexual orientation used to sabotage her work, Parody has since resigned.

Already you can see that the situation is very, very complicated and if I’m honest I’ve barely scratched the surface. The more important question is “so what now Colombia? Where do we go from here?” Back to the drawing board, it looks like. Let’s just hope there are no casualties while we wait.

[pressedinthepages]

Chapter 4: Fractures

Summary: After being found, questions are asked and painful pasts come to light.

Series Masterlist

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382063/chapters/59742352

Words: 2537

Tags: @whitewolfandthefox  (Add yourself to my taglist here!)

Warnings: none that i can really think of, pretty tame chapter

A/N: Got another flashback here folks, as well as finally confronting some demons that have been chasing Reader for a while.

    The fire crackles and spits, warming the air around you. The darkness of night is accompanied by a chill in the air, but neither you nor the guest at your camp pays it any mind. Eskel has been quiet as you both ate, wordlessly regarding you over the light of the fire.  

    “So…” you say, breaking the silence. You don’t want to start with anything too heavy, so you settle on “what’s the deal with the goat?”

    Eskel’s face visibly lightens, his tense expression melting into something much softer, like ice caps melting in the sea. He looks into the shadows at the edge of the camp where the animals are resting. His stallion stands beside your mare, both of them nodding off in the still evening. Eskel’s goat is at the horses’ feet, curled up and tucked in on herself, sound asleep.

    “I was passing through a little farming village about a year ago,” Eskel says, his voice carrying low on the breeze. “I didn’t even end up taking a job in that town, but as I was leaving she jumped the fence of her enclosure and ran up to me. She was a tiny little thing, probably the runt in her litter. I tried to just keep walking, but she kept screaming at me.” You smile at the picture, fully able to imagine it based on your experiences with the goat earlier that day. 

    “I turned around and walked back to her farm,” he continues, “and I opened the gate to try and get her back in there. She was just a stubborn then as she is now, and she wouldn’t budge. She dug her hooves in and gave me this look, gods she reminded me so much of Lambert,” he laughed. 

    You think back to when, about a year before you left Kaer Morhen, Eskel, Geralt, and you had been tasked with teaching Lambert the most efficient method to deal with a water hag. It turned out to be much easier said than done. Lambert had been no more than fourteen at the time, his eyes still hazel in the noon sun. 

...

Lambert was wailing on a dummy by the wall of the courtyard, beating the ever-loving shit out of the damn thing. The three of you were trying to get him to listen to your advice, but it was like speaking to a wall. The little brat had decided that since he had killed one whole drowner he could take on whatever decided to come after him.

    “Gods, I don’t know why we even try!” Geralt had exclaimed, finally reaching the end of his already very short patience. He stormed off, silver hair flipping into his eyes as he purposefully stomped up the steps towards the keep. 

    Eskel’s patience was wearing thin as well, you had noticed. He was always good at hiding his frustrations, but you had known him long enough to see through his cover. You remember placing a hand on his shoulder and nodding at the stoop surrounding the training area, silently telling him to sit down and let the master work. 

    Unfortunately, you still had yet to master Axii, and even if you had, you wouldn’t feel comfortable using it on someone for many years. So, you settled on a much older method, one that transcended time and magic.

    “Hey, I bet that you can’t beat me in a sword fight,” you had called, unsheathing the steel sword as you did.

    Lambert stopped his incessant swinging and turned, more than a little bit of arrogance shining in his eyes. Even though he was younger and less experienced, he had already been taller and broader than you. He tilted his head and you began circling each other around the courtyard. 

    “Hmmm...and what will I get when I win?” he had asked, already holding his sword in a solid guard across his chest. 

    “If you win, I’ll do your dish duty for a month,” you replied, and you had known that you had him hooked. Lambert hated dish duty more than almost anything else, grumbling and bitching the whole time. 

    “But,” you continued, his eyes narrowing, “if I win, you’ll let me come on the hunt for the hag with you.”

    He stopped, his body reeking of sudden confusion. Even Eskel, who had been only halfway paying attention, perked up at your words, neither of them sure of why you wanted that for your prize. Lambert’s body shifted, his sword falling lower to his waist.

    You smiled and quickly threw a hand out, casting Aard and sending Lambert flying backward, almost knocking Eskel off of the ledge. You ran forward and lept, sword held high. Lambert had barely had time to roll out of the way, and you spent the next hour chasing him around the courtyard. 

    The next day, you had set off on the hunt, happy with the rules you had set for your victorious hunt. You had tied a bit of fabric around Lambert’s mouth and told him that if he took it off, he’d be doing your dish duty for the next year. During the long trek to the hag’s lair, you spoke at great length about any and every bit of information you had about water hags, reveling in the chance to get him to listen without pulling your hair out.

…

    “I almost even named her Lil’ Lambert, you know.” Eskel’s words bring your attention back to him, and you see the little smirk on his face on catching you daydreaming. “But, I figured Lambert wouldn’t be thrilled with being compared to a goat, so I just call her Lil’ Bleater instead.”

    “Because…?” You chuckle, teasing the immense creativity the man in front of you had when naming his goat.

He avoids your gaze, well aware of the hole he has dug himself into. “Because..she...she bleats.”

You snort, and you feel real, true laughter rising from your stomach. It’s been longer than you can remember since you last laughed so easily, but it makes sense, you think, that Eskel would be the one to remind you of just how good it feels.

As the laughter dies down, the silence settles back around you, stifling in its quiet. You’ve always been content in silence, but now, it is as if the air is holding its breath, waiting for you to have the inevitable, painful conversation. 

Eskel clears his throat, also visibly uncomfortable. You can hear his heartbeat underneath the sound of the fire, slow and steady as he breathes. His fingers intertwine with one another, grappling with the thoughts that are loudly spinning around his mind.

“You wander these woods often, or did something specific bring you here?” finally asks, teasing lilting his voice at the edges. You look up at him and smirk before nodding, explaining the harpy contract that you were set to begin hunting in the morning.

“Damn it, I was going after that one too. Different town, sits over the hill…” Eskel’s words drift off, glancing up at you as he debates asking a further question. You’ve always been impatient, so you ask instead.

“Need a hand? We can take care of the nest easily between the two of us, and there should be plenty of harpies for us to each grab a trophy from to use as proof,” you ponder, fiddling with the hem of your tunic at your leg. “Once it’s done, we can go back to the respective towns and both claim the rewards, and then set off on the Path again.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw set in an unmistakable gesture of conflict. Before you can wonder what may have annoyed him, you hear him mumble from across the fire.

“Yeah, I suppose that would be the best plan.”

Your heart breaks a little, a feeling that you haven’t really known in years. You wish that you could have more time with him, but you know that Witchers aren’t meant to linger together, the Path of the wolf is one trekked alone.

Eskel runs a hand through his hair, the dark locks fluttering back around his golden eyes as he raises his gaze to you once more. You see the fire behind it, flashing hurt and anger and confusion.

“What the hell happened? Why haven’t you found any of us, or come back?” He exclaims, jumping to his feet and pacing around the fire. You sigh, hugging your arms around your chest. You knew that he’d ask that, but you loathed the idea of going back through all of that pain and fear. 

“Eskel,” you start, lowering your gaze to the fire, it being somehow less intense that looking into his eyes. “It was never about you, or the others. It was me, and my shit, my own inability to control my cowardice.”

Eskel stops, turning to you and staying silent, allowing you the time you need to put together your thoughts before speaking.

“Once we left and got a taste of the world, I realized how much fear had been ingrained in those walls. I was scared to go back there, to have to feel the memory of the Trials and the constant panic of not being perfect.” Your voice breaks a little, but you continue on, now unable to stop the torrent of emotions that had been held back for so long. You suddenly realize that it’s not that you haven’t been feeling for the past thirty years, but that you have just been pushing those feelings down further and further, and the moment Eskel came along he undid the lid and everything came spilling out.

“I just wandered for a few years, and by the time I had kind of made peace with what we went through at Kaer Morhen, I heard about the attack.” You look up at him and he is wearing a grimace, flinching slightly at the memory. “I was so ashamed, I should’ve been there, I shouldn’t even be alive.

A tear falls down your cheek as you fall silent. You see Eskel’s boots move, coming to rest on the ground beside yours. He sits beside you on the log and wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you to his broad chest. You sink into him, finding comfort in the scent of him and his grip grounding you in the present.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of” he rumbles, his voice low and soothing. “Gods, I have so many mixed feelings about that place. But it’s the only home I’ve known, and I’ve been given the chance to decide whether I want it to be a place of refuge, or one that smothers me.”

You know that he has a point, but you still can’t bring yourself to go back. “There’s something else. I’ve made peace with the past, or at least as much as I can.” You sit up, Eskel’s arms still sitting at your sides. You’re reminded of the night before the Trial, and the kiss that you shared but never actually talked about after. 

“There’s this mage, and he’s been hunting and killing women for years,” you explain, Eskel’s brow furrowing with worry. “Allegedly, all of them were born during an eclipse, causing them to have certain...properties. I’m not sure exactly what, but the Day of the Black Sun is infamous. People are terrified of them, and this mage apparently thinks that these women are set to end the world as we know it.”

“What does all of this have to do with you?” Eskel asks, and you can’t help but fear how he will react when you tell him the truth.

“I...I’m one of them. I was born on that day, I saw it in one of the visions from the Trial,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his once more. “I’ve tried to stay low, stay safe, but...What if I am the end? I’ve already been turned into this...this monster...who knows what else I could become?”

Eskel fits a finger below your chin and pulls you back to him, his eyes searching yours as you see the tension in his brow relax.

“You listen closely, please,” he states, his tone serious as he continues. “You are not, and have never been, some monster. I don’t care what anyone has said over the years, I have learned that we alone control what we are. It doesn’t matter what others have done to you or think of you, it only matters what you choose to believe in spite of that.”

You swallow, your emotions slowly closing themselves back into the little box in your head. You don’t really know how to feel, having never really considered Eskel’s line of reasoning. 

“You know, when you didn’t come back to Kaer Morhen that first winter, I worried constantly. In the spring, I convinced Geralt to help me look for you.” You turn back to the fire, once more ashamed of causing him concern. “We looked for the whole year, only taking enough contracts to get by. We’d hear whispers of you every now and then, but you’d be long gone every time. I’d still get Geralt to help when he could after that, but his Path was pulling him in lots of directions. Lambert even helped for a bit when he left the keep, but he got so frustrated with the lack of results that he didn’t last very long.”

“And then, after the attack, all we heard was silence. Everywhere we went, there was never any sign of you.” The tears flow freely down your cheeks, he’d actually looked for you? Tried to find you? “The others mourned you along with the rest, thinking that you had been killed. I figured that they were probably right, but a part of me just knew that you were still alive. I’ve never really stopped looking, and when I saw you in the forest, gods, I thought you were just some hallucination, taunting me with your presence.”

“But you were actually there, alive, right in front of me,” his voice shakes before he clears his throat. “I can’t let go, not now. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe, even if I have to hunt down that mage and end him my own damn self.”

You look back to him and see the promise behind his eyes, and you wonder what your life could have been like if you’d found him sooner. You nod, not trusting yourself to reopen your chest of emotions that has buried itself back into your heart.

“We should rest, we’ll have a long day tomorrow,” you say, your words soft and edged with an empty sadness. Eskel sighs before standing to move away, but your hand catches his and pulls him back down. You can’t say it yet, but you can’t let go now either.

You rest your head on Eskel’s shoulder and feel his arm wrap around your waist, holding you steady. The sounds of the forest and the beat of the strong heart beneath you lull you into deep relaxation, your eyes fluttering shut and your consciousness slipping from your grasp.

[kasplode]

to be a hero

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia (My Hero Academia)

Status: Complete (1/1)

Words: 1,200

Summary: 

Keigo has spent most of the aftermath hospitalised. He’s one eye down, muscles damaged and atrophied, patches of skin beyond repair, struggling to sleep or keep food down or think about anything other than unbearable heat and repercussions and overwhelming guilt-

-

Tokoyami visits Keigo in the hospital.

Read on AO3

[BNHA Manga Spoilers for the current Arc]

The operation was a clusterfuck. Not just a clusterfuck—it was a catastrophic disaster. Truly, a ‘hero society, the Hero Commission and Japan itself will never be the same’ level of disaster.

Keigo hadn’t thought it was possible for something to outdo the horrific destruction of Kamino, especially within a year of the tragedy. Evidently, he had been too fucking optimistic there.

Ironic.

Keigo has spent most of the aftermath hospitalised. He’s one eye down, muscles damaged and atrophied, patches of skin beyond repair, struggling to sleep or keep food down or think about anything other than unbearable heat and repercussions and overwhelming guilt-

With the high volume of patients overwhelming the capabilities of Tokyo’s hospitals, Keigo had been left to heal by his own natural capabilities before he could get new skin grafted. By the end of his treatment, Keigo thinks, his skin has become as mangled and ugly as the man who burned him. It’s yet another in the series of the great, cosmic jokes that make up Keigo’s life.

The first few weeks are pretty lonely, pretty quiet. There’s no one around to nag about his medication dosage, to sweet-talk into buying him decent food, to crack stupid jokes to about the fish-skin they covered the stinging-numb remains of his skin with. That last part was a real shame, too; he had come up with some real zingers.

His first and only visitor in the first fortnight in hospital is one of his handlers. Once the Commission could spare the manpower, they’d sent his least favourite handler to visit. The first visit was for a mission report, which he gave between bouts of unconsciousness and agony. The follow-up visit had been a few days later. It wasn’t a particularly long visit; it was just enough time for them to update him on his assignment’s status (terminated), express disappointment in his inability to kill more members of the League, and explain consequences: a decrease in pay, a probationary period, various restricted privileges until he ‘earns back the Commission’s trust.’

As if it’s his fault. As if he could’ve done better if he just tried harder.

He always has been too laid back for the Commission’s tastes.

It occurs to Keigo, as he lies in bed unable to do anything but hurt, that they wouldn’t have mourned him if he died. If they were upset by it at all, it would only be for the inconvenience of having to replace him.

When he does die, will anyone have ever known him, known who he was? Will anyone miss him, outside of the shallow way a child may miss the figure they once watched through a screen?

For one dark moment, Keigo wonders if he should have died fighting Dabi, right beside Twice in that crumbling room with guilt in his soul and his crudely constructed world collapsing around him.

He’d meant what he said. Twice really was a good guy.

He had never wanted to-

...

Today, three weeks and five days after the end of the world, he gets another—more welcome—visitor.

“Tokoyami, hello!” Keigo greets, projecting as much cheer as he can into his voice. He doesn’t have to fake it, mostly; he’s genuinely pleased to see Tokoyami, his student’s appearance making him the happiest he’s felt all month. The smile he wears pulls at the healing scar tissue of his face.

“Hello, Hawks,” Tokoyami says, bowing respectfully.

“Now now, Tsukuyomi, is that any way to address me? We’re birds of a feather, after all! Fighting together—or I suppose, you were the only one fighting—creates a special bond, don’t you know?” Somehow, it’s far more draining than usual to keep up his false cheer.

“I couldn’t possibly presume to be so familiar with you.”

Keigo waves his good hand airily. “Well, there are no hero costumes around here, are there? Call me Takami.”

“...Of course. I hope you don’t mind me visiting, I couldn't help but wish to check up on you myself, even though your agency says you’re recovering well.”

Keigo rewards the kid’s genuine concern with another smile; a smaller, more natural one that doesn’t hurt a bit. “It’s fine, it’s fine. In fact, I’m glad you’re here. You wouldn’t believe how boring it gets in here.”

Keigo gestures to the scarcely-touched visitor’s chair by the bed. “Come sit down,” he says, and the boy does.

He’s not sure what he should be saying to fill in the silence, but with Tokoyami, a little silence isn’t all that bad.

Still, there’s one thing he probably should say.

“Tokoyami.”

The boy looks up sharply at his uncharacterally sharp tone. “Yes?”

“About that day...” Keigo says. There’s no need to elaborate. “You came rushing in, straight into danger. You must’ve seen the fight, huh?”

Tokoyami looks down, beak opening and closing silently. “I couldn’t stay where I was. I knew you were up there, and knowing of your weakness to flames—” Tokoyami looks directly at Keigo, eyes severe, sincere, a little desperate, “it would have been truly mad to ignore it, as not only your student, but a hero as well.”

Keigo nods. Tokoyami’s eyes are so big, his voice so soft. His small hands are balled up in his lap. Keigo looks at him and sees nothing but a child.

He was a child once, too.

“You really are growing into your potential, huh? That was real heroic, kid,” Keigo says. He takes a breath and lets it out softly. “But it was also crazy dangerous.”

“Yes, sir.” Tokoyami’s face scrunches up, feathers ruffling.

As much as Keigo wants to correct the formality, he shouldn’t. For just a moment, he can’t be Keigo; he has to be Hawks, the hero and teacher.

“You could have died, Tokoyami. Your motivations and actions were selfless and heroic, but you’re still just a provisional hero. You have plenty of years of learning ahead of you before you ought to be sticking your beak into your senpai’s fights. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Keigo sighs. “Good.” He reaches out his good arm and ignores the pain of moving to clap Tokoyami on the arm. “You saved my life, kid. Thanks.”

And, fuck, the kid’s eyes are all watery now. Keigo doesn’t know how to handle crying children, what’s he supposed to do here?

“I… I’m just so glad you’re okay,” Tokoyami’s voice is wobbly and liquid, probably the most emotional he’s ever been in front of Keigo—the rescue aside.

“It’s alright kid.” He grips the boy’s arm and pulls him up, “Come on, bring it in.”

They share an awkward, unfamiliar one-armed hug, and Keigo pets over the downy feathers at the back of the boy’s head. (This is how you comfort kids, right? Right?)

“You did good, Tokoyami.”

In his arms, Tokoyami cries. Keigo isn’t sure if he’s doing this right, but he’s a hero, and this kid is basically his, now.

So Keigo pets Tokoyami’s feathers the way he knows is most comfortable, hushes his tears and cracks jokes until the boy smiles again. And for the first time in far, far longer than three weeks and five days, he feels like a hero.

[squidpro-quo]

Roommates

AN: For @sup-poki and @mintchocolateleaves‘s emogust prompt “Roommates”, suuuuuuper late but I couldn’t forget athlete!kaishin and especially not Kaito as an acrobat

“Oi, Kudo! Can you stop staring for a minute and focus?” 

Shinichi turned away from his view of the gym and back towards Heiji just as a soccer ball slammed into his face, sending him reeling back with his nose stinging like hell. The pain was enough to snap him back to his current situation, not the daydream he’d been entertaining a second ago, and now he certainly had the focus to glare at Hakuba as he and Heiji jogged closer. 

“That’s the third ball to the brain cage this week, Kudo,” Heiji said, clapping an arm across his back and pulling his shoulder close as Hakuba passed by on his way to retrieve the ball. “I tried to warn you this time too!”

“I was paying attention, it just caught me off guard.” Shinichi grimaced as he pulled his hand away from his nose, gaze sliding unbidden back to the side of the gym. The assembled figures stretching against the wall, some now pointing down towards the soccer field with heads clustered together, were close enough for him to pick out the lithe one in the leggings and loose tank top bending down to touch his toes. Shinichi didn’t need him to look up just yet and see the disaster of a fool he’d made of himself at the moment, that could wait. 

“Aaaaand you’re still not paying attention,” Heiji muttered, snapping his fingers in front of Shinichi’s face, poking him in the nose once he refused to look away. “Seriously, I thought you guys were roommates? What’s making this so hard? You literally see him every day for several hours. You sleep less than ten feet away.” 

“Likely that is the source of his inability to kick the ball instead of receiving it with his face,” Hakuba cut in, returning with the ball in hand and calculating gaze in store. “You should ask him before anyone else does.” 

“Ask him what?” Shinichi tried to play dumb, but the ball must have shaken a screw loose or something because a second later his brain caught up to why this whole line of questioning was a bad idea. “Who’s going to ask him?”

“You can’t think you’re the only one who gets distracted by splits and somersaults, right?” Heiji tried to slap the ball out of Hakuba’s hand, but the other was used to the habit and stepped out of range. 

“If you keep drooling over the leotards then pretty soon someone else will take a move while you’re still recovering from your repeated brain injuries.” Hakuba smiled slightly, dropping the ball down to bounce on his knee. 

“You’ve got a chance, Kudo!” Heiji shook him in encouragement, Shinichi fighting to stay standing against his strength. None of their reasoning was convincing him to take the climb the grassy hill up to the gym and do something embarrassing in front of the entire gymnastics team. He could just imagine the way Kaito would look up from his stretch to smile and ask if he wanted to do some exercises together later. “He’s got his own puddle of drool.” 

That got his attention.

“What? How do you know?” Shinichi turned towards Heiji so sharply that his nose twinged from the speed of the movement. 

“You know you can be real blind to things right in front of you sometimes, right? Handshake trick, my ass, you can tell what someone had for breakfast but not that your own roommate stares at you when you’re not looking.” 

Shinichi wanted to glance up towards the side of the gym yet again but resolutely kept his gaze fixed on the soccer ball now passing from the tip of Hakuba’s foot up to his head. Balancing it for a second before returning it to his hands, Hakuba still had time to shoot Shinichi an unimpressed stare. 

“I saw him lose his balance when you scored in that scrimmage match last week. And he keeps watching you run by too. Doesn’t spare the rest of us half an eyeful, guess our shorts aren’t short enough.” Heiji grinned, before giving Shinichi a shove in the back. “Now hurry up, we’re taking a water break for your health. Don’t come back until you’ve done something about your very flexible distraction.” 

Shinichi looked up to find Kaito standing back up, eyes catching on his own and while he raised his leg above his head and braced it against the wall beside him, gave Shinichi a small wave. 

What the hell, he could always just ask Kaito a quick question and those two wouldn’t know any better until he came back and told them he didn’t do it. Shinichi started climbing the hill, hands braced on his thighs with each step from the steepness. His practice jersey stuck to his chest with each lunging stride but he managed to reach the top without becoming out of breath. Which was a relief, because he needed it available for it to be stolen when Kaito beamed at his approach and bounded out of his stretch to meet him halfway to the rest of the team. 

“Looks like you’re going hard today,” Kaito said, eyes brushing up and down Shinichi’s rumpled shirt and shorts with a meaningful look.

“No, no we’re not…” Shinichi scrambled for better words before he made a fool of a misinterpretation. “Yeah, coach is working us hard. You guys on the bars today?”

“Rings, actually. I’ll have noodle arms by tonight.” 

“Do you want some tonight?” Shinichi blurted, mouth moving faster than his slightly battered brain could keep up. Maybe Hakuba was right about potential concussions. 

“Some what?” Kaito leaned to the side, hands on his bare hips as he spoke, dipping into a stretch while Shinichi had to face the fact of how much of his skin he could, see from his shoulders to his waist. 

“Noodles. Do you want to get noodles tonight?”

“Uh, sure. I thought it was my turn to make dinner?” Kaito shot him a perplexed look, straightening up. 

“I was thinking we could eat at a restaurant.” Shinichi tried again. 

“Oh. Is this because you ran a load of your laundry right when I needed to do mine?” Kaito laughed sheepishly before adding on, “I actually just stole some of your shirts instead, so you don’t have to pay me back.”

“No, it’s not about that.” Though now Shinichi knew why he’d been faintly possessive when he’s seen Kaito yesterday. He gave up and went for direct instead. “Go out with me.” 

“I mean I’m cool with getting noodles somewhere, I’ll go out to eat.” Kaito shrugged, the strap of his tank top slipping off his shoulder with the motion. He pulled it back up and smiled, that infuriating grin that Shinichi now knew to be his mischievous one. 

“You know what I mean, Kuroba,” he muttered, his blood pumping from how riled up his damn roommate could get him, in more ways than one, and not from the rigorous practice anymore. 

“Just wanted to see how long it would take you. Too many soccer balls to the head will do that to you,” Kaito said, a satisfied look gleaming in his eyes. 

Before Shinichi could retort, one of Kaito’s teammates, Akako’s familiar wicked sharp voice, cut in.

“He fell flat on his ass so much he had to bribe us to keep quiet.” She pointed between the two. “Finally. You two are denser than a pair of weights. Get out of here, Kudo, you’ll have him all to yourself tonight. Right now he’s mine.” 

Shinichi glared over Kaito’s shoulder at her but Kaito took hold his arm and after a quick squeeze, pushed him down the slope. 

“It’s a date!”

If you’d like to know more, prompt me here

[occhiolismatic]

Hi! Can I ask for the second part of the Starker!AU with Peter being fucked by his sexy teacher while people is still around? Thank youuu ❤️ Love your work ❤️

This does continue from my last Teacher/Student starker ;) so anyone reading this should check that out too

Horny and at loss for words, Peter didn’t know what to say,not with Mr. Stark standing there commenting on the bulge between his legs.Despite Mr. Stark’s obvious attention, an entity the boy didn’t know he craved,Peter wanted it to stop. Right then, right there. The smug facial expressionwritten across the older man’s face was too much, chiseled and set; Petercouldn’t handle it. Opting to snatch a physics textbook off the nearest table,the boy’s next move was to cover, to shield the erection in his pants, hisfrail, little hands not good enough to successfully do the job for him, and Mr.Stark just watched, pursing his fine lips just right. 

And as if the heat draining to the area surrounding histhighs wasn’t enough, Peter felt as though his cheeks were on fire, faceflushed, flaming with a feverish tendency unlike no other. His pale skin nowthe color of crimson, it definitely didn’t come off as healthy-looking, noteven to Mr. Stark with a PHD under his belt, shamefaced and embarrassed forPeter, empathetic in nature.

“I’m- I just,” Peter stammered, forcing down the rock-hardfeeling gathering in his throat. Mr. Stark only raised his eyebrows, neatlyfolding his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“Youu?” Mr. Stark followed with a sweet, lethargic hum,stretching his neck in a mocking way, certainly entertained by the predicamentbefore him.

Peter’s shoulders slouched at the teasing. His affectiongrowing stronger by the second, humiliation both sickening and debilitating, Peteralso came to find it attractive, probable cause being the roll of Mr. Stark’sgravelly voice.  

“Uh..mm.. I have to go.” Peter forged a fake chuckle, “Idon’t wanna to miss the bus, plus I got a lot of homework to do.. some catchingup for math..”

Mr. Stark slowly perused, leaning forwards and then backagain, “Wouldn’t want to be late for the bus you don’t ride? Right, Mr. Parker?”

Mr. Stark knew the kid well enough to understand he didn’tuse the school’s transportation; rather, the teen walked or took the publictransit, not the crowded, disgusting buses the school deemed inappropriately safefor students. Nails embedding themselves into the hardcover of the textbook,Peter stopped breathing. He then began feeling the weight of a truck pressingdown on his chest, simply at the idea of Mr. Stark actually paying attention tohis schedule, his daily life.  

“Y-mm, yeah.” Peter inhaled sharply, eyes searching for hisescape route, a way out of the awkward situation. “Actually, I’m taking the bustoday with my friend, Ned. Going to his house to study for the test next week,and-”

Peter acted as though Mr. Stark didn’t know who Ned was.“Yeah, uh-huh.” Mr. Stark spoke through grinding teeth.

“Yeah,” Peter assured, turning on his heels to walk away,right to the door, the only exit from room 17A. “Yeah, so I’ll just- I’ll seeyou tomorrow.”

Doorknob half-turned in his shaky hand, sweat glisteningover cold, Peter thought he’d be able to walk away, that Mr. Stark wouldn’tstop him from walking out. He was so close, Peter with the door cracked, thehall lights shining into Mr. Stark’s room, glowing onto the tiles, casting ashadow on the floor and around Peter’s sneakers. He thought wrong.

“Mr. Parker,” his teacher called out, unnecessarily loud andoverbearing. He had to get his attention somehow, especially with how hard thehelpless kid had zoned out in his classroom. Feeling light headed and on theverge of fainting, Peter could have sworn his heart skipped, not one, but amyriad of essential beats.

Peter dug around, searching the depths of his throat forsomething, anything to say. “Yes? Mr. Stark?”

“Your textbook.” He trailed after him, dress shoes clackingagainst the floor with each step, each sound inching closer and pushing Peterfurther beyond the edge. “I believe it belongs to me.”

Peter winced. Of course he still had the book, held on witha death-grip, clutching like it was going to save him. “Oh,” he looked downbetween his fingers. “Right.”

Mr. Stark approached, ominous and tall over the poor kid,thick hands reaching out to take the book from him. “I-I’m sorry,” Peterapologized, handing it over in one fell lunge. Mr. Stark, holding onto theopposite edge of the book, looked Peter in his puppy dog eyes up close for thefirst time, head cocked to the side, smirk never ceasing, and Peter stoodblinded, fingers still attached to the knowledge between his hands, attacked,vulnerable. Hues almond and brown, stimuli involuntarily tracking his teacher’severy move, each breath, picking up on his own reflection in the vast valley ofMr. Stark’s intoxicating eyes, he didn’t.even. blink.

“Mr. Parker-” Mr. Stark broke through Peter’s mentalblockade, sounding awfully similar to the situation moments ago.

“Oh! Right.” He let go of the book, tongue darting tonervously lick across his lips. With the door still cracked open, a smudge ofthe outside world sneaking in, Peter didn’t know what to do. Well, he sure ashell knew what he wanted to do, butnot what he should or what would be acceptable to do.

“Are you positive you’d like to study with Ned? With good grades,I’m sure he’s a great friend of yours, quiet in class, just like you.” Peter could have sworn he blinked five times overthe slowness of Mr. Stark’s statements, sticking himself right to the wordsabout himself. “However, if you’d like,” Mr. Stark craned his voice an octavelower, perhaps purposely leaning a bit further over Peter. “I’d love to helpyou study.”

Peter backed into the wall, closing the door in the process.He swallowed, and as much as he’d like to act as if he weren’t turned on, he couldn’t,not with all the signs showing: the sweat dampening his hair, the shakiness inhis voice, the inability to wrap his head around words, little dick begging foradditional treatment.

Mr. Stark leaned, a palm flat above his student’s head, facejust inches from Peter’s with his beautiful, wandering eyes and jaw hangingslack. “Speak now or forever hold your peace,” he chimed in a whisper,radiating nothing but cockiness. He knew what he was doing to the kid, andPeter knew he knew.

It was wrong, but with Mr. Stark standing right there, soclose, lips the tiniest gap apart, no one had to know. No one had to know abouthow Peter dug his hands into his own teacher’s shirt, pulling at the Italianlinen, wrinkling the once-ironed fabric into a fist. No one had to know how thekid yanked his teacher, his mentor forward, pressing his baby soft lips intothe other’s, or how he closed his eyes, clenched out of fear because he knewmore than anything how wrong it was… but it felt so good. He wanted it.

He half expected Mr. Stark to push him away, pry the kid’smouth from his and send him from the classroom, heartbroken, body untouched. Ifanything, that’s what Mr. Stark should’ve done, he should’ve kicked Peter out,gone to administration about the contact, filed a report. He didn’t.

Slamming his student against the door, free hand flying toPeter’s left hip, Mr. Stark wanted it just as much as Peter did. He hadwatched, he had waited. He knew about Peter’s fantasies, stared from across theroom equally as much, and with his mouth pushing back on Peter’s, he wasbreaking so many rules. Shocked, Peter clamped his eyes down harder, completelytaken aback by the force of Mr. Stark’s strong hands, and it took a second forhim to process this was happening, that Mr. Stark was kissing him, and once thesin clicked, Peter couldn’t stop. Pleading for more with a baby whine, Mr.Stark understood, and without hesitation his tongue was sliding past Peter’spink lips, colliding with Peter’s own, exploring the wet heat of his mouth,grazing every crevasse, sliding across teeth, and Peter pushed back, tighteninghis grip on Mr. Stark’s collar as a breathless moan crawled up his throat.

Really, Peter had forgotten to breathe, but lucky for himMr. Stark was breaking away, releasing Peter’s mouth to nuzzle his face intothe crook of the boy’s neck where he proceeded to suckle on sweet patches ofskin, darkening them with bruises and roughly marking his student all over.That’s when Peter gasped, arching his back away from the door, right into Mr.Stark’s chest with a heave, and the man forced him back down, rammed himagainst the flat surface of the wall, only to release another brief whimperpreviously lost in the boy’s lungs.

“Mr. Stark-” he whispered, not because he didn’t know whatto say, but because he simply couldn’t speak, at least not with the sensationof the other male swirling a warm tongue across his throat. In a moment Mr.Stark had the kid lifted, fixed against the door with his hands holding the boyup, and Peter responded the only way he wanted to – by wrapping his legs aroundhis teacher’s torso, leaning down to roughly kiss him, hands tangled around hisneck as he panted into the other’s mouth, dick imprint brushing the man’s chest.

“Mr. Stark-” he repeated in between breaths, and Mr. Starkhummed in affirmation. Unsure if manners still mattered, if please and thankyou were necessary, Peter choked, “I want you to fuck me. Please, sir.”

The last hitched word fueling the pain beneath his slacks,Mr. Stark chucked lowly, “Sitting in the back of my classroom, never getting a word out of you, Ithought you’d never ask.”

Dropping his student to the ground, the boy’s sneakersscuffing the polished floor, Peter turned away from Mr. Stark’s body, alreadyundoing his pants, letting them fall to his knees while the older of the twosimply lowered the zipper above his erection, pulling a throbbing cock frombeneath the fabric, to begin admiring how nice, how pretty, Peter was frombehind.

The kid dragged himself down, backing up into Mr. Stark, alreadysoaked between the legs, loose and ready. He didn’t want stretching. He onlywanted Mr. Stark’s cock buried in his ass, the perfect study session. He wanted Mr. Stark to be his teacher that also spits in his mouth. “Please,sir-” He wasn’t loose enough.

He wailed a high-pitched groan, disgruntled and pained asMr. Stark pressed into his body, forcing the strained kid to buck forward witheach inch penetrating his hole, but Peter wanted it. He wanted the pain, thepleasure, he wanted Mr. Stark.

“No more distractions in my class, right Mr. Parker? Because now you’re getting what you wanted, agood fucking?” He swayed towards Peter’s ear.

Was Peter supposed to lie? He winced but reached behind himto prevent his teacher from pulling out. Sensing the hesitation in his answer,Mr. Stark grabbed ahold of the boy’s wrists, keeping them together on the smallof the kid’s back, “Answer me, boy.”

“Y-yes-” Peter sighed, mouth easily forming an O shape.

“Yes?” Mr. Stark sinisterly twisted Peter’s wrists.

“Yes..” a grimace, “ Yessir-” Peter corrected, slurred,shirt falling with gravity to display endless miles of porcelain skin.

Kissing the boy’s ear, he smiled hotly, “Good boy.”

Peter really only adjusted to taking Mr. Stark to the hiltwhen all hell broke loose. Between the sounds of skin slapping skin andinnocent, angelic whimpers mixed with raspy, low, teething groans, came thesound of a knock on wood  – someone wason the other side of the door. Panicking, Peter angled his face to stare Mr.Stark in the eye with reddened cheeks, patiently awaiting the adult’s next move,yet when he didn’t stop, when the thrusts into Peter’s contracting body keptcoming, the worry in Peter’s bloodstream boiled over.

“Answer it,” Mr. Stark demanded.

Dizzy, Peter didn’t believe him, and Mr. Stark didn’tappreciate that: “Don’t make me repeat myself, I guarantee you won’t like it.” Gulping,Peter had to listen. He had to obey, he needed to be a god boy, a good studentfor his teacher. “No one likes a disrespectful student, Peter. So be a good little darling and answer the kind person atthe door.”

Steadying himself by gripping onto the door frame, Peter straightenedhis back a little and inhaled, taking a deep breath, before slowly opening thedoor, peeking his head around just enough to see who was on the other side. It wasa man, a teacher whom of which Peter knew all too well. It was Mr. Rogers, thehistory teacher, come to see and talk to Mr. Stark.

“Uhh- Hey Peter, is Mr. Stark there? Needa have a word withhim.”

“Mr. Rogers-” Peter found it hard to formulate words. “Hey!”

Mr. Stark held onto the kid’s hips, hungrily gazing at thedimples planted on his lower back, ultimately putting in the work to pound intothe boy, sloppily and wet, so that Peter’s body didn’t move too much. Afterall, he couldn’t get caught fucking his student. He thumbed circles over Peter’spelvic bones, closing the space above the other’s back by leaning forward,resting carefree over the curve of the boy’s ass, massaging and grabbing at anyskin he got the chance.

“So is that a no?”

“Oh!” Peter nearly screeched, internally crying over thehefty cock bumping into his prostate. “Mr. Stark’s busy in the back lab rightnow,” he paused to catch his breath, “Can you come back later?”

Rubbing his chin, the other teacher looked to his wristwatch,checking the time. “Mmm, not sure, kid. I really gotta speak with him now.” Heeyed Peter, “Hey, are you alright? You look a little.. distraught.”

As if on cue Mr. Stark began picking up the pace, ramminginto the iconic, sensitive bundle of nerves packed away in Peter’s body, makingPeter sob and push further into the doorway.

“Y-yeah! I’m- I- I’m fine.” Eyes beginning to roll, hopingit would prevent him from slipping into a heap of moans, Peter attempted to focuson the pattern of the man’s shirt. “I’m good- I’m so good-”

“Are you sure? You seem pained.”

“Yes!” Peter squinted. “I uhh… I got hurt! Yeah-”

Stepping forward as if to enter, Peter’s eyes widened, “No!You can’t come in-” Peter could hear and feel Mr. Stark’s breathing in his ear.

Mr. Rogers scratched the back of his head, “You’re hurt,Peter, I can help you.”

“Nonono-” Peter exhaled loudly, feeling Mr. Stark reacharound to pump his little cocklet. “Mr. Stark’s actually getting the first aidkit right- right now.”

“In the lab? I can take you to the clinic if you-”

“No!” Peter whined, “I’m- I’m so good-” It feels so good. “It’s in the clinic- Mr. Stark- I mean- It’s… It’sin the lab.. the kit… Mr. Stark’s getting it.. that’s why he’s gone-”

Mr. Stark’s colleague obviously wasn’t being fooled. Witheyebrows drawn and face tainted with confusion, things just weren’t adding up, “WellI’ll just come in and wait for him then-”

Squeezing and spreading the boy’s legs, Peter knew Mr. Stark wasclose, edging, slipping in and out of Peter’s abused hole, and Peter himselfwas dying for his release, spilling precum onto his teacher’s fast hand.

“Uuuah- actually, here he comes now, I’ll tell him you neededhim-” he gasped, thankful the door hadn’t given out on his bodyweight yet. Mr.Stark grinded down on him, sucking the area just below his neck, giant fingersscratching the boy’s soft sides while he practically held the kid off theground by raised hips. If the older man hadn’t been holding onto Peter hard enoughto leave indents, the poor kid might’ve fallen to the floor. “I-I gotta go-”And with that he slammed the door shut, right in his history teacher’s face. 

[ggukjoons]

best you’ve ever had (m) | 01

» theme — jeon jungkook x reader //  fuckboy!jungkook, badboy!jungkook, university au, fluff, romance, future smut, angst

»  warnings — sexual tension, language

»  word count — 2.2k

»  synopsis — you hate jungkook. or so you thought. he was the world’s #1 fuckboy and you didn’t want anything to do with him. until an event had changed everything, including the way you saw him. who knew how easy it was to fall for a fuckboy?

»  a/n — completely inspired by this video i watch it everyday and it ruins me omg + this is the first part and it is already lowkey kinda steamy LMAO this is the first fic i’ve ever written i’m not sure how many parts this fic will consist of but i know for sure that its going to have more than just one part, so hope u enjoy, and pls pls pls tell me what u think! tysm! ✩

»  song recommendation — always never - bria’s interlude

↳   01 || 02 || 03 (ongoing) ✩

»  ♔  posted on february 7th, 2018.

You groan deeply as the clock hits 6:30 in the evening.

Customers are seated comfortably at the tables, coffee in hand, speaking amongst themselves. Your shift ends in thirty minutes, which you would be acquiescent with on a daily basis, except today is different. 

You have a monster report due the next day, in which you’ve only wrote about two pages- out of eight. As a matter of fact, you cannot wait to take your ass back to the dorms and gulp five cups of coffee down your throat to help fully gain your focus (and not fall face down on your computer) while writing six more pages about nonsense which hopefully, won’t get you kicked out of university. 

As you pull yourself out of your thoughts for your boring plans tonight, you grab a rag off the countertop as you head over to a table that has recently vacated. 

As you scrub the tables and pick up the coffee cups, you spot a wrinkled piece of notebook paper that reads, “To the waitress in the white v-neck: you got a nice set of lumps, mind if we see? ;) - two college bois who need satisfaction”. You scowl in disgust as you crumple the piece of paper and toss it in the trash can. 

You knew who those boys were, just two nasties who happen to share the same psychology class as you. You haven’t even bothered to talk to them, even if they made advances to you. You don’t pay attention to anyone, not a lot of people seem decent enough to catch your eye. That’s why you attend parties away from here, the boys were cuter so you hooked up with them instead. 

After scrubbing the table and pushing the chairs in, you realize how many customers have left their tips and exited the coffee shop. You were the only one who was still currently working, your other colleagues had already finished their shifts hours ago. Looking at the clock that reads 6:37 PM., you exhale a deep breath.

Alright Y/N, just twenty three minutes to go. 

You actually debate on closing early, but your boss’s words ring through your head. Do not close the coffee shop early, no matter how late it is! Never close the coffee shop minutes or even seconds before the closing time. I will be damned if I hear anyone closing the shop early! You ALL have been warned! You roll your eyes at the memory of your boss’s dramatic words. 

As you head to clean the table near the back corner of the shop, you hear the doorbells chime and footsteps that follow inside.

“I’ll be right there!” You say as you hurriedly scrub the remains of spilled coffee and crumbs of the tabletops. 

“Now that’s a beautiful sight.” You whip your head toward the source of the voice and scowl when you look at the person’s features. 

He was dressed in all black, outfit consisting of a black turtleneck cladded with a black leather jacket, black ripped skinny jeans that clung very tight to his sculpted thighs. Lastly, he topped it all off with a cap that was imprinted with the words “You Never Walk Alone”. 

You hated the fact that you admit he looks amazing. 

But this was him. 

Jeon Jungkook. 

The world’s #1 fuckboy. 

You instantly understand why he made that remark. 

You were still leaning over the table, rag in your hand, back bent over, and your jean-covered ass on display for his eyes to ogle. 

Quickly standing straight, you narrow your eyes at him. “What are you doing here, Jeon?”

“Ah, I love when my name comes out of your pretty lips.” Jungkook says with a grin as his eyes follow your form when you head over to where he’s standing near the countertop. 

You ignore his comment. “Seriously Jungkook, what are you doing here? My shift ends in about twenty minutes.” 

Groaning, you pull your notepad out of your back pocket. “What would you like to order?” You ask in a monotonous voice, greatly lacking enthusiasm.

“Hmmm, a strawberry cheesecake sounds really good right now.” Jungkook chirps as you scribble his order down on your notepad, “Is that all?” You look up at his dark orbs and wait for his answer. 

You regret it. 

“Can I also have you spend a night at my apartment dressed in absolutely nothing?” He says with a wicked smirk. 

“You are a nasty perv.” 

Wrinkling your nose in disgust, you walk around the countertop to acquire a slice of strawberry cheesecake for Jungkook. Grabbing a paper bag and knife, you bend down to cut the cheesecake. 

The coffee shop is silent with the exception of the sounds of you placing the slice of cheesecake into the bag.

“How long have you been working here?” Jungkook inquires.

You raise your eyebrow at that, suspicious as to why he would care.

“I’m not a stalker, love. Just curious.” He chuckles.

You stand up straight, facing him. “I’ve been working here for about four months now. I need to bring in some cash and this job pays pretty good. It’s also off campus so its nice to see different people that come in. Well at least not now, cause you’re here anyways.” You hand him the bag as Jungkook grins at your remark.

“Its really nice to see you too, babygirl.” Your body betraying you by making your stomach flutter at the pet name.

“Don’t call me that.” You say, faking a grimace, heading back to the countertop, opposite of him.

He smirks at that.

“Why should I not? I mean, its true. You are my babygirl. Whether you like it or not.” Jungkook leans in closer to your face, locking your eyes with his gaze.

“You know, love. I’ve always had a thing for you. You’re gorgeous and you got a sharp tongue. Let’s be honest here, I’m always going to pick you over anyone.” He whispers, soon grinning at your inability to maintain eye contact.

You look away before he notices your reddened face.

“I-Your order comes to $4.50.”

Jungkook bites back a chuckle at your flustered state, pulling a $50 bill from his wallet and placing it on the countertop.

Your eyes widen at the gesture, quickly waving your hands back and forth in the manner of saying “no”.

“Jungkook!” You exclaim. “You made a mistake, the order is only $4.50, just hand me a five dollar bill and that should be oka-”

He doesn’t let you finish your sentence and interrupts. 

“I didn’t make a mistake, love. You just told me you needed to bring some cash in, and here you go. I just want to help you.” Jungkook says, his eyes staring into your widened ones, gaze unwavering. 

Your expression softens at his gesture for a second before you realize who this is. 

Goddammit, Y/N. He’s a fuckboy. Don’t get all soft for a fuckboy. 

You sigh, not wanting to fight with him on this. “Um, thank you, Jungkook. This wasn’t needed but, thank you for helping me out.” You say softly, managing a tiny smile on your face. 

Jungkook smugly returns it. 

Looking at the bag, he says, “Also, who said this was to-go?” 

You furrow your brows, confusion painting your features. “I figured you had places to be. Aren’t you supposed to be with Sooyoung?” 

Jungkook releases a deep sigh. “No. We aren’t a thing. She’s showing symptoms of ‘I know we aren’t dating but you shouldn’t fuck other girls’. She’s a great girl, but she’s getting clingy. And I don’t do relationships.” 

You roll your eyes towards the sky at his words. He is such a fuckboy. 

“You know, Jeon. Just tell her that what you two have isn’t serious. Are you sure you’re not leading her on?” He scoffs at that. 

“I’m always straight up with every girl I have sex with. I make it extra clear that there are no feelings whatsoever. I know she understands that, but you know, she keeps coming back for more. Girls always do.” Jungkook sneers as you wear a disgusted expression on your face.

“Cocky much?” 

“Not at all. Because its the truth. I’m the best they’ve ever had.” He smirks, shifting his weight forward to rest his elbows on the countertop, meeting you at eye-level. 

“Its never enough for me, though. Because the one person I want to spend a night with is incredibly stubborn.” He says, locking his gaze onto your lips, travelling downward until he stares at your cleavage through your v-neck.

“Me? Stubborn? Have you seen yourself, Jungkook? You’re a fuckboy. And I don’t fuck with fuckboys.” You respond, smiling to yourself at your words.

He snickers. “That’s really cute, love.” 

His expression darkens as he starts to lean a bit more forward. Your eyes widen slightly and you press a hand onto his firm chest to create some distance between you two. 

“Have you ever imagined spending a night with me?” 

You raise your brows, and place your hands on the countertop. “Only, in your dreams Jeon.” Your gaze locking onto his. 

Jungkook chuckles and lowers his head toward the ground. Once he lifts his head up, you notice how much darker his eyes had gotten. His pupils dilating slightly. His unwavering stare and the look he gives you makes you awkwardly shift your feet. 

“Do you have any idea how erotic my dreams are? And somehow, you appear in mostly all of them.” 

You inhale sharply at his lewd words. “F-Feeling frustrated? Go relieve yourself by having sex with another girl. Cause I would never.” 

Jungkook releases a dark chuckle. “Alright, babygirl. I see. But I’m telling you right now, nobody will ever fuck you as good as I ever will. So why don’t you just experience it with me?” He smirks at your furious expression. 

“You want to know why, Jeon? I don’t even think you’re all that. Your dick game is probably weak.” You retort, wiping the smirk off his face and painting it on yours. Jungkook releases a breathy chuckle and starts to stare at your apron. 

He starts walking not toward the door, no. 

He is walking towards you. 

Your eyes widen in panic as you watch him approach the same side of the countertop as you. You didn’t fail to see his tongue roughly poking his inner cheek. His dark orbs are staring back at your bulging ones as he starts to lean in closer. 

You have nowhere to go except to press your back against the countertop, only to find Jungkook backing you into it, barely an inch is left between you two. Your breathing quickens when he starts leaning his head in closer. 

He brings his lips toward the shell of your ear, his hot breath fanning over you, causing you to visibly shiver. Jungkook notices that, and his smirk broadens. 

“If you want me to stop babygirl, I will. But don’t deny how much I affect you, too.” He whispers, planting his hand on your hip to bring you impossibly closer to him.

“You don’t affect me.” Voice surprisingly steady, contradicting your feeling of being afraid by the fact that he could hear your labored breathing, and quickening heartbeat. You felt heat rising in your abdomen when you felt the press of his bulge through your apron.

“You sure about that, love?” You nod.

Jungkook turns his head to look directly into your orbs, his unrelenting gaze solely fixed on you, watching your every movement.

“Then why haven’t you pushed me away yet?” 

You don’t know why you haven’t pushed him away. 

You don’t know how it had gone this far. 

Jungkook waits for your answer and twirls a strand of your hair in his finger, leaning forward to press his lips right under your jaw. You gasp at the contact, feeling the way Jungkook’s lips quirk into a smile. 

“The guys and I are hosting a party again tonight. You should come. I hope to see you there.” 

And with that, he presses a light kiss on your sensitive skin. He leaves his lips there for a few seconds before pulling away. 

He takes a few steps back and turns around to grab the bag of cheesecake. 

You stand there shocked at his actions, and a tiny part of you longs for the warmth of his body again. You miss the way he starts walking toward the door of the coffee shop. 

He slows his footsteps down and looks toward you. “It’s 7:04, love. Your shift was over four minutes ago.” You falter at his words, disbelief showing very evident through your expression. 

Jungkook takes one more look at you, and smiles. “I hope to see you at the party tonight, Y/N.” He turns around and heads out of the coffee shop, door shutting as it lets in a breeze.

You immediately exhale as you held onto the countertop behind you. You throw your head back and close your eyes, releasing a deep sigh. Slowly processing the events that had just happened, you mentally kick yourself in the face for putting your guard down. 

Your head turns to look at the traitorous clock, time reading 7:06 PM. You would have left the coffee shop already. 

But why do you feel like staying? 

Why do you suddenly crave the warmth of Jungkook’s body again? 

The monster report that you had been thinking about all day was no longer something you thought of again.

Instead, something else was on your mind.

» masterlist | 01 || 02 || 03 ♡ (ongoing)

[royal-writer]

Kids in a Candy Store

Things I enjoy: 1) fresh new relationships that make people act like stupid horny teenagers and 2) Abe's inability to read suggestive and flirty behavior even when it's slapped in front of his face.

There was too much to love about the way she laughed. Giddy, breathless, a glass filled to the top with a fountain of champagne bubbles soft and overflowing with a sparkling light. He loved the way she loved in equal measure to her soft lips, and the smile that she wore on them. It was the best part part of her look. You couldn’t pay for a piece of jewelry or piece of apparel with even an ounce as much shine value. She was priceless.

Squinting her eyes as she giggled, Essätha turned her face to offer her cheek to the eager lips kissing her face. They obliged her a moment’s breath. Grinning against her face, trailing against the apple of her cheek and down to her jawline. His curled whiskers still teasing her, rubbing against her neck and burning a warm friction against her face.

“Stop that, you know that tickles!”

“But I adore your laughter,” he counters, nuzzling his face against her bare shoulder. He continues the line of kisses, smothering himself there so his beard rasps against her skin.

“And I want to be able to breathe, m’lord,” she stressed, snickering.

Amon smirked gleefully to himself. The soft laughter turned into a shaky gasp as he slid a hand up her abdomen. Her stomach tightened reflexively as a tense shiver raked down her spine.

Shooting down an accusatory look, Essie caught sight of the flirty impish grin shaping his rounded cheeks and lighting his dark gaze. She offered him a scowl in reply. It was difficult not to squirm as he skimmed his rough palms upward, teasing the shape of her breast.

“This doesn’t seem so ticklish.”

“You watch where you put that mouth of yours, and maybe it won’t have to be.”

His face lit up with the aspect of a challenge. Why in the gods name did she even offer it?

To her surprise, he did not rub his face into her to cause another swell of laughter. With a soft series of kisses he moved lower. Her breath escalated into a pitiful mewl of desire, wrapping her fingers into the depth of his hair to pull him closer.

She was perfectly fooled. A throaty moan that had his senses firing. The dab of perfume on her throat, a subtle vanilla with jasmine that seemed enhanced with the heat of her skin. He came to a pause with the scent still clinging to him as his nose skimmed the opening of her shirt.

Her breath hitched beautifully.

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he burrowed his face into her chest.

Essätha squealed, sharply yanking his hair by the roots as snorts of laughter escaped her.

“Staahhahaoop!”

A groan rumbled out of Amon’s chest.

“Watch the hair, Ess’,” he rasped. “You’re pulling it like we’re beneath the sheets.”

Her tongue darted out over her lips, savoring his words as he peered up at her. His accusation turned to want in the deep pools of his gaze. A hard swallow. Still nested against her bosom, his fingertips stroking the front of her shirt.

But she loved his eyes most of all. They were vulnerable. Open books without cautious hands ready to slam shut the pages. The best sort of unguarded doors, that allowed her to walk right in and see the divine beauty of his soul. It was marked with grief, but gentle. Illuminated with softened edges; filled with all the things she admired about him.

He was beautiful. Everything about him was beautiful. He withstood hurricane force winds and seasons of terrible drought; his soul unnourished, his heart unwilling to bend or break. He was a charming looking man. Easy to fall for from his looks alone. But where people would see his stains and grimace, she saw only strength.

“Maybe I want to be beneath the sheets,” she purred, gripping his shoulder as her fingers carded through his hair.

“Even if my beard tickles you?” Amon murmured, placing a sinfully sweet kiss against her cleavage.

Her lips twitched, trying not to allow herself to smile too deeply at the stupidly adorable puppy-dog look of innocent eyes and mocking in his voice.

“I’m just glad it tickles, rather than itches.”

“I maintain my beard,” the nobleman defended shrewdly.

“I know,” she snickered. “I do like the rosemary and grape seed oil you use. It smells enchanting.”

“Mmmm, not as good as you smell,” he breathed in a hush, swiping his tongue against the top of her breast. “I could eat you up.”

A snort of laughter filled her lungs. Since when had she been dating the big bad wolf?

Amon grunted quietly, sliding his hand down her waist, over her hips, and back up as his fingers brushed beneath the hem. Her softened moan pressed to the top of his hairline where she kissed. He could feel her squeeze his arm, and travel down to grab at his ass as he leaned into her. She spurred him on; squeezing his rear and pulling him closer.

Eager to please and even more enthusiastic to get beneath her clothes, Amon crept his hand slowly up her shirt. His rough palm dragged against her curves, listening to her whimper as he frisked her.

“Darling,” he groaned, teasing his teeth in a gentle scrap against the top of her chest.

“Oh Amon,” Essätha panted, urging him closer. “Please.”

Just as he shoved his hand further up her shirt, the thud of heavy boots and clanking of armor had them quickly wrestling away from each other. Wide-eyed and shocked, they looked down the remainder of the stairwell they’d perched themselves on.

The ridge of the man’s brow rose as he looked between them from the bottom steps. Essätha exchanged a glance with the nobleman, swallowing nervously. She could feel the fire on her mortified, flushed face and saw color rising upon Amon’s as their eyes met.

“Good evening you two!” the Paladin stated cheerily. Obliviously as he combed a hand through his snowy white beard, studying them. “Everything alright here?”

She analyzed Abernathy’s face for a sign of recognition. Something that would give away a tell. But he truly seemed puzzled to see them sitting on the top of the stairs, embracing each other so intimately. Amon’s hand was still frozen midway through groping her chest.

“Amon was just… helping me… look for my… necklace…” she slowly choked, feeling the whiplash from her mind trying to come up with an excuse. “It- it fell off. I- I lost it.”

A prolonged silence drifted. Amon felt the beads of sweat forming against his temples. He swallowed, praying to Pelor the man would walk away now, and not notice the obvious tenting in his drawers. The only thing shielding the man’s view was the angle of the stairwell, and his poor sitting position which didn’t help matters. Curled into Essie’s side, his heavy breathing against her throat.

The pointy-eared orc grinned brightly. His tusks as brilliant and gleaming as the rest of his teeth he flashed in the most polite smiles.

“Oh! Is that all?” he chimed with warmth. “Perhaps I could help you two look?”

“No no!” Amon gruffly remarked, clearing his throat. His eyes peeled across the floor, pretending to be searching when he snatched upon thin air. He raised his empty fist, keeping it tightly enclosed as though producing something hidden within. His fist shook slightly as he announced in a cracked voice: “Oooh, see! I found it! It erm… it uh, hadn’t fallen down your shirt at all, Essätha.”

“T-Thank you m’lord,” Essie squeaked, offering a lop-sided and hardly convincing smile down to Abe. “And thank you for offering, Sir Abernathy, but we’re good!”

Abe beamed up at them with a complete lack of understanding. He offered a single nod, before turning on his heel. It scrapped against the wooden floor as he shuffled through the nearby doorframe that lead into the adjacent gambling hall.

In perfect unison, the pair let out a loud gust of air.

The Briarton Lord leaned up close to her ear, squeezing his fingers into her thigh as he breathed into her curls: “Bedroom?”

Flushed, the Yuan-Ti gave a timid laugh, nodding vigorously.

“Please.”

Trading her thigh for her hand, Amon clamored loudly to his feet with a grunt. His knee hit the top step, cursing softly before he stood.

She scrambled up after him. Her fingers wrapped tightly around his, and reaching around to slap his rear as she got up. With eyes like saucers, he startled a moment at the action. It quickly melted into laughter as he squeezed her hand, frantic to urge her along.

They charged the hall like maniacs, laughing all the while.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Nice of you to finally join us, Abe,” Adela purred, elbowing the man in the ribs. “What took you so long?”

He cast a friendly smile at the tiefling.

“Searching for Amon and Essätha. I found them in the stairwell.”

“In the stairwell?” she echoed with a frown. Her eyes darted from him, to the match that Rava was playing. The poor kid really had better luck trying to arm wrestle the brute then play a hand of cards with him. She was already down twenty gold pieces.

Abe turned his gaze on to the match as well. He hummed, bobbing his head in a gentle motion of a nod.

“Essätha lost a piece of jewelry. Amon was helping her find it. They were grappling all over the place.”

The pink-hued woman squinted. Gears in her head begin to turn. She placed a hand gradually to her stunned expression, a bounty of laughter escaping her. She choked on her wheezing, coughing, cackling heckling as best she could, but it distracted the old gentleman from the match. He criticized her with a scrutinizing look.

“What’s so funny? Am I missing something from the match? Did Rava sneak in a joker card again?”

“N-No,” Adela gasped, wiping at the tears misting her eyes. “What did you do?”

Knitting his eyebrows together, the orcish man wisely stated: “Offered to help them, of course. But Amon found it almost as soon as I offered. They seemed pretty shook up and tense. Must be an important necklace.”

Oh dear gods, the man was blind. She buried her face into her hands, practically weeping from her fit of laughter.

“I still do not understand what’s so funny,” Abe commented shortly, fuming as he crossed his arms.

“N-Nothing,” Adela gasped, leaning over to pat his arm. “Good job, Abe.”

He beamed at the compliment. The concept of what he’d just witnessed still flying over his head. Bless the man’s heart, you could put two people right in front of him just short of humping and he didn’t have a clue.

Now, she had wonderful ammunition to tease the two new lovebirds on. And as an added bonus, the knowledge that she could probably sneak just about anything under the radar of Abernathy without him noticing.

What an absolutely fantastic way to end the day.

[southsidestory]

The Price of Apples in Atlanta

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Reylo

Prompt: meeting in prison au

Notes: I’ve once again exercised my utter inability to write drabbles. ;) Thank you @lunaplath​ for requesting this one! I’m sorry it took so long for me to write it for you, but this story grew, changed, and took me for a ride in the best possible way.

A disclaimer: I am not particularly educated on conditions in jail. This is in no way meant to be an accurate portrayal of life in jail, although I do hope that I correctly conveyed the nastiness of criminalizing poverty in the U.S. Rey’s year-long sentence for shoplifting is based on a real case, in which a homeless man named Tom Barrett was sentenced similarly for shoplifting a beer from a convenience store. Here’s a link to an NPR article about it, which I encourage y’all to check out if you’re interested in learning more.

.

.

It isn’t technically a crime to be poor in the Great State of Georgia. Except, Rey has been homeless ever since she ran away from her last foster family, and it turns out that six shoplifting charges in four months are enough to piss off the local cops. She goes to jail for stealing two apples, valued at $1.09, plus tax. Rey might be entitled to a public defender, but it still costs fifty dollars to fill out the necessary applications, and she doesn’t have it. So she represents herself and pleads no contest.

Judge Dickinson sentences her to a year of probation. If she had the money to pay for an ankle monitor, Rey could’ve spent those twelve months on the street, free, if tagged and tracked. But she didn’t have chump change for apples, or fifty bucks for a lawyer, and she doesn’t have the money to pay for an ankle bracelet either. So here she is, stranded at Dekalb County Jail. Her home for the next twelve months.

Rey has learned two things from this: red apples aren’t worth doing time, no matter how hungry you are; and, in practice, it’s a crime to be poor in the Great State of Georgia.

.

.

Ben has to complete two hundred service hours every year to keep his fellowship. It’s a responsibility he’s used to by now, but the second semester of junior year is kicking his ass. He’s procrastinated himself into a corner, still seventy-one hours short of his requirements with only six weeks left until final exams. He’s sick of volunteering at warming shelters and slinging soup to homeless folks at the Mission. It’s important work, as his mother would say, and Ben agrees, but he’s also exhausted, busy, and worst of all, bored--a combination that sends his mood swinging wildly without fail.

Ben calls his mom, because if there’s any problem she can’t fix, he’s yet to see it.

“I’m behind on my service hours, and if I have to build one more sustainable house I’m gonna lose my shit,” he says. “Please tell me there’s something interesting you can get me plugged into.”

She sighs. “If you’d focused on your hours at the beginning of the semester, you wouldn’t be in this boat right now. What have I told you about using your time wisely?”

Ben grabs his stress ball, considers throwing it, and squeezes it instead. “I know that, Mama, but I called for advice, not a slap on the wrist. Can you help me or not?”

He can feel his mother’s sharp disapproval through the crackling silence. She says, “I can, but I won’t if you keep talking to me like that.”

He throws the stress ball. It knocks Armitage’s ugly, industrial lamp off of his bedside table. The thing must not be as durable as it looks, because its neck snaps from the base.

Ben holds the phone away from his face so he can cuss without his mother hearing. “Goddamn motherfucking piece of shit--”

“Ben? What was that crash?”

He bites his knuckles until the sting of breaking skin grounds him, then pulls the phone closer to say, “Sorry. I knocked over my roommate’s lamp. Not on purpose.”

His mother hums, sounding half sympathetic, half disbelieving. “Tell me the truth: are you taking your meds?”

Here we go again, Ben thinks, but all he says is, “Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them,” Ben lies.

“I understand how hard this is, but it’s important that you--”

“That Seroquel knocks me out for twelve hours every night, and I can’t get up the next day,” he says. “I missed three of my morning classes last month because I slept through my alarms. How the fuck am I supposed to ace English 301 and squeeze in seventy service hours if I can’t stay awake?”

“Well it sounds like you need to schedule an appointment with your psychiatrist.”

“I will,” Ben says. “Swear to God. As soon as this semester is over.”

His mother’s voice takes a turn from concerned to suspicious when she asks, “Are you saying that because you’re too busy, or because you’re hoping to sail through your exams on a manic phase again?”

She’s not wrong, but this isn’t an argument that he’s willing to have right now. “I don’t have time for the third degree. Email me some service prospects, or don’t. I’ve gotta go.”

“Don’t be like that,” his mother says. “I have a contact at the Dekalb County Jail who’s been looking for volunteer tutors. I’ll pass your name along to him.”

The anger goes out of him as suddenly as it came. He says, “Thanks, Mama. I’m--I’ll do better.”

“I know,” she says gently. “I know you will, sweetheart.”

.

.

Rey’s new GED instructor is a college student who introduces himself as Ben. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with huge, jittery hands and prominent ears that he’s unsuccessfully trying to hide under a mop of pretty hair. He’s hot, in a stuck-up rich boy kind of way, and he looks to be about Rey’s age. Then again, maybe she’s so desperate to feel less alone that any half-decent man would seem appealing.

She barely talks to Ben throughout their first three tutoring sessions. Rey expects him to disappear as soon as the novelty of visiting jail wears off, but he surprises her by coming back for a fourth lesson, then a fifth, a sixth. He’s impatient, awkward, and sarcastic to the point of rudeness, and Rey hates him a little. He radiates dissatisfaction, and what right does a boy like this have to be dissatisfied with his life?

Resenting Ben doesn’t stop her from looking forward to her GED lessons, though. They’ve become the highlight of her time.

They’re working on geometry today. Rey understood proofs two weeks ago, but there’s no fun in making this easy for him, so she asks Ben to elaborate, give new examples, walk her through it again.

“What do you play?” she asks. “Football?”

Ben looks up from the problem he was explaining to her. “What makes you think I play anything?”

She waves her hand toward his chest. “Guys aren’t built like that unless they’re working out or playing sports, and I’ve got a feeling you’d rather tackle someone than count push-ups. So is it football?”

Hot color spreads across Ben’s cheeks, and Rey almost smiles. She wasn’t expecting him to be bashful.

“I’m a swimmer,” he says. “Contact sports didn’t work out too well for me.”

She likes his voice. It’s deep and resonant, but uneven. Ben always sounds like he’s on the verge of saying more than he should, or perhaps shouting when it isn’t appropriate. It keeps her on her toes, wondering what he’s holding back. Thinking of him is a nice distraction to occupy herself with, when she isn’t eating slop or fighting off that Plutt bitch who keeps trying to steal her shit.

Rey leans forward, rests her chin on her crossed arms, and looks up at him. “Were you afraid of getting hurt? Or did you like hitting the other kids too much?”

Ben smiles, a small, nervous twitch at the corner of his full mouth. “Both,” he says.

He turns back to the geometry book, jots down a practice proof on a fresh sheet of paper, and pushes it toward her.

“Here,” Ben says. “Try this one.”

.

.

Ben tutors Rey every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon through the middle of May. Between his volunteer work at the county jail, a free legal clinic, and the Mission, he scrapes together enough service hours to maintain his fellowship for next year.

Ben tells Rey that, since his semester is over, he’ll only be tutoring her for one more week.

“Oh,” Rey says. She fidgets with his compass, then starts dismantling it.

“I have to go home,” Ben says. “My family lives in D.C.”

He feels like a guilty child who’s been caught wrongdoing, whose excuses won’t hold up to scrutiny.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Rey says, still taking apart his compass. She unscrews its tiniest pieces and makes quick work of separating them.

“I know that. I just don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you.”

It sounds stupid out loud, and as soon as he hears himself, Ben wishes he could snatch his words right out of the air. Then Rey looks at him sharply. It’s hard to figure out what she’s thinking, but his declaration clearly hit a chord.

“Will you be back?” she asks. “When the new school year starts?”

He shouldn’t ask, but curiosity has been eating at him for six weeks, so Ben says, “I didn’t realize you’d still be here by August. How much time are you in for anyway?”

Rey’s expression hardens. “A year. I’ve served half my sentence.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from asking anymore nosy questions, but Rey rolls her eyes and says, “Shoplifting.”

“What?”

She kicks his chair leg, and it startles Ben into sitting up straighter. “You want to know what got me locked up, right?”

Ben nods, then shakes his head. “Wait, you got a year for shoplifting?”

Her smile is too empty to be a smile at all. “Uh huh. It was my sixth charge, but it’s still pretty fucked up to dump me in here and throw away the key over a dollar and nine cents.”

If Rey didn’t look so serious, Ben would think she’s joking.

“How is that possible?” he asks.

She tells him about the circus of police officers and courts that prosecuted her for stealing apples. Ben can’t figure out how Rey is sitting there, casual and cool-headed while she explains that she’s been unjustly jailed for half a year.

“That’s--I didn’t know--”

Ben stops. He can’t find words strong enough to capture the ugliness of what’s being done to her, and there’s nothing he can say that will help. He reaches forward to take Rey’s hand, then remembers that he’s not allowed to do that. Touch is forbidden in this place, like all other creature comforts. It takes every bit of his discipline not throw his chair through a fucking window.

“This is disgusting,” he says. “You don’t deserve to be here.”

Rey bats the pieces of his compass across the table, stands up, and says, “If you think most of us deserve to be here, then you really don’t see the problem at all.”

She walks away, striding across the dilapidated library like she has somewhere to go. Like she has anywhere to go, caught in this cage like an animal.

When he gets home, Ben calls his mother.

.

.

Rey can’t sleep. She thinks about the parade of foster families that could never tolerate her for long, the ones that taught her a hard lesson: nothing lasts because nobody wants her.

It was stupid to trust Ben Organa. He’s from a different kind of world, one where there’s food on the table, a roof over his head, money to pay for tuition at a fancy school. Rey knew that Ben would never understand her, but she let him in anyway, and now he’s leaving. Going to D.C. to be with a family he probably doesn’t even appreciate.

Rey hums a song Ben taught her a few weeks ago, a simple tune to help her remember the quadratic equation. It doesn’t calm her enough for sleep, but she feels safer for having music muffled in the back of her throat.

.

.

A long time ago, in a town far away, Leia Organa was a lawyer. She climbed the political ladder up to Senator by the time Ben was fifteen, but he knows that it isn’t ambition that motivates her. His mother is the sort of leader who sought a stage so that she could see the injustices below her and do something about correcting them.

And she has a weakness for hopeless cases. It’s the reason why she’s never left her irresponsible husband; why she’s never given up on her difficult, volatile son.

So when he says, “There’s someone who needs your help,” Ben knows that it’s only a matter of time before his mother finds a way to make this right.

.

.

Yesterday morning, a counselor told Rey that an anonymous benefactor donated enough money to cover the cost of an electronic monitor. She’s released the next day, the shiny new monitor clasped around her ankle. It’s lighter than Rey expected, and even though it feels like a shackle, she’d much rather be chained than caged. She’s warned that if she breaks the monitor or leaves the county, then the GPS tracker will alert the authorities immediately.

Rey isn’t surprised when she finds Ben in the waiting area.

He hurries toward her and says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come by yesterday, to tell you what was happening. I didn’t expect everything to move so fast--”

Rey throws her arms around him and buries her face against his shoulder. Ben is every bit as broad under her hands as he looks, and it makes her feel small and safe when he hugs her back. He smells clean, like fresh laundry and sunshine, and that’s what tears at her most. He smells well-cared for, and for the first time she’s glad instead of jealous that Ben has a place to wash his clothes, that he’s never been shut away from the sun.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Rey wants to say it louder--wants to laugh and maybe kiss him and shout her relief, because she’s free--but she knows that if she does, she’ll start crying.

.

.

Ben noticed Rey’s beauty the day they met, but he hadn’t allowed himself to reflect on it. She was trapped during their encounters, while he was free to come and go, and there were so many rules curtailing those lessons. Now they can talk without other inmates listening in, and they can spend more than three hours together in the same week. They can spend all day together, if she wants to; they can touch.

He takes Rey to his favorite diner and watches her put away a quarter-pound burger, a basket of fries, and a strawberry milkshake. She licks the salt from her fingers, smears ketchup across the corner of her mouth, and finishes her food within five minutes. She scrambles to eat, sloppy and hurried, and he wonders how long it’s been since she had a decent meal.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” Ben asks. “Friends or family you could stay with?”

Rey shakes her head.

He’d thought as much, and it’s almost a comfort to hear that Rey is alone. Ben would be angrier if she did have family, because the kind of parents who could leave her imprisoned over a one-dollar shoplifting charge would be worse than no parents at all.

“You could stay with me,” he says.

Rey looks at him, wide-eyed and tense, suddenly poised on the edge of her seat, like she’s already preparing to run.

That isn’t what he meant to say, even if it is what he wants, and Ben tries to explain. “I’ve got plenty of room, and I don’t mind staying here for the summer. You could crash with until you to get back on your feet.”

Rey scowls and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t need anymore of your charity.”

Ben bites back the nasty answer he wants to give: that beggars can’t be choosers, and her pride isn’t worth more than her life.

Cruelty comes to him so naturally; it’s a difficult truth that Ben has finally accepted, after twenty years of trying to overcome it. All he can do is reign in the malignity that lives within himself and act like a better man than he is.

So Ben breathes, grips the edge of the table, counts to ten. “I can help, if you’ll stop being stubborn and just let me.”

Rey won’t look at him now. Her voice sounds softer, her conviction weaker, when she says, “I’m not some pet project.”

Ben reaches across the table, but he stops short of taking her hand. “Look, you might have noticed that I’m kind of an asshole. Do you really think I’d offer you a place to stay out of pity?”

Rey bites her lip, holding her silence.

“Well I wouldn’t,” he says. “You need a friend, and--”

I do too.

Rey inches her fingers closer to his, until he feels safe enough to grasp her hand. Hard, probably too hard, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

.

.

Ben takes her to the park. It’s startling to see summer in full bloom, the sky bright and cloudless, the air sharp with the scent of mown grass. Rey was sentenced in November, after the trees were stripped bare by the cold, so the last time she saw the real world it was slipping toward winter weather. The jail yard didn’t count; it was drab and poorly tended, trampled under a thousand weary feet, more brown than green. And it was fenced in, the same as everything else there.

“I forgot what it was like to really be outside,” Rey says.

Ben squeezes her hand. He’s been holding it ever since they left the diner, only letting go when he has to. It should probably bother her, the way he’s clinging, but Rey can’t get enough. She’s been starved of touch for so long that it’s intoxicating to find someone who gives too much, too easily, too fiercely. It terrifies her, though, because Ben might want her to give as much back to him--soon, if not at this moment. What scares Rey even more is that she might not mind that.

They wander the park together, fingers entwined, close enough that Rey can feel the warmth of Ben’s strong body at her side. The world looks clearer and cleaner than it has in a long while: flowering, open, alive, and green, green, green.

[letitrainletitsnowbutdontletmego]

Finally - Chapter 5: Undercover

aka: 9 times Jay tries to win Voight over (intentionally and not so intentionally) and the 1 time he doesn’t need to.

Also on ff.net and AO3.

Many, many thanks to @justkillingtimewhileiwait for all of her help, listening to me bounce ideas off her, ramble on about what I wanted to write and mostly, the beta-ing. You are awesome! :)

It was nearing 2am but Jay couldn't have felt more awake or alert if he tried. The case was coming to a head that night, with Erin and Burgess being sent undercover in a standard nightclub to get the last piece of evidence they needed before the rest of Intelligence could swoop in and arrest them all.

That was until things took a turn for the worse, which somehow always seemed to happen when he wasn't there to backup his partner. When he was stuck outside, across the road and with only an earpiece connecting them. Though they had been made, the perpetrator who was now holding Erin and Burgess in a room lined with explosives had not searched them further than their weapons. It was a small blessing, but a blessing nonetheless.

"Alright," Voight began, claiming all their attentions as he slapped down the blueprints for the club onto the front of their surveillance van where they were all gathered. "Only way in is through the door they've got loaded up with C4, detonator attached. Both Burgess and Lindsay are unarmed, and it sounds like Burgess is injured. Perp has a gun trained on the C4; the smallest of grazes and it'll level the entire building. They have no room to move in there, so it's up to us."

Jay studied the blueprints, trying to visualise the commercial area they were in around it. The room was on the ground floor and seemed like an office but they had no other information about it. Even though it was on the edge of the building, there was only one window and it was the size of letterbox high up on the wall, only beneficial in allowing in a bit of natural light.

"The window," he said when everyone else remained quiet, stepping back and eyeing the highrise that was directly opposite the window.

"What about it?" Voight asked roughly, snapping his attention back him.

"It's our only option. I can get him through there. It's small, but I've dealt with a lot worse," he stated confidently, knowing that at that time of the night, the building would likely be empty, giving him free reign on where he could set up for the perfect shot.

"There's no margin for error here. You miss and the whole building could go up," Voight warned him, as if he hadn't already considered everything that could wrong.

"I know," Jay said stiffly, staring his boss down. "But I won't."

"Anybody got any other ideas?" Voight asked the rest of them, and when they all remained quiet, Jay took it as a sign that he wasn't going to be refuted.

Without another word or waiting for approval, he headed over to his car where he always kept his trusty rifle on hand when they were on a bust. Popping open the trunk, he rapidly began setting up his weapon, loading it and making sure it was ready to go. It was a skill he had picked up easily, scarily easily, back in the army. Now, it was as familiar as driving or making coffee to his partner's liking. He did it without a thought to spare.

Ready, he unzipped and peeled off his jacket and hoodie, and threw them into the trunk too. The less layers the better, he had always found, to help him minimise a number of variables that could throw off his shot by even a millimetre. Clothes restricted movement, which changed the course of every shot fired. Besides, despite the coolness of the night, he could feel his blood running warmer than usual as the adrenaline kicked in.

Footsteps alerted him that he had company as Jay grabbed his gun, glancing up to see Voight stood with his arms crossed, not a foot away from him. "You got this, Halstead?"

"I've got this," he assured him, only to be met with a semi-doubtful look. Slamming the trunk close in frustration and a hint of anger at Voight's lack of belief in him, Jay turned towards him as he repeated again, this time more assertively. "I've got this."

"Are you going up there as her partner, or her boyfriend?" Voight asked, and Jay had to grit his teeth to stop himself from snapping back at him.

"What does it matter?" he replied instead.

"It matters because I want to know who's hands I'm laying Erin's life in," Voight remarked, though Jay could see the cracks in his usually stoic features to find a hint of worry there.

Inhaling deeply until the cool Chicago air cut sharply at his lungs, he breathed out steadily to calm himself and remember that they were both after the same result here. To get Erin and Burgess out of there, as safely as they could.

"You're laying it my hands. Partner and boyfriend, but mostly, a Ranger. Alright?" Jay finally answered as truthfully as he could.

"Alright," Voight replied after a beat, reaching out to grab his shoulder and squeezing it tightly once. "You're our best shot, Jay. Go save our team."

...

He had set up pretty quickly in a small break room in the building opposite the club, giving him the perfect angle and view into the room. He hadn't expected the relief to fill him as it had when he finally caught sight of Erin, back towards him but looking as unharmed as she had when he had helped zip up her dress earlier that evening in the locker room.

The earpiece that linked the entire team together was never quiet, though they all tried to keep off it if they could. Erin was trying to reason with the man holding them, if not to drop his gun and let them out safely, then to at least let Burgess out. The latter had reassured them all a few times that she wasn't badly injured, a dislocated shoulder from what Jay had deduced by the way she curled her arm awkwardly into herself, but she was in no position to help overpower the man who held their lives, along with the hundred or so partygoers still in the club, in his hands.

Voight had informed the two of them of their plan, telling them to keep going as they were, to stall for time for Jay and to sit tight for only a bit longer.

Forcing himself to disassociate from the situation emotionally, as he had been trained, Jay steadied his breathing and reduced any movements to that necessary. He watched through the scope for the perpetrator, but he could only see the lower half of his body through the window, having stood opposite Erin and further back towards the room.

"Do you have the shot?" Voight asked suddenly, probably wondering what was taking so long. They were all stationed around the building with the bomb unit backing them up. If Jay got it right, they'd still need their professional help to get everyone out safely.

"Negative," he replied, urging the suspect to move into his scope of view so he could drop him there and then. "I need-" Jay suddenly broke off when he saw Erin step back slightly and how the man holding them there followed her movements without meaning to.

"Need, what? Finish your goddamn sentences, Halstead!" Voight barked, but Jay could barely hear the words as they washed over him now he had a plan and was preparing himself to take the shot.

"Erin, when you're ready, I need you to take two steps back, and then hit the ground when I say so," he said carefully so there was no room for misinterpretation or anyone else to interrupt.

The idea was simple, and it took only 20 seconds for Erin to follow it through. Taking a small step back, and then another, Jay held his rifle in place with his finger on the trigger as the perpetrator finally came into view. There really was no room for error; a bullet straying off its course by even a millimetre could either hit Erin or the C4 right then. And if it missed either one, then he had no doubt the man would shoot out of fright if nothing else.

"Erin," he murmured, seeing her stiffen slightly at her name and knowing what he was going to ask her to do next. "Duck."

It took less than a second for the word to leave his mouth before he was sending the bullet towards the suspect, Erin having done as he had directed without any hesitation. It hit the target right where Jay had aimed, his trademark shot right between the eyes.

"He's down," Jay stated, watching as Erin hurriedly unarmed the man now an ungraceful heap on the floor despite his inability to do anything with it. She looked over her shoulder briefly, following the line where the bullet had come from and he knew she was looking for him. But he was hidden in the shadows of the darkened building, meaning she was left disappointed.

"Hold back! Let the bomb unit in first." Voight's voice came through suddenly, and Jay realised he had been paying so much attention to what was going on in that room that he had zoned out. The team had infiltrated the building, but couldn't get into the room until they were told it was okay to do so by the bomb unit. "Nice shot, Halstead."

...

It took the bomb unit just over five minutes to instruct on how to successfully open the door without setting off any of the explosives. Her shaking hands didn't help the process, but she was glad there were no wires involved nonetheless.

Her team were the first through the door, with those from the bomb unit attending to the C4 not a second behind them. Erin had made her way over to where Burgess was sat on the desk on the far side of the room, having made sure she was out of harm's way just in case something had gone wrong. Her face was blotchy and pale, and Erin could tell it was taking everything in the other woman to keep herself from crying out in pain.

"She needs medical attention," Erin stated immediately when Ruzek approached them, knowing he was probably more worried about her right then.

Ruzek nodded and holstered his gun. "EMTs are waiting outside, c'mon," he said softly, wrapping an arm around Burgess' waist and leading her out of the room.

Erin watched them leave, hearing the strained whimpers her friend let out at every step she took and thanked god it wasn't anything worse. Their evening had been bad enough and they had practically stared certain death in the face, but having have her friend and colleague injured beyond a sprain or a dislocation would have probably been the final nail for her.

Scanning the room quickly, she couldn't help the disappointment that hit her when she noticed that Jay wasn't there. She knew it wasn't possible for him to be; he had been the one to fire the shot that saved them meaning he would have been across the street in a whole other building. Considering the victim was still warm, it definitely hadn't been enough time for him to get over, suit up and join the team before they entered.

Voight was in front of her before Erin could turn away, and there was something about the familiarity of him that brought her down rapidly from the adrenaline high. "And you?" he asked softly, knowing what he was referring to immediately.

"I'm okay," she replied, offering him a grim smile as she curled her hands into fists to keep them still. She didn't have any pockets to high them in this time, nor anything to hold onto. "You guys took your time, huh?"

"We didn't want to leave anything to chance," he told her, soothingly stroking her arm. "Jay's outside. Have him take you back to the district, alright? We'll see you there. Get everything sorted in your head and get yourself cleaned up."

Erin nodded, glad for the excuse to leave. "Okay, thanks."

"I'm not the one you should be thanking," Voight informed her, and this time, the smile that pulled on her lips was one of relief.

...

Jay went through the motions of taking apart his gun as quickly as he could, his mind mostly still on Erin. He had seen Ruzek bring out Burgess, leading her straight to the ambulance to get the help she needed, but no one else had followed and that was agitating him. He wanted to leave the weapon there and go find Erin, but rules were rules and he was an Army man. He knew exactly what the risks of leaving a sniper rifle, locked, loaded and ready to go, in the back of a car could end in. So he followed procedure, even if he did it on muscle memory.

He had just replaced it into its case when he heard Brett's voice, asking someone if they were hurt and somehow Jay just knew it was Erin. Slamming the case shut, he didn't even bother to close the trunk before taking a couple of steps towards where Erin had joined him by the car, evidently finding him before he could even look up.

Wordlessly, he took her in, checking her for any physical injuries though he had practically had an eye on her the whole time he had his rifle aimed in her direction. Plus he knew Voight wouldn't let her out without being checked out if had had even the smallest of scratches on her.

"Hey," Jay murmured softly, feeling the anxiety leave him rapidly at the sight of her in front of him. There was a tightness in his chest that he hadn't noticed was there until he took a breath and realised his breathing was no longer as constricted as it had been all night.

Erin didn't reply, instead stepping closer until she was within his reach to tug her tightly to him. He could feel her arms against his chest, a hand curling into his shirt as he wrapped his arms around her and keeping her as close as physically possible.

With a hand on her back and the other in her hair, he turned them carefully he was placed between her and the building which now contained the crime scene. Where their colleagues and the other emergency services were milling around, doing their jobs, and probably wondering how she was doing too. But he knew Erin, knew it took a hell lot for her to seek comfort like she had right then, in the middle of the a case and front of everyone. So he did what it was his job to do and protected her, even if it was from prying eyes at that moment in time.

Stroking her hair gently, Jay rested his chin upon her head, feeling her starting to relax against him. She kept her face tucked into his chest but he could detect her breathing calm down as her heart slowly began to match his pace. He allowed himself only a second, letting his eyes slide close as he held her, willing himself to forget how close it had been that night to never having this moment again.

Erin pulled back a minute or so later, though she didn't take a step away nor did she drop her hands. He watched as she kept her eyes trained over his shoulder before he shifted a bit to regain her attention. He laid his hand on either side of her neck, gently cupping her face and run his thumbs over her jaw line as he took her in.

"Are you hurt? At all?" he asked her forcefully, willing her not to cover up anything that he couldn't see.

Erin shook her head as much as she could without dislodging him. "I'm okay, Jay," she assured him with a wry smile. "Physically, I'm okay. Mentally, I'm a bit shook up. And I don't even know emotionally."

"The adrenaline will be wearing off soon," he stated, knowing it was probably the main cause of not having her head in the correct place right then. He'd gone through it way too many times before, where the adrenaline masks the emotional reflexes until it's just him and the dark, quietness. Only, he wasn't going to let her deal with it alone.

"Hmm..." she hummed, agreeingly. Unfurling her hands, she laid them flat against his chest and looked him straight in the eye. "That was a good shot. Thank you."

Taken aback by her words, Jay shook his head. "You don't have to thank me for having your back. I'm your partner; it's what I'm here for."

Erin smiled slowly and genuinely, pressing herself closer to him again. "I meant, thank you for not shooting me instead. I've seen your aim at the shooting range," she teased, earning herself an unimpressed huff from him.

"Sometimes, Lindsay, I feel like you forget I'm a trained sharpshooter. The shooting range and long distance are two very different scenarios," Jay muttered, though there was amusement lining his words. He brushed back some of her hair as he became serious, an earnest look on his features as he added, "Regardless, I'd never miss. Not if it's you out there who needs me to make the shot."

"I know," Erin leaned up slightly to capture his lips with her own for a brief, grateful and life-affirming kiss. His hands dropped to her waist when she fell back, and she shivered at the loss of contact. Without a word, he reached into the open trunk and pulled out the hoodie which he had discarded earlier. Slipping it over her shoulders, Erin finally let him go to tug the material around her, indulging in its softness and the fact that it was Jay's.

"Let's head back to the district. I don't think they need us here anymore. You can fill everyone in once you've cleaned up and gotten changed, yeah?" he said as he shut the trunk, unknowingly repeating Voight's orders from earlier on.

"Yeah," she agreed, nodding and allowing herself to be ushered to the passenger's side of the car with a hand on her back, not even thinking about fighting him on driving right then.

Once Erin was safely inside, Jay gently closed the car door and glanced up towards the club building to see if anything new was going on. Fortunately, no-one seemed to be paying them any special attention but he spotted Voight near the entrance of the building, talking to a few people who Jay barely recognised. If he put more effort into it, he was sure he could at least narrow it down to their unit, but his mind was elsewhere completely.

Voight looked over at him not an instant later, casually and coolly in the middle of a conversation, indicating that he had probably been doing the same for a while now. Meeting his eyes, Jay watched as the sergeant remained where he was, giving him a stiff nod in wordless acknowledgement that he was trusting him to take care of Erin and get her back to the district. Nodding back, Jay climbed into the car without hesitation, smiling softly at Erin when she glanced over at him when he started the engine, grateful that the night was almost over.

[networkingdefinition]

Bonus Quotes

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• A bonus, being a writer, is that the true-life source material is fabulously bizarre. There’s so much corruption, violence and free-floating depravity that the well never runs dry, whether you’re a novelist, a journalist, or both. – Carl Hiaasen • A lot of companies make diversity a part of the performance goals against which an executive gets paid. Just as you have to make a certain sales number, you have to make a diversity number to get your bonus. – Vernon Jordan • A wise man once said that all human activity is a form of play. And the highest form of play is the search for Truth, Beauty and Love. What more is needed? Should there be a ‘meaning’ as well, that will be a bonus? If we waste time looking for life’s meaning, we may have no time to live — or to play. -Arthur C. Clarke • Abstinence for me is about romance. It has nothing to do with my relationship with God. It’s definitely a bonus in that department, but it’s nothing spiritual. It’s about giving something special to that person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. – Jessica Simpson • Alright, you’ll get your bonus, buy play nice with her. Keep your sarcasm to a minimum. (Kyrian) Yes, O Great Lord and Master. Be nice to woman, keep mouth shut. (Nick) – Sherrilyn Kenyon • Although traditional incentives such as bonuses or recognition can prod people to better performance, no external motivators can get people to perform at their absolute best. . . .Wherever people gravitate within their work roles, indicates where their real pleasure lies—and that pleasure is itself motivating. – Daniel Goleman • America is always a good target for a populist. In many countries, particularly authoritarian systems, if you want to get an extra bonus, you bash the Americans. – Mohamed ElBaradei • Americans have known about mounting inequality and king-sized Wall Street bonuses for years. But we also had an entire genre of journalism dedicated to brushing the problem off. – Thomas Frank • An honest man is always a child. [Lat., Semper bonus homo tiro est.] – Socrates • And as far as doing God’s work, I think the bankers who took government money and then gave out obscene bonuses are the same self-interested sorts Jesus threw out of the temple. – Maureen Dowd • Are you always this random? (Jericho) Mostly. It really irritates Noir. Which is just an added bonus for me. At least so long as I can outrun him. (Asmodeus) Add me to that list of people you annoy. (Jericho) Oh. You’re not going to singe my testicles over it, are you?! (Asmodeus) No plans to. (Jericho) Good. We can be friends, then. (Asmodeus) – Sherrilyn Kenyon • As someone who’s very nerd-minded, whenever I see a lot of cross-platform stuff when I get bonus material on either side, then it makes me want to dive deeper, sort of like tearing apart the different pieces of the pie. – Chris Hardwick

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Bonus', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_bonus').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_bonus img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Bonus: I now knew what Erin meant by lickable abs. – Tammara Webber • But I think what we’re coming to grips with is the fact that we actually have a mercenary Army, and it doesn’t have a nice ring to it. We call it ‘volunteers’, but we’re basically paying people to serve their country. And if you’re going to pay people and have a mercenary Army, you’re going to have to pay the market rate. And so the bounties are going up—more money for tuition, higher enlistment bonuses—and I think it’s appropriate. – Eleanor Clift • But I’m after medals more than anything. Championships don’t get taken away from you but records do, so I think I’d rather have medals at every championships rather than times. A world record would be a bonus, but I’m still only 25 in 17 days. – Sally Pearson • CEOs pretty much pick the boards that give them salaries and bonuses. That’s one of the reasons why the CEO-to-payment [ratio] has so sharply escalated in this country in contrast to Europe. (They’re similar societies and it’s bad enough there, but here we’re in the stratosphere. ] There’s no particular reason for it. – Noam Chomsky • Consider this: 1. Would you ride in a car whose driver was on the consciousness-expanding “entheogenic” drug LSD? And here’s a bonus question: 2. Why does an “expanded consciousness” include the inability to operate a motor vehicle? – Brad Warner • Courage in danger is half the battle. [Lat., Bonus animus in mala re, dimidium est mali.] – Plautus • Cultivate friendships. If you don’t have time to cultivate all of them, plow under every fifth one and collect your bonus. – Gracie Allen • Doing a film with your friend is probably the best way to end that friendship but we worked together really well. We just have that thing. Chemistry is something that… I just think it is the last thing in Hollywood, the last magical thing they haven’t computerised. There’s nothing you can do about it – it’s either there or it’s not and it doesn’t matter if you’re friends or not. It was just a bonus that we were. – Ryan Reynolds Don Zimmer • Don’t you know that there’s another bubble as well An expectations bubble. Bigger houses private planes yachts …… stupid salaries and bonuses. People come to desire these things and expect them. But the expectations bubble will burst as well as all bubbles do. Come to my gallery and I will sell you beautiful things at a more reasonable price. But the point is that they will have value. Things of real beauty things of the spirit. – Edward Rutherfurd • Dresden? There is not such a place any longer.” “I want to point out, that besides Essen, we never actually considered any particular industrial sites as targets. The destruction of industrial sites always was some sort of bonus for us. Our real targets always were the inner cities. – Sir Arthur Harris, 1st Baronet • Economists and workplace consultants regard it as almost unquestioned dogma that people are motivated by rewards, so they don’t feel the need to test this. It has the status more of religious truth than scientific hypothesis. The facts are absolutely clear. There is no question that in virtually all circumstances in which people are doing things in order to get rewards, extrinsic tangible rewards undermine intrinsic motivation.The bonus myth: How paying for results can backfire The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing. – Albert Einstein • Either you like a person or you don’t like a person. I don’t have to love somebody to work with them. I’m a professional person. But when you get the bonus of really liking someone and really connecting with them and really enjoying them, it’s a fantastic thing. – Julianne Moore • Every game I played was a bonus. – Graham Roberts • Every time I work with a European director, I find they hire the person that captures the spirit of the role. Americans tend to hire the best face. The person that looks more like the role, whether they can perform the role or not is a bonus. – Elizabeth Pena • Everybody thinks the Government should be doing more about everything but just think how many of the bonuses which are quite rightly being dragged off certain people, just think to what good causes they could be put – wouldn’t that be a lovely thought’? – Terry Pratchett • Everything beyond getting together felt like a bonus and made everyone feel really relaxed. It’s not like people don’t scrutinize their own decisions or those of others, of course, but that’s both good and bad. – Pontus Winnberg • Everything Donald Trump does on TV is an added bonus. You either have it or you don’t, and that’s why the people who have it earn a lot of money. It’s one of those genealogical things that some people have and most people don’t. – Rush Limbaugh • Find a way to get paid for doing what you love. Then every paycheck will be a bonus. – Oprah Winfrey • Find something in life that you love doing. If you make a lot of money, that’s a bonus, and if you don’t, you still won’t hate going to work. – Jeff Foxworthy • First you train the followers to accomplish the mission. Second, you resource them: Make sure that they have the tools to do the job. Third, you reward them: You give them medals or bonuses. – Colin Powell • For me, it might sound cliche, but beauty for me really does start on the inside. It’s like a state of mind, a state of love if you will. Then, whatever you can do on the outside is all like a bonus. – Queen Latifah • For somebody to take a shot at him is totally disappointing and hurtful to my family, my mother, his wife and child. For Dianne to say we turned our back on her or nobody helped her. I paid Randy’s bonus in ’04. I paid him six months in ’05. She got a BMW. I paid her insurance. When you attack my family personally when we’ve done everything we can, I was very disappointed in Diane and I thought it was uncalled for and inaccurate. – Rick Hendrick • from the television show,”Evade the Question Time”]At the end of the first round, I will award three points to Mr. Kaine for an excellent nonspecific condemnation, plus one bonus point for blaming the previous government and another for successfully mutating the question to promote the party line. Mr. van de Poste gets a point for a firm rebuttal, but only two points for his condemnation, as he tried to inject an impartial and intelligent observation. – Jasper Fforde • Germany is not a fair country. Millions of people believe that things aren’t fair in this country. Company profits and bonus payments have increased at the same rate as precarious employment situations. – Martin Schulz • Getting on stage is a bonus, that’s my therapy, that’s when I can tell stories and it all makes sense. – Jason Mraz • I always expected to be working construction with my family, so every day I get to travel the world and have fun with my friends is a bonus. I really enjoy pushing myself and so does my wife. – Travis Pastrana • I always wanted to be an artist; being a songwriter for myself was always a must but being a songwriter for others has been a bonus. – Jessie J • I am indeed a fortunate man and today’s hours are but a bonus, undeserved. Why have I been allowed to live this extra day when others, far better than I, have departed? Is it that they have accomplished their purpose while mine is yet to be achieved? Is this another opportunity for me to become the man I know I can be? – Og Mandino • I am not a believer in large salaries. I hold that every man should be paid for personal production. Our big men at Bethlehem seldom get salaries of over one hundred dollars a week; but all of them receive bonuses computed entirely on the efficiencies and the economies registered in their departments. – Charles M. Schwab • I am the heavyweight champion of the world, and the greatest heavyweight you have seen for a long while. With Tyson on the card, it is definitely an added bonus because Lewis-Tyson on the same card would be a great doubleheader. This is what the fans want to see. – Lennox Lewis • I can relate to girls with self esteem issues because growing up in this industry there is the side of you that is obsessed with perfection. You want to please everyone because if you don’t, you won’t get the job. There is always someone prettier, smarter, or a better actor that you. You start to nit-pick everything. That perfectionism kicks in and it can take over your life if you let it. You have to get comfortable with yourself. Then, if you get the job, it is an added bonus.- Naya Rivera • I did always dream of being a professional player. I think every kid does dream of being a pro, but to last the journey you have to love tennis as a sport and if you are lucky enough to make it in the pros, it is really a bonus. – Samantha Stosur • I do have a dominant shopping gene but, unlike a reasonable person, I never plan for what I need each season. I enjoy the thrill of the hunt, the discovery and the endless search. In another creation I was, perhaps, a hunter/gatherer. After all these years, I’ve learned that it’s not the end result or finished product but the process I most enjoy. If my experimenting, searching and juxtaposing turns into an exciting outfit well, it’s just a big fat bonus! – Iris Apfel • I don’t know anyone on Wall Street who goes to work every day thinking of anything but how to increase their bonus.- Nassim Nicholas Taleb • I don’t like bonuses for public services employees who do great jobs, like prosecutors or judges. – Trey Gowdy • I don’t really think about my work in terms of whatever money it makes. That’s just a bonus. I’m just going to do the work anyway, so whatever comes back is good with me. – Kevin Huizenga • I don’t think bonuses are always bad. – Andrew Cuomo • I feel like after acting, the other half of why I love this business is the opportunity to work with and meet people who inspire you. That it pays my rent is a good bonus. – Aaron Yoo • I feel very privileged to get to read and write and not to have to do things that I don’t like, and I don’t want to give that up. Everything else is just a bonus and often a distraction from the writing, reading, and traveling that gives me the most pleasure. – Pankaj Mishra • I grew up not really having anything, so the idea that I can take care of my family and my friends now is a really cool bonus. – Katy Perry • I have a crush on your mind, I fell for your personality and your looks are just a big bonus. – Nicholas Sparks • I have more energy to run after our four children. Weight loss and great skin were a bonus! – Niecy Nash • I have my boots custom-fitted in Cardiff. Everyone s feet are different, so to get measured up is a great bonus. You stand in a cast and they make moulds of your feet. It takes a couple of hours and then they have my exact size and precise measurements for the boot. That’s makes them extra comfortable for me. – Peter Crouch • I have no chips on my shoulder. I like to be constructive. As I have said, I have inspired many persons to take up photography. As a matter of fact, I inspire myself. (When I take a good picture I give myself a bonus.). – Weegee • I heard from my dear friend Tiberius Ogden, that you can produce a Patronus? For a bonus point…? Harry raised his wand, looked directly at Umbridge, and imagined her being sacked. Expecto Patronum! The silver stag erupted from the end of his wand and cantered the length of the hall. – J. K. Rowling • I hope I become a better player day after day. This is one of my goals. I want to improve in every situation, but when you are playing along with top figures, it is a quality bonus and a bigger effort. Besides, the Spanish Liga also gives you the chance to progress and improve. – David Beckham • I just love the fact that all my pals are basically looked after. You know, we have these amazing deals, these guys split 50 percent. We have ownership 50 percent, all the bonuses 50 percent, and everybody’s going to be alright. So going forward into the future, every one of these Millarworld projects, as we call them, 50 percent partners on everything. So it’s just a really happy environment to be working in. – Mark Millar • I love acting, but it’s all just a bonus. – Tim Vine • I love albums that have guest performers that the audience will be happy to hear. It’s really a bonus! – Lisa Loeb • I love attacking and racing aggressively, and obviously it’s a big bonus when you’re making an attack and you look around and you see the guys making faces because they’re in pain, that just gives you that extra little percent to make them hurt even more. – Magnus Backstedt • I love doing the voice of Batman because of the quality of the animation. The music is particularly incredible. Another bonus is getting the opportunity to work with some very respected actors who do not usually do voice work. – Kevin Conroy • I never really thought comedy was a career option, just something I did for fun. Suddenly I realised I was getting paid which was a bonus. I studied for a diploma with the London College of Music, and teaching was something I thought I might do but comedy intervened. – Bill Bailey • I nibbled my lower lip. “If you could see into my past just by touching my back, you’d have a hard time resisting the temptation too.” “I have a hard time keeping my hands off you without that added bonus.- Becca Fitzpatrick • I signed a very modest $3,000 bonus with the Braves in Milwaukee. And my old man didn’t have that kinda money to put out. – Bob Uecker • I told myself over and over again, do it for its images, for the pleasure you get out of it. Do it for your friends If you get more, that’s a bonus. – Patricia Rozema • I took a job at the pool in order to earn the five cents a day it cost to swim. I counted wet towels. As a bonus, I was allowed to swim during lunchtime. – Esther Williams • I was alone for five years. Having a love is a gigantic bonus in life, but I wasn’t unhappy when I was single, either. – Bo Derek • I was just so honored to play the role of Cinderella and to just be the first African-American princess, that’s just historic for me, that’s such a mark in my life and my career and then the bonus of just working with my favorite person in the whole world, Whitney [Houston], like her voice just did something to my spirit. – Brandy Norwood • I was sitting in the back room by myself when someone came in and said, “Mr. Zimmer, I have to take you down to the make up room.” I told them that if anyone can help this face they deserve a bonus. • I was skiing fast in training, but that really doesn’t count for anything until you actually do it in a race. So to finally get to prove how fast you are skiing is an added bonus that goes along with winning the first race of the year. Any race win is a good win. I don’t really care where it is. I’ve been on the podium a bunch of times here, but it’s always good for your confidence to start off the year with a victory. – Ted Ligety • I was supposed to be authoritative, but at the same time had to be likeable, a quality that is a bonus, not a requirement, for men in the same position. – Dee Dee Myers • I wish I could Buy Time – just write a cheque, and a few days later a brown cardboard box would arrive at the door containing three months (along with an extra bonus sunny weekend for being a good customer). – Neil Gaiman • I work every day – or at least I force myself into office or room. I may get nothing done, but you don’t earn bonuses without putting in time. Nothing may come for three months, but you don’t earn the fourth without it. – Mordecai Richler • I, too, am indignant when the worthy Homer nods; yet in a long work it is allowable for sleep to creep over the writer. [Lat., Et idem Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus; Verum opere longo fas est obrepere somnum.] – Horace • If bankers can push the loans and make more profits for the bank, they get paid higher bonuses. They often also get stock options. If the bank goes under, they get to keep all of these salaries and options – and the government will bail out the bank. These guys will take their money and run, which is pretty much what they’re doing now. – Michael Hudson • If expecting something in return is your reason for giving, you are really not giving- you’re swapping. If you receive something in return for your gift, what you receive is a bonus – not a repayment of a debt. – David Cottrell • If the Bible will not give eternal benefits to homosexuals, if they cannot inherit the kingdom of God, why, Klingenschmitt asked, on this world, should they get bonus pay or employment benefits? – Gordon Klingenschmitt • If you get married, you lose all your benefits. That’s insane! We should give people bonuses for getting married, and sending signals and talking about it to the society. – Sam Brownback • If you have some magical chemistry that actually find the music you make compelling, that is a big bonus. – Geddy Lee • If you really want to possess a woman, you must think like her, and the first thing to do is win over her soul. The rest, that sweet, soft wrapping that steals away your senses and your virtue, is a bonus. – Carlos Ruiz Zafon • If you start out with a tragic view of life, then anything since is just a bonus. – Freeman Dyson • If you want people to perform better, you reward them, right? Bonuses, commissions, their own reality show. Incentivize them. […] But that’s not happening here. You’ve got an incentive designed to sharpen thinking and accelerate creativity, and it does just the opposite. It dulls thinking and blocks creativity. – Daniel H. Pink • The guys who run the auto companies are out of touch with their customers and their employees. They ride to work in their limousines. They go up in their elevators and lock themselves in their offices. They don’t walk out into the plants. They wouldn’t even drive in the neighborhoods where their employees live. They give themselves big bonuses when the company isn’t making any money. I’d make them get involved with the people who are building the cars. They’ve got to become real people. – Ken Hendricks • I’ll never forget my worst business decision. I bought a Nissan Pathfinder with my first signing bonus. I didn’t even have a place to live, but I bought a car. Not a smart move but, believe me, I learned from that mistake. – Terry Crews • I’m happy doing what I’m doing, and if you have that kind of attitude then everything else from there on is a bonus. – Tommy Lee • I’m inspired to write songs in many different ways – it can come from a melody, a word or phrase or something I have seen on my travels around the world. It’s one of the great bonuses of my job in that I get to meet so many people and experience different cultures and it would be hard not to be inspired. – Chris de Burgh • I’m just considering myself extremely lucky. All I wanted is to have ‘Paranormal Activity’ be released and become successful. And everything that’s happened since then is just an enormous bonus. – Oren Peli • I’m just looking forward to playing, and if anything else comes my way it’s a bonus. I’m looking to have an injury-free season and doing things for Lancashire to get us where we belong. – Stuart Law • Imagine you were now dead, or had not lived before his moment. Now view the rest of your life as a bonus. – Marcus Aurelius • In a Bloomberg poll, 88% of respondents said that Wall Street bonuses should either be banned outright or taxed at 50%. Just 7% said they should remain an incentive. To put that 7% figure in perspective, 6% of Americans believe the moon landings were a hoax; 7% believe Elvis lives; 24% believe that Barack Obama is a secret Muslim; 41% believe in ESP; and 48% believe in creationism. Americans will believe anything, it seems-except the idea that incentivizing bankers at systemically important institutions to take big risks makes any sense at all. – Felix Salmon • In London, Washington, and Paris, people talk of bonuses or no bonuses. In parts of Africa, South Asia, and Latin America, the struggle is for food or no food. – Robert Zoellick • In the military, they give medals for people who are willing to sacrifice themselves so that others may survive. In business, we give bonuses to people who sacrifice others. – Simon Sinek • In the moral calculus of currently prevailing state capitalism, profits and bonuses in the next quarter greatly outweigh concern for the welfare of one’s grandchildren, and since these are institutional maladies, they will not be easy to overcome. While much remains uncertain, we can assure ourselves, with fair confidence, that future generations will not forgive us our silence and apathy. – Noam Chomsky • In the NFL, you have a short shelf life. As a running back, if you’re the first pick, and you’re NFL life expectancy is only 3.5-6 years, your first big contract might not come until three years in – well, you might never get there. They need to get those signing bonuses up front because nothing is guaranteed. – Eric Dickerson • In the subprime mortgage industry, bankers handed out iffy loans like candy at a parade because such loans meant revenue and, hence, bonuses for executives in the here-and-now. – Thomas Frank • Indexing is a successful approach to investing not because it’s simple, but because it has performed so much better than the average active manager (the opposite of indexing), and the simplicity is just an added bonus. – Patrick Geddes • Is success just about winning? Acclaim? Trophies? Wealth? Our personal happiness or satisfaction? I have been blessed to experience some of these over the years, and I can answer without batting an eye: No. Accomplishments, applause, awards and fortune are rewards that often come as the result of hard work and a determined spirit, but there is something bigger. Something better. Something that will outlast the winningest season, the plushest corner office, the heftiest bonus and the loudest cheers. That something can only be found when we look beyond the final score. – Tom Osborne • Is the chemical aftertaste the reason why people eat hot dogs, or is it some kind of bonus? – Neil Gaiman • It comes with it, this is my work and all the media thing is just a big bonus for me. I’m just enjoying being in the spotlight right now so it’s not a big deal for me. – Alexander Gustafsson • It is a long-cherished tradition among a certain type of military thinker that huge casualties are the main thing. If they are on the other side then this is a valuable bonus. – Terry Pratchett • It is easy to be grateful for a bonus; it is character to be grateful for a salary. – Jack Hyles • It is only in your mind that you have to excel, at anything or everything. Of course, it would be very nice to excel at most things. Indeed, we recommend that you try and do your best. But realistically, you are entitled to do the bare minimum to get by. All your accomplishments are just a bonus, something to enjoy, not requirements. You don’t have to do anything to prove that you are worthy of existing. – Albert Ellis • It now remains for the United States government to set a sensible example to the world by offering a bonus or a yearly pension to all obviously unfit parents who allow themselves to be sterilized by harmless and scientific means. – Margaret Sanger • It was a basic plot in any number of her books: girl strikes out, makes good, finds love, gets revenge. In that order. The making good and striking out part I liked. The rest would just be bonus. – Sarah Dessen • It’s a nice bonus but, you know, I have to pay taxes too. (after winning the Grand Slam Cup. – Venus Williams • It’s lovely to have money to give away – that’s the bonus of winning the Nobel. – Doris Lessing • I’ve always approached acting from a passion point of view. It’s what I love to do. The fact that we get paid is just a bonus. – Katheryn Winnick • I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s all about fear- fear that your kid won’t come out on top, be a success. Forcing him into these brutal encounters will a) make a dame sure he is a success, and b) all you to see evidence of that success with the added bonus of a cheering crowd. This means that sports are supported with an almost desperate enthusiasm. The football team gets catered dinners before a fame. Honor Society is lucky if it gets a cupcake. Academic success-forget it. That requires too much imagination. There’s no scoreboard. – Deb Caletti • Janies lips part in surprise. She takes it. Feels really strange about opening it in front of him. She wets her lips and examines the box and the ribbon that surounds it. “Thank you.” She says softly. “Um…” He clears his throat, “The gift, see is actually inside the box. The box is like an extra bonus gift.It’s how we do things here on planet Earth. – Lisa McMann • Joe Lauzon is not seen as the top guy in his division, He’s not the champion. Do you know how many people go f— crazy when I saw Joe Lauzon is on the card? Because people love to watch him fight. Joe Lauzon has won more fighter bonuses than I think anybody. If you are that guy, the system works for you. But if you are not that guy, then boo f— hoo, you don’t matter. – Dana White • Journeys up the Metaphoric River are hugely enjoyable and highly recommended. Since every genre is nourished by its heady waters, a paddle steamer can take even the most walk-shy tourists to their chosen destination. As a bonus, there is traditionally at least one murder on board each trip–a “consideration” to the head steward will ensure that it is not you. – Jasper Fforde • Just to love, that’s enough; being loved, that’s a bonus. – Jack Hyles • Legal plunder can be committed in an infinite number of ways; hence, there are an infinite number of plans for organizing it: tariffs, protection, bonuses, subsidies, incentives, the progressive income tax, free education, the right to employment, the right to profit, the right to wages, the right to relief, the right to the tools of production, interest free credit, etc., etc. And it the aggregate of all these plans, in respect to what they have in common, legal plunder, that goes under the name of socialism. – Frederic Bastiat • Less than a year after loading the company up with debt, Romney and Bain gave themselves bonuses four times bigger than the $8 million they had put into the deal. – Jennifer Granholm • Let us first of all frugality in government-peace and freedom we will have as a bonus. – Frederic Bastiat • Look at the studio filled with glamorous merchandise. Fabulous and exciting bonus prizes. Thousands of dollars in cash. Over $150,000 just waiting to be won as we present our big bonanza of cash on Wheel Of Fortune. – Dustin Hoffman • Look, I’ve always said from the word go many years ago that I felt the whole bonus culture, they need to think very carefully about being detached from the rest of the British public. – Iain Duncan Smith • Look, my philosophy in life is expect nothing and everything is a bonus. – Hugh Jackman Louise Hay • My dad has always been really helpful. He taught me that talent is a bonus, but persistence is what wins out. – Zosia Mamet • My dream was to be known as a writer and to be able to produce at least one book that would be read by people. That dream came true with the publication of my first novel – and all the rest has been a sweet bonus. – Robert Cormier • My expectations were reduced to zero when I was 21. Everything since then has been a bonus.- Stephen Hawking • My fave routine is The Roller Coaster. First of all it’s a great way to get into a card trick, without stating it’s a card trick. The routine is so brilliantly structured as to at first, intrigue, psychologically unsettle and then blow away your audience. An extra bonus is that it will hopefully create a welcome respite from bloody invisible deck routines. Worth the price of the book. – Steve Valentine • My feeling about executive bonuses is that any candidate for a chief executive job who even raises the issue of bonuses should be dismissed out of hand. – Henry Mintzberg • My focus is trying to make great music and putting on great shows, and whatever happens beyond that is a bonus to me. – Luke Bryan • No worries, Atticus. I will snarf surreptitiously. And I should get bacon, because my adverb was two syllables longer than yours, plus a bonus for alliteration.” I grinned. “It’s a deal. You’re the best hound ever. – Kevin Hearne • Now if the harvest is over, And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter, As I lose hold. – John Betjeman • On banks, I make no apology for attacking spivs and gamblers who did more harm to the British economy than Bob Crow could achieve in his wildest Trotskyite fantasies, while paying themselves outrageous bonuses underwritten by the taxpayer. There is much public anger about banks and it is well deserved. – Vince Cable • Once I turned 35, I got the bonus of some wisdom and began to accept life on its own terms. – Mike Myers • One of the bonuses about loving yourself is that you get to feel good. • One of the great bonuses of being a film actor is that I get to go to different places, meet inspiring people and learn different things. So all those details add up. – Nicolas Cage • People are pretty simple: they do what they are rewarded for doing. If they get multimillion-dollar bonuses by taking huge risks with other people’s money – as they still do – then they will continue to take those huge risks, and not give it another thought. – William D. Cohan • Progressive visions pale and are smashed next to the normalization of market-driven government policies that wipe out pensions, eliminate quality health care, punish unions, demonize public servants, raise college tuition, and produce a harsh world of joblessness – all the while giving billions and huge bonuses, instead of prison sentences… to those bankers and investment brokers who were responsible for the 2008 meltdown of the economy and the loss of homes for millions of Americans. – Henry Giroux • Sloanes aren’t cafe society or NYLON hedge-funders with million-pound bonuses, or London Eurotrash wearing upgraded style anglais. Ann Barr’s and my original picture of them in ‘The Official Sloane Ranger Handbook,’ published in 1982, was of an upper-middle-class world, conservative and fairly homogeneous, united by old attitudes and institutions. – Peter York • So much of our society as a whole is gearing us to maximize our salary or bonus. Basically, we just think in terms of money. Or, if not money, then, if you’re in academia, it’s prestige. It’s a different kind of currency. And there’s this unmeasured dimension of all jobs, which is whether it’s improving the world. – Cathy O’Neil • Somebody told me … that he overheard a banker’s wife saying her husband was working for free this year-this was 2009. What she meant was, he was just getting his basic salary of £300,000, and no bonus. Their sense of entitlement is, in the proper sense of the word, psychotic. – John Lanchester • Steven Lerner’s strategy is, “How do we bring down the stock market? How do we bring down their bonuses? How do we interfere with their ability to be rich?” This is what his objective is, and he believes that Wall Street’s wealth has been stolen. – Rush Limbaugh • Style advice? Always wear clothes… that are… clean, for starters. An added bonus if it is pressed as well. Unless you are wearing clothes that are supposed to look rumpled. – Steve Carell • Success is the most important to many, to me it’s just a bonus. – Lucas Grabeel • Synergy – the bonus that is achieved when things work together harmoniously. – Mark Twain • Take free money. No matter how in debt you are, if your employer offers a matching contribution on a 401(k) or other retirement vehicle, you must sign up and contribute enough to get the maximum company match each year. Think of it as a bonus. – Suze Orman • Thankfully, in my youth I had the best financial advisor a son could ask for: my dad Walter. When I got that first signing bonus in 1978, Dad took my cheque, announced, ‘This is what we’re going to do,’ and bought an annuity with it. – Wayne Gretzky • That’s what I like about acting. When you’re preparing for a role, you do your research, and the bonus is you get to learn these skills. Now, it’s on to whatever the next thing is I have to learn. – Parminder Nagra • The apologists for space science always seem over-impressed by engineering trivia and make far too much of non-stick frying pans and perfect ball-bearings. To my mind, the outstanding spin-off from space research is not new technology. The real bonus has been that for the first time in human history we have had a chance to look at the Earth from space, and the information gained from seeing from the outside our azure-green planet in all its global beauty has given rise to a whole new set of questions and answers. – James Lovelock • The bonus for bankers fragilizes the system. Someone has the upside at the expense of others. – Nassim Nicholas Taleb • The bonus is really one of the great give-aways in business enterprise. It is the annual salve applied to the conscience of the rich and the wounds of the poor. – E. B. White • The company must not throw money away on huge bonuses for executives or other frivolities but must share its fate with the workers. – Akio Morita • The cookbooks and the writing in general have been a real bonus, but it’s not something I’ve ever pursued… I’ve been lucky, I guess. – Padma Lakshmi • The crux of the biscuit is: If it entertains you, fine. Enjoy it. If it doesn’t, then blow it out your ass. I do it to amuse myself. If I like it, I release it. If somebody else likes it, that’s a bonus. – Frank Zappa • The directors I consider really great have the ability to recognize when something’s going in an unexpected direction and see it as a bonus and be able to go with it, as opposed to locking down what they thought was going to happen. – Susan Sarandon • The establishment people tell us that if the workers wanted to share the profits, it was called communism. When management wants to share profits, it’s called a bonus. – Phil Donahue • The extra opinions and the extra praise is just a bonus, it’s not the main thing. The main thing is how I feel about myself. And I feel really good about myself. – Brandy Norwood • The extras are a nice bonus feature, but the main incentive is the musical experience. – Aaron Neville • The freedom to make mistakes is the one and only bonus of getting old. – Carol Grace • The great thing about doing art shows is you get to meet the people who are interested in your art, and I think that when you’re purchasing a piece of art it’s a tremendous bonus to get to meet the artist because you get a chance to pick their brain a bit and find out first hand what the piece is about for the artist. – Paul Stanley • The high five card will be an insignificant bonus to the incredible time I’ll have traveling the world and meeting new people, especially fans of Nando’s – Christopher Poole • The last time I cried? My godchildren went to see Taylor Swift in concert and got to meet her. They literally ran toward her and hugged her, and it was amazing. I got big bonus points for it. I’ll remind them when they’re teenagers. – Michelle Dockery • The man at the top of the intellectual pyramid contributes the most to all those below him, but gets nothing except his material payment, receiving no intellectual bonus from others to add to the value of his time. The man at the bottom who, left to himself, would starve in his hopeless ineptitude, contributes nothing to those above him, but receives the bonus of all of their brains. Such is the nature of the ‘competition’ between the strong and the weak of the intellect. Such is the pattern of ‘exploitation’ for which you have damned the strong.- Ayn Rand • The mere idea of asking a family member if they intentionally stopped sending me an annual bonus makes me feel like breaking out in hives. – Mallory Ortberg • The mismanagement of American newspapering is quite remarkable. But all of the fellows responsible are now on a golf course in Hilton Head or some such (place), having secured their bonuses and golden-parachute buyouts. – David Simon • The more you progress, the more you learn. I try to pay attention to ticket counts, draws, guarantees and bonuses. I look at my deals closely these days and try to come up with other projects and ideas, since this business [comedy] is about creating content. – Hannibal Buress • The most important thing in my life is Christ. He’s more important to me than winning or losing or whether I’m playing or not. Everything else is just a bonus. – Tim Howard • The mug is a tool. My ace in the hole. To have looks is the bonus on top of what motivates me to be an actor. Not to realize they’re an asset would be counterproductive to the cause; they serve the common good. – Billy Zane • The Nile Project is the performing side of an effort that also includes education in music and environmental issues, raising awareness of the entire Nile basin as an ecosystem. With such vibrant music, the good intentions were a bonus; the Nile Project was a superb example of what I call small-world music, of what happens to traditions in the information age. – Jon Pareles • The pattern of a newspaperman’s life is like the plot of ‘Black Beauty.’ Sometimes he finds a kind master who gives him a dry stall and an occasional bran mash in the form of a Christmas bonus, sometimes he falls into the hands of a mean owner who drives him in spite of spavins and expects him to live on potato peelings.The Sunday World was a dry-stall interlude in my wanderings.- A. J. Liebling • The Prussian Academy of Sciences is a fast-track academic institute that requires a proactive, hands-on-type individual to overthrow the Newtonian conception of the universe. The successful candidate will have an excellent command of mass, energy, space, time and some maths. Bonus paid upon completion of proofs – Albert Einstein • The public doesn’t get to see everything. I worked with X a couple times since then. Me and X have a close relationship. We actually did a record they were going to put on the Training Day soundtrack but he ending up buying the record from me and putting it on Great Depression as a bonus track. – Mic Geronimo • The shamrock is a religious symbol. St. Patrick said the leaves represented the trinity: the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. That’s why four leaf clovers are so lucky, you get a bonus Jesus. – Stephen Colbert • The survey findings reflect the growing trend toward incentive compensation programs as a way for employers to share the wealth with workers, … Roughly 80 percent of those surveyed offer bonus programs and 401(k) or profit-sharing plans . . . as they compete for the best and brightest workforce. – Jerry Jasinowski • The total amount of money that Wall Street handed out in bonuses last year was double the total income of ALL full-time minimum wage workers. That’s obscene. – Elizabeth Warren • Then what, Lededje asked, trying to keep her voice cold and not get caught up in the avatar´s obvious enthusiasm, “is making you smile about a disaster?” -“Well, first, I didn´t cause it! Nothing to do with me, hands clean. Always a bonus. – Iain Banks • This limited theatrical release was a nice little bonus that I never expected. – Rob Corddry • To get started, track your expenses for a couple of months. Then you should be able to start filling in your estimated debits and deposits for the next few months. Once you get it rolling for a while, you will be able to see your budget for the upcoming months reflected in the estimated totals. You can even notice year-to-year trends, like bonuses, tax bills, etc. that come up routinely and it will help you budget accordingly. – Michelle Singletary • To pay out millions upon millions of dollars in bonuses for incomplete work, poor performance, and unacceptable products is the height of government waste and mismanagement. – Jim Gibbons • To try to please people is an endless chasing of one’s own tail. That’s not very satisfying, so we do what we like and that satisfies us. When it does work out, its a bonus, really. – Wayne Coyne • U.N. officials said today they desperately need $7 billion to help people cope with disasters, but they’re having a hard time getting people to send rescue money. Here’s what the UN should do: Invest in bad mortgages, run a bank into the ground, give yourself a bonus, get some spa treatments and, in no time, the government will send you $750 billion. – Jay Leno • Veganism gives us all the opportunity to say what we “stand for” in life- the ideal of healthy, humane living. Add decades to your life, with a clear conscience as a bonus.- Donald Watson • Water is essential to life! It’s also great for keeping your skin looking good and healthy, which is an added bonus. – Josie Ho • We have that illusion that we are ‘deciding’ what to make a character do, in order to ‘convey our message’ or something like that. But, at least in my experience, you are often more like a river-rafting guide who’s been paid a bonus to purposely steer your clients into the roughest possible water. – George Saunders • Well, I got better after this, and my entire family really did appreciate it. Usually, they’re resentful of movies that I go off and make, but this one had a bonus attached. But yeah, she had no breath. – Meryl Streep • What people want is the extra, the emotional bonus they get when they buy something they love. – Seth Godin • What starting your company means: you will lose your stable income, your right to apply for a leave of absence, and your right to get a bonus. However, it also means your income will no longer be limited, you will use your time more effectively, and you will no longer need to beg for favours from people anymore. – Jack Ma • When I came back, I wasn’t looking past this year. This is a bonus for me. I just wish it would have turned out a little better, but we all don’t get what we want all the time. – Vinny Testaverde • When I get to work with people I admire, it’s such a bonus, so it was an easy sell when I got this phone call asking, ‘Will you do this thing with David Strathairn?'” Also, they didn’t ask me to audition, which is another bonus. But they said, “All your scenes will be with David,” and I said, “I’m there!” – Brent Spiner • When you’re doing the work you’re meant to do, it feels right and every day is a bonus, regardless of what you’re getting paid. – Oprah Winfrey • Who is a good man? He who keeps the decrees of the fathers, and both human and divine laws. [Lat., Vir bonus est quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat.] – Horace • Words change their meanings, just as organisms evolve. We would impose an enormous burden on our economy if we insisted on payment in cattle every time we identified a bonus as a pecuniary advantage (from the Latin pecus , or cattle, a verbal fossil from a former commercial reality). – Stephen Jay Gould • Working with an incredibly strong script is the thing that gives you the most confidence. If you go into an episode knowing the script is strong, I just feel like that’s where it all starts. All collaborations that happen, in addition to that, are just bonuses, at that point. – Ty Burrell • Would anybody be offended if we gave a $150 million bonus to Gandhi? How about a $250 million bonus to Mother Teresa? Do we have an issue with that? None at all. None at all. Great leaders would never sacrifice the people to save the numbers. They would sooner sacrifice the numbers to save the people. – Simon Sinek • Yes. I do about 70 shows a year, in the past year I’ve been to Italy, Australia, Japan, China, just about everywhere. I do it because I love singing. The money is a bonus. – Katherine Jenkins • Yesterday the CEO of Citigroup said that he can understand why all these Occupy Wall Street protesters are so frustrated. In fact, he felt so bad for them, he gave himself a $10 million sympathy bonus. – Jimmy Fallon • Yoko Ono is someone who’s music I’ve discovered more recently. The current cd rereleases of her albums all had bonus tracks recorded just with a tape recorder and I’m really into these at the moment because they have a great intimate feel. – Marcel Dzama • You always have in the back of your mind that would be cool if you get recognized. But you can’t concentrate on any of those things. You’ve got to just keep playing and doing your music and the rest is just a bonus. – Michael Kiwanuka • You know what Gordie Howe got for a signing bonus? A team jacket! -Ed Lauter • You shouldn’t rule out second chances. Sometimes they come with interesting bonus features. – Lisa Kleypas • Younger colleagues tended to draw untested self-confidence from their bonuses and prestigious degrees. – Ron Suskind

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  jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'a', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_a').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_a img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'e', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_e').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_e img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'i', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_i').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_i img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'o', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_o').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_o img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'u', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_u').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_u img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );