i really like the idea of tamsy being sly and cunning and having a back up plan for anything but really, i don’t think he’s like that. i feel like he’s a little impulsive and abrupt, since he talks that way. i think he likes to think he’s a genius and he thinks he’s got everything figured out but really—what if mymo revealed who he was, or if for some reason the journal didn’t work on mymo, or if someone from the cleaners found out?

he literally celebrates a win when follo tweaks in that one arc before kicking the wall in frustration and having to change his entire game plan. and then he just ups and leaves for an entire year to go clubbing in the sphere.

you’d been insignificant to him your entire stay at the cleaners HQ. you’re just another supporter. you’re barely ever dispatched with him, and when you were, you spoke very little. you did your part and disappeared until your next assignment was called.

and now you’re supposedly some random universe hopper appearing in an alley through a portal. on the sphere, no less. what are you doing here—how did you even get up here?

you dodge every single punch and string that flies your way until you somehow appear behind him and boot him into the stratosphere to give him a stern talking to. so now he’s floating in a void with a nutcase. two nutcases, endless space, a billion possibilities.

you tell him you’ve tried to change the outcome of this universe many times to no avail. “because you’re stubborn. and stupid.” and you tell him you know every single plan he has, who he knows, who he is, how he takes his tea, and ooh how fun.

so, you’ve given up on saving the subsequent universes, because nothing you do can save them. this maniac will not stop for anything. you’ve tried countless times, you tell him.

he tells you to, respectfully, try harder.

however, you tell him you won’t tell anyone, which is odd. he assumes you’ve tried multiple times. it’s clearly never conjured any satisfying results.

to you, he’s frustrating. he possesses a carelessness you do, but that’s odd because you’ve lived and seen countless lives of multiple universes fizzle out within seconds. he’s just some guy.

he thinks you’re fascinating. you don’t have a vital instrument to create these manholes, or portals as you call them. and “you can go anywhere?” doesn’t garner a response from you, which means yes. you can go anywhere.

BUT. now he’s kind of got this cool person/sort of floating entity that appears sometimes to spook him. you appear anywhere too: in the mirror, the drain of the faucet in the bathroom, popping directly out of the wall, etc. he scares easily, which is funny.

“so we’ve met… how many times?”

“two-hundred and seventy-eight.” you phase through the ceiling before dropping down onto his bed. it’s still not made yet. he’s busy brushing his hair in the mirror.

“and will you ever stop?”

“i have nothing else to do.” he’s asked you these questions many times. you don’t tell him that. you’re sure he knows. “my boss says i’m not allowed to stop until i finally make you crack. don’t ask who he is. your head might explode.”

“you could just find me as a baby and–” he turns to you in his chair and twists his hands violently, imitating the snap of a neck.

“that’s horrible.”

Some nights it’s quiet. He drapes over your bed and stares. He doesn’t think too much. He watches as you shift and occasionally hum, stuck in some fantastical dream that doesn’t involve him. Other nights he twirls a small blade within his fingers, and then he thinks. 

He’s not usually so hesitant with frivolities. It’s a quick in and out of the blade pressed right into the sweet spot. Silent, barely any discomfort, kind of romantic if you think about it. The idea of your white sheets slowly dampening to a deep red as you gasp in pain. 

You would reach out to him instinctively, and wondrously his name would be your dying words. 

See? 

Romantic. 

Not many people think that way, though. And well… it’s hard to just stab a Cleaner and get away with it. 

Also there’s another problem he can’t quite manage. 

He likes you. Not in the way he likes the others—and that’s not much. He can stomach Delmon for perhaps an hour (and maybe two in a good day) but that soon comes to a close when the man starts hollering in Tamsy’s already ringing ears. He thinks he’ll go deaf within the next two years. 

But you’re more pleasant to stick around. It’s possibly because you don’t talk too much. Maybe you’re shy, maybe you just have nothing to say, but he appreciates it. Tamsy has sidled up next to you many times, purposefully shattering your very apparent boundaries to drape over you like a woolen scarf. 

You never raise your discomfort with him. 

Now he behaves like a weighted blanket. He finds comfort in your presence. Very few times (and admittedly, it’s embarrassing) has he fallen asleep on your shoulder. It’s usually in the quiet of your room after you’d begun to invite him inside to continue a quiet conversation. 

So, all that lost time of him being asleep on your bed this evening is made up by him just… staring. It’s fun. It’s better than staring at the ceiling. 

You shift to face the wall. 

It’s harder now, because your shirt has ridden halfway up your back, and he gets a sickening taste of your spine. He once suggested piercings to which you hesitantly turned down. Ouch. 

But your skin framed by silver would look beautiful in the dark. He can imagine it. He could hold you down, pull your tongue and slit a hole through it with a needle. You would cry and it would hurt, but it would be worth it. 

He’d like to feel it on him, too. 

Tamsy reaches over and presses a single pad of his finger to the middle of your spine. You don’t stir. 

This happens. He touches, you don’t react. Same old, same old. He breathes down your neck and you don’t stir. It’s strange. He finds he’d wake up the minute he heard his door creak. 

You hum and sigh. 

Your skin is soft. Mostly unmarred, too. You’ve got a scar that runs along your back from who knows what. Probably an accident when you were younger. He risked once pressing his tongue to the corner of where it begins. One day he’ll slide his tongue along it, maybe when you’re awake, maybe when you allow it. 

Maybe you’ll let him slice new scars across your body. And lick your wounds.

You’re nice enough. You rarely reject things, even if you’re not interested. When you were a new recruit and Enjin tried veering his head too close you only smiled awkwardly until he eventually got the hint. No “I’m not interested” or even a half-baked “I’m seeing someone” to get him to go away. 

Tamsy tried once. You were clearly on your way to meet someone for a date so you’d dressed up. Not dramatically. Just a bit more colour, and nicer shoes. He said you looked nice, like a gift. As strange as it was given you were on your way to meet someone for dinner, you’d hesitantly leaned forward and kissed his cheek. 

Tamsy did two things after that occurrence. First he’d sauntered back to his room and stared at his reflection blankly for an hour with a dried gloss stain on his face. He elected not to wash his face after a headache-inducing debate. Then, he’d followed you, and the person you were seeing mysteriously never responded to your attempts to reach out after that. 

He can tell something is wrong.

It’s sudden, actually, the way the air shifts, like it flexes and bends at random intervals. Tamsy stands quickly and backs away. He’s practised this before: how to leave without a trace. He grabs the blade tight and steps through the door, purposefully leaving it ajar. 

He doesn’t exactly move though. He stands outside and waits. 

He hears you stir until you sit up. The bed creaks. You switch your lamp on. Like always, you stumble to the bathroom. It’s muffled through the door. You’re quick as you try not to lose the drowsiness. 

The problem is when you exit the bathroom you don’t immediately go back to bed as you normally do. 

He stands there completely befuddled as he listens through your door. You move around. It sounds like you’re pacing. The lamp remains on. He hears your feet shuffle over the tiles. This isn’t your usual routine.

Tamsy’s eyes dart around the door. 

He expects you to close it. 

Maybe you don’t notice it. 

Maybe he should run and hold it closed with string. You’ll probably just think it’s jammed. You’ll eventually give up too. 

Instead, he plays his cards. He’s bored. He’s still awake. He loves to bother you. He peers cautiously through the gap in the door. 

Thankfully, you’re facing away. You’re fiddling with something on the nightstand. It looks like a tube of lip balm that you continuously open and close. Free of blood stains, free of scratches and bites and drool that he leaves. Maybe you had a nightmare. Poor thing. 

He grins. 

And then, he pushes the door open. It’s slow. It creaks. 

You look up in alarm, suddenly wide awake. The knife slips up his sleeve. It points inwards towards his wrist. 

“You’re still awake,” he comments idly, like he hadn’t realised. Like he hasn’t been standing next to you for an hour now twirling your hair around his finger. 

You huff, “you scared me.” 

“Sorry.” He’s not. 

You adjust your position on your bed, trying to console your racing heart. 

He knocks quietly on the side. “Your door was open. I saw the light was on.” He looks sheepish, almost nervous. You think he feels bad for intruding. He doesn’t. 

“Yeah…” You’re still recovering. “I think I had a weird dream.” 

Tamsy hums. 

“Like…” You glance up at him from the floor. “Someone was watching me.” 

“Sounds awful.” He leans against your doorframe. He looks exhausted, but it’s strange, like he hasn’t slept a wink. It must be early in the morning. You don’t know the time. It’s still dark out. 

You swallow nervously. “You couldn’t sleep either?” 

Right. He needs some sort of explanation. “I was going to get cake.” Then, he brandishes the small knife from his sleeve and holds it out. 

“You… just walking around with that?” 

He hums, amused. “I keep it in my room.” He tilts his head. “You don’t keep cutlery in yours?” 

You shrug. “Not really.” You watch the knife closely. “What’s the occasion?” 

Tamsy raises an eyebrow. 

“The cake.” You sniff once. “Felt like it?” 

He shakes his head easily. “Birthday.” 

You sit up. “Birthday?” 

He nods. 

“Whose?” 

“Mine.” 

“Yours?” 

“Yes.”

“Really?” Your eyebrows furrow together. 

Tamsy nods again. 

“Oh…” You clear your throat. “Happy… birthday.” You glance quickly to the left. “I don’t have anything.” 

He grins. “I didn’t expect you to.” 

Your brows furrow. “But that sucks. Not getting gifts.” 

“Don’t need them,” he reassures. He’ll throw out anything you give him anyway. “Would you like some?” 

“Hm?” 

“Cake.” 

“Oh…” 

Sometimes he’s thankful his strings do more than just tie things together. In the other room, the ropes have wrapped deftly beneath a box he bought the other day for the occasion. Just in case you wanted to share. 

And eat off the same fork. 

Yuck. He pulls his head out of the doorway, both to visibly gag and to retrieve the box that slowly pulls down the hallway. 

“It’s chocolate,” he says. 

You croak sleepily. You pull your legs up on the bed. That’s a good sign. That means you’re comfortable. Even when he’s holding the knife right out in front of you. Your eyes flit to it every now and again; he’s disappointed. He wants you completely relaxed. 

For now, you look docile. That’s good enough. 

Tamsy doesn’t grant you the opportunity to respond. Instead, he lets himself in slowly and kicks your door shut behind him. His hair looks yellow in the golden light of your lamp. It’s a nice antique. The shade is made of a red glass and the stem is golden. It bathes the room in orange and pink. 

You look warm. 

He sits down next to you on your bed. 

And then he pulls a fork from his sleeve. 

You snort. “Do you have a spoon as well?” 

“No.” He sounds dejected. “I also don’t have any plates. Those didn’t fit under my sleeves.” 

“You tried?” you ask.

“Of course.” He opens the box carefully. It’s a simple white cardboard with a plastic top to showcase the display. It’s nothing fancy; it’s a mud cake of sorts with slices of strawberries and cream frosting around the edges. He takes the knife—that unbeknownst to you was grazing over spine only moments ago—and slices through a decent portion of chocolate. He pulls it slightly away from the cake.

You expect him to give you a piece. 

You don’t expect him to swipe a corner from the slice and hold it up to you. 

You stare at it for a moment. Tamsy only stares at you. He blinks like a frog, expectant, patient, passive. 

“Shouldn’t you have the first bite of your own cake?” you ask cautiously. Still, you slowly lean forward. 

So, he spins the fork and pops the cake in his mouth. His eyes crinkle as he grins. You purse your lips together before you take the fork from him and slice off another portion. 

You hold it up to him. You’re also embarrassingly giggling like an idiot. He thinks it’s pathetic, but his smile says differently. It doesn’t help as time progresses and he keeps accepting every bite he inches closer and closer. It’s a test, he tells himself, of your boundaries. How close can he get before you start cowering? 

It seems he’s underestimated you. 

Not only is he now practically straddling your lap, but every so often he giggles. Like a girl. It’s humiliating. It’s corny. It sucks. It’s genuinely revolting. This is like  textbook romance. This is the stuff teenage girls read in their off time and kick their feet. 

He’s kicking his feet. 

Not only that but after two bites you left the room and returned with a bottle of champagne. He hates the stuff; it burns his tongue and it tastes like shit. But, he drinks from the rim because your lips have touched it. And he gets buzzed. And so do you. 

“You need to have more,” you insist lazily. Half the cake has vanished. “‘Cause it’s your birthday.” 

Tamsy hums stupidly, “I feel sick.” 

“Same.” You end up laughing. “Are you staying?” 

He turns his head to look at you. He stares blankly, maybe comprehending what you’re saying. His brain sloshes for words. His nose is buried in your blankets. 

“I think you should,” you try lightly. “I’m a bit tipsy.”

“Me too.” He’s dizzy. There’s faded black spots swimming in his vision. 

Your nose presses to the side of his face. “‘T’s okay.” You kiss the fat of his cheek lightly. “Thanks for coming.” 

He’s too drunk to even acknowledge anything. “Mhm.” 

“Happy birthday,” you slur to him. 

He’s almost asleep. Maybe he feels safe around you. Maybe he’s faking it so he can pull the knife out of the chocolate and ram it through your sternum. Maybe he can grab your heart while it’s still beating. 

That sounds lovely. 

For now, he sleeps soundly as he usually does. He thinks he sleeps better in your arms. You don't; mostly because you have a mouthful of his hair in the morning to deal with. Still, you suppose the warmth is nice.

He gently knocks your shoulder with a knuckle until you stir enough to get your bearings. It’s cold here, and you shiver beneath your thin tattered clothes. If he was nice he’d drape his jacket over you, but he won’t.

You make a distressed noise.

One of these days you’ll wake and be overjoyed to see him. He can make that happen within the blink of an eye, and a tap at the book in his bag. He doesn’t. Not yet. He’s got all the time in the world to wait.

He plucks a small chocolate from the box and dangles it over your head. “Happy Valentines.”

You huff in exhaustion. Your lip wobbles.

You push off the floor weakly and Tamsy takes the opportunity to wrap his arms from behind and pull you into his chest. You fit between his legs like some overgrown stuffed animal, and you try to get away as best you can.

The chain rattles as you move your leg to try and kick at his ankles. It doesn’t work and it never does. Even if you managed to beat him senseless you’re still stuck in the cell, and he’ll eventually wake up and give you back twice the effort you inflicted.

That, or he’ll kiss you until you’re blue.

You don’t know which is worse.

You don’t fight beyond that. It’s useless.

“Open up.” The heart-shaped chocolate sits close to your lips. It’s filled with vanilla cream according to the box.

You hesitate for a moment, kicking out desperately for some semblance of escape before you harden your jaw and let him slip the treat through your teeth. You force yourself to swallow it. The sugar makes you feel sick.

He plucks another sweet and untwists it from the bright red wrapper. He then tightens his arms around you. You elbow him in his ribs in surprise, flailing when he squeezes even harder until the wind is knocked from your lungs.

Tamsy manages the chocolate down your throat before you wheeze and he releases you from his grasp on the floor. Your nails claw into your arms.

He watches you like you’re an animal in a cage.

“You’ve behaved relatively well these past weeks,” he starts. It’s not praise. It’s condescending, scolding, barely noticeable in his voice, but still there. “I felt awful not rewarding you.”

You don’t say anything.

You don’t want to ask if the chocolates were laced.

“I can’t feel my feet,” you mumble. You continue to shiver as he turns back to the giant bag and rummages around inside.

“It’s not permanent,” he tells you gently. He reaches down the bottom and heaves.

“I can’t even–” It’s been a while since you’ve used your voice for longer than five seconds. “I can’t even run if I tried.” The chain around your ankle rings in enunciation.

“Why would you?” He brandishes a bouquet of flowers from the bag, surveying and preening and straightening the red and white petals of each flower before he’s satisfied. It’s huge, decorated with a gorgeous pink lacy ribbon to hold the flowers together. “After how well I treat you.”

You back up against the wall of the cell as best you can.

He wears a terrible grin on his face. His lip is still bruised from the last time you lashed out and struck him in the mouth. He didn’t even seem to care; rather he looked delighted.

Aww…

His little pet finally fought back.

He crouches down in front of you and extends the bouquet out for you to take.

Flowers.

“Pretty, hmm?” His index finger curls within the arch of the bow. “Expensive, too. The florist told me my partner was very lucky to have me.”

He places them in your lap when you don’t reach for them. You don’t want his pity gifts, or his charity, or whatever form of depreciation he calls this. You flinch when he pets your head.

You’ve never seen flowers before.

You’ve never considered putting aside hundreds just to get some, especially as a gift, especially when fake ones exist that are just as beautiful. The petals are soft, almost velvety, and you’re worried for them. All this money for things that’ll die within a week.

You don’t ask for a vase.

He gave them to you so you could watch them wither and decay.

Your fingers tremble around the wrapped stems.

He looks expectant.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He smiles. “You’re so insincere.” He pinches your cheek, and he sounds giddy. He slumps down over your shoulder on the floor, nose bumping against your sore cheek and sighs dramatically. “But you’re welcome.”

He’s settled for less.

You’ve been worse. You were more defiant when he’d first brought you here, biting, scratching, fighting, making him bleed. Once you managed to break off stone from the wall while he was gone and stabbed him in the leg. You missed a major artery, and you were rightfully angry, and he was livid.

He finds that violence isn’t enough for you. It keeps you placated until it doesn’t. You come back harder, more stubborn, and he finds it difficult neutralising you. Then came the sedatives; a little slice of Heaven in this dump. He’d hidden them in your food when he was nice enough to feed you, and then when you figured that out, he would hold you down and force it down your throat. When that wasn’t enough he turned to needles.

For the first time you couldn’t physically fight back.

You snapped and shouted and spat but that was all you could manage. Your words don’t hurt him.

Now, you try to avoid him.

That’s difficult to do when he’s the only person you’ve seen in months.

“I have an offer.”

You don’t want to listen.

Tamsy speaks anyway, “I’ll allow you a new place to stay.”

He notices your shoulders tense. Suddenly, you’re attentive. He doesn’t blame you. This place is miserable and cold, and you’ve gotten sick from the mould and how damp it is.

“Why?” you utter.

He coos, “because I love you.”

That’s not it.

He doesn’t elaborate.

Your fingers squeeze around the flowers.

He’s taking you to a second location. He wants to take you somewhere else. Somewhere away from where he snatched you off the street. You assume someone’s looking for you and he’s getting worried, and when he gets worried he gets sloppy.

The problem is, Tamsy doesn’t often worry. You’ve seen it first hand. You’ve been sicker than a dog more times than you can count, and ignoring your wailing for an actual doctor, he elected to treat you himself in the dingy dark cellar. You’d cough your lungs up through your throat and he’d sat there patiently and spoon fed you medicine and soothed over your back.

He was worried for you once when you weren’t getting better. You couldn’t eat, couldn’t stomach down water, couldn’t even respond to him.

You assume he’d rather you die than take you to a doctor.

“You don’t want a new place?” he asks.

You sniff. “I want to go home.”

He rolls his eyes and squishes his cheek into your shoulder. He closes his eyes and rests there.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you try desperately again. You know it won’t work. He’s not stupid, and although he’s delusional he still has a few screws on to understand how miserable your situation is. He doesn’t think you even love him, not anymore at least. “They’re pretty.”

Tamsy smiles softly. He reaches up blindly and pats your cheek. “Not as pretty as you.”

“I think you’re pretty too,” you snap through your teeth.

“How lovely.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” you attempt.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I won’t,” you insist. “I’ll disappear from your life. You won’t even hear from me again.”

Tamsy sighs. The hair in his face flies for a moment. “That sounds terrible.”

“Please.” You briskly wipe your tears before he can start mocking them again. “I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to you. I’m sorry if anything ever happened to you–”

He lets you ramble. He looks bored. He reaches for the box of chocolates and unwraps one of the treats before popping it in his mouth.

He chews.

His nose scrunches. Cherry.

Tamsy does his best to swallow the treat. The creamy insides almost make him sick to his stomach. Too creamy, too rich, too expensive for treats to taste this sweet. And being heart-shaped means there’s even less chocolate to eat.

What a scam.

This whole tradition is a scam.

Most men don’t even get their partners anything. They just expect sex, which, well… Tamsy glances at you in the midst of your apologies. He’s not entirely interested in stealing more of your autonomy. Not at the moment.

But wouldn’t it be nice? More pricey than any fancy bouquet.

You, half-dressed, touching him gently, and not grounding your knuckles into his skin to give him even more scars. He can imagine forcing noises from your throat, how much nicer you’d sound when you’re all pretty and stripped bare for him. All shiny and sparkling and willing, all touching on him, all loving all smiles and all heart-eyes all hair gripping all rough and soft and hard and slow and–

He almost vomits at the thought.

Tamsy steels himself and throws his hair over one shoulder.

“It’s a house,” he murmurs. “Shower, kitchen, bedroom, anything you want, everything you don’t have here.”

“And you’ll tie me to the bedpost?” you snip at him. “And get off to me struggling with your pathetic little–”

“You won’t be chained at all.” He tilts his head and grins cheekily. He has such a lovely smile. It’s a shame he is the way he is. “You can walk around all you like.”

“But I can’t leave,” you whisper.

You’re so clever.

“I’ll bring you new clothes, maybe other things if you’ve been good.” Tamsy bats his lashes when you sneer and try to bite his hand when he lightly smacks your cheek. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll purchase a puppy and you can both eat from the same bowl.”

He pulls away and shoves you when you attempt to break his leg clean in half with what little strength you have left. He tosses the rest of the bag towards you. Thankfully, there’s actual human food and a bottle of water he’s been generous enough to gather for you.

You grunt when he leans forward and kisses your cheek. It’s sticky with sweat. He’s surprised you don’t throw a punch, or wrap the chain around his ankle and pull.

He’s leaving again.

You can’t stand up.

You try and grab his boot but he slides out of reach.

You result back to laying back on the side, facing away from him. The chain jingles once more. You leave the flowers in the corner to die.

Disappointing.

You sob quietly, arms wrapping around your torso, and your wails echo through the chamber.

Even more disappointing.

“It’ll be alright,” he consoles flatly. He doesn’t even bother to pat you on the spine. You usually just tense and claim that he’s scaring you. “I know you won’t tell a soul.”

The book weighs heavy in his bag. He pulls at the lever and the iron bars drop to the ground with a giant crash.

He knows you’re loyal.

“I’m fine,” you grit. Albedo lets you sit on one of the stools near the fire just shy of the cliff. “Just banged up.”

“I’ll go get you some ice for the bruising,” Albedo whispers. He pats your shoulder once before stalking off into the trees.

Durin looks relieved. A gentle smile graces his lips. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Hat Guy freaked out when you got pulled.”

For now, your prosthetic remains intact, untouched. You scratch at your scalp in frustration, trying to distract yourself from your sore ribs.

And knowing you’ll get an earful later.

You can already feel the headache growing.

You slink down on the chair.

“I’ve been through worse, actually.” You shift on the seat to face the cliffside. The fire blazes at your back. “I thought you guys weren’t supposed to open another portal thing. Albedo said it was dangerous last time.”

Durin nods before he shrugs.

“Hat Guy was yelling at Albedo. He practically forced us.” Durin places a hand to his chin, thoughtful. “Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him in so much distress. You guys must be really close…”

He trails off.

A second pair of footsteps mill against the grass.

Your skin grows cold and you stiffen.

Uh-oh.

Durin awkwardly sucks his teeth. You hear him turn away from you and bound back toward the fire. “Are you okay?”

You quickly pull yourself off the chair and manage to stand. And never do you think you’ve moved so fast. You ribs howl in protest and you hunker over, but you keep a hand raised and a finger pointed at the approaching ball of fury.

“You stay back,” you threaten weakly. You step backwards, mindful of the cliff biting at your heels.

“Why are you scared?” The wanderer marches forward. “Did you do something wrong?”

“I didn’t do anything–”

“I told you not to get too close,” his voice snaps.

You snap your lips shut almost instantly.

The wanderer stands directly in front of you now. He looks understandably upset. His eyes are lidded with fury, and his fists are clenched at his sides. He’d be burning red if he was able to do such a thing. Instead, the Anemo Vision at his chest blazes and flickers with life.

You’re sure he’s about to send you flying off the cliff.

You open your mouth to speak.

You’re stopped with his palm flying across your cheek.

You yelp in shock as pain blisters over your face.

You gape at him, hands plastered across your burning cheek. You try again to start yelling back at him in retaliation, or to even raise your own knuckles and send them at his nose.

Instead, there’s a tug at your shoulders and his arms curl around your neck. He’s practically standing on his toes as humiliating as it is. Instinctively, your arms swing beneath his and freeze just shy of his back.

You notice Durin staring.

He says nothing.

In fact, he looks just as surprised as you do.

He buries his nose into your shoulder and you stumble.

You clear your throat silently. “Hey.” You turn slightly. Your nose presses into his hair. “Are you–”

He doesn’t answer. He clings tighter. His fingers slide further around you, and one arm slips down your spine.

“‘Kay.” Your hands press gently to the middle of his back. “You’re alright.”

Of course he’s alright.

You’re so stupid sometimes. Genuinely he wonders how he still manages to tolerate you. His nails press down hard into your back. You do your best to ignore the sharp prickles as he pulls harder around your coat. You’re afraid he’ll topple over with how firmly he’s poised onto his toes.

He doesn’t really need protection. Not from anything. Certainly doesn’t need it from you of all people.

But, for just a moment, there’s a swirl of your scent, the sharp tinge of the pine trees, and warmth of your coat, and he feels safe. Just easy, and simple, and like he’s everything.

He manages to peel himself off of you, but he raises his hand again. You swat it away before he can hit you on the other side of your face.

He should beat you purple.

He won’t.

Instead, he shoves you backward and you lose your balance over the cliff face.

The wanderer grabs your collar and you shriek in fright. You grip tightly at his wrists, boots scrambling for the cliff and catching onto the edges. And him. And whatever strength he pulls to hold you still.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you off,” he challenges.

You can’t give him any.

“Hat Guy–” Durin’s voice laces with concern. “It was an accident. And it was my fault.” It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Certainly not Durin’s. You hadn’t been close, just caught off guard, and the Doctor had enough tricks up his sleeve to snatch whoever ended up closest to the pull that sent the four of you hurtling towards the rip in the air.

The wanderer’s nose scrunches up with frustration.

You manage a reassuring nod with tired eyes and a busted lip that splits into a gentle grin. “I’m okay.”

Durin silently backs off when Albedo returns. The boy whittles by his brother’s side, quiet, watching, worried, but they don’t interfere. He sits down meekly on the grass and his tail curls over his legs.

Albedo sorts through the pot above the fire. He seems to be boiling some sort of herbs, too strong of a smell to be edible. Perhaps it’s medicine. And, really, you’re the only one of them all that actually needs to eat.

And despite this, only the wanderer makes meals for you as much as you insist otherwise. You don’t complain too much, however. He’s pretty good with the limited items available.

He pulls until you’re standing straight again, adjusting until you’re a safe distance from the edge of the cliff.

His grip barely slackens around your collar.

You take the opportunity to quickly press your lips to his temple. As a thank you, for saving your life, and also for not letting you plummet to your death. Your nose is cold against his face.

You don’t press further; you know he could still very well change his mind.

The wanderer grumbles and steps back, ignoring the way his Vision flares bright green. “I’ll go get you something to eat.”

And every night, “you don’t have to.”

“Shut up and sit down.” He gestures to the chair you approach as he stomps past the fire. Both Albedo and Durin keep their heads down. “And don’t go anywhere or I will tear off your other arm.”

You salute him before he disappears. Then, awkwardly, you sit back down on your chair. Albedo pokes at the strange medicinal broth and Durin sighs through his nose. He must’ve been holding his breath.

Albedo hums. A shit-eating grin curls on his lips. “He’s really fond of you.” He gestures to the fire. “Lower heat, please.”

Durin blows on the flames until they surge smaller, weaker.

“Don’t even start,” you cut in. “I’ll kill him the next chance I get.”

“You don’t mean that,” Durin chimes lightly. “He’s just looking out for you, in his own way. And that’s really special.” He rocks back into a different position, pulling his knees to his chest. “Albedo tells me Hat Guy’s way of appreciation is pretty consistent, but if I had kissed him he probably would’ve punched me in the jaw.”

Your cheek is still hot from where his palm belted into your flesh.

Yeah. That’s probably true.

Albedo gives you a knowing glance.

You mumble and turn your attention to the fire.

i dont know what else to say other than thank you like i genuinely dont know what to saysgkansosn 🩷🩷 i never usually answer asks because nobody gaf about them

i always get so nervous posting because i hate mischaracterisation and i try to write in canon as best i can but im not perfect so its good to hear a lot of people like how i write their favourite characters. i still remember writing out ohdh with zero thoughts in my head and received messages saying i made people cry when i didnt even consider anyone actually felt emotions over my work ijbol.

i kinda just do nothing but eat noodles and play overwatch but regardless, im so bewildered to hear that i actually inspire you thats so crazy to me.

all that aside, i hope you eventually kickstart your writing journey this year. i’d love to see what you’ve got :)

and as an apology:

It’s not only you, you find. He teases everyone. He’ll tell Enjin the last time he effectively used his Umbreaker was a year ago, or he’ll tell Delmon to raise his voice loud enough for it to crack and echo through the building when he’s up for it. Little, harmless fun he finds amusing to worm his way in.

He’s a lot more physical with you.

Light touches like a ghost’s that linger and leave all too quickly. A poke, prod, jab, a hold every now and then, and he then leans himself against you, remaining far too long, using up so much space it’s difficult to breathe evenly.

But, still, it’s harmless fun.

A harmless beautiful cacophony in the mix of his rather easy day to day. He lives the same each morning and evening. He combats that static with interaction, not too much to delve too close to anyone, but just enough to remain present.

And then you misinterpret his fun.

He should’ve known sooner that this would backfire on him, and hard. It was almost punishing how deep of a hole he dug himself into, constantly touching you and forcing himself into your proximity like he belonged there.

Light touches, featherlight, gentle, all misinterpreted.

Well.

He figures it isn’t really your fault. He thinks you’re a loner as is, so any form of physical contact must be exceedingly special to you, maybe even foreign. You don't jump up when he touches you, but you do glance in his direction nervously and sometimes even gawk.

The touches never frequently wander.

That is until Tamsy decides to dig himself deeper into the hole. For fun, he decides, grabbing the shovel. Maybe if it’s larger he can bury you in it, too.

It’s some form of messy self destruction that he engages in like a life line, dragging you under the depths with him in the process.

So he touches more firmly, his presence and warmth demanding your attention more and more until the others start to notice it. They comment how touchy he is, how close you two always are, how his hands are beginning to wander where plenty of people can see you both. It looks largely suspicious despite the fact you insist he just “does that sometimes.”

He’s just a… touchy guy. It makes sense. He does this with everyone. It’s not just you, which is largely disappointing.

So Tamsy begins to feed on your growing jealousy.

It starts rumours, of course. The Cleaners are so ever bored and need to discuss something over dinner. Delmon insists he’s not interested in petty gossip, but he seems to engage considering that Tamsy can hear his voice rattle through the walls. It’s largely grown ‘mature’ men engaging in it, sitting at their own table and squawking about coworkers like they’re sixteen.

And despite the fact that you are very much in the same room as them. Tomme has elected to sit with you. She’s always been kind. She pities you, obviously. It’s rude to talk about people while they can hear you.

“I mean… he’s touchy-feely, but we’re not together or anything,” you whisper. “He’s just like that.”

Tomme shrugs. “Maybe they’re right, though.” She chews idly at the food on her plate, pointing her fork at the men’s table behind you. “Maybe he likes you.”

“But, he’s so easy-going,” you murmur, poking at untouched meat on your plate. “You’d think he’d confess already.”

“Maybe he’s waiting on you,” Tomme tries. That seems like a Tamsy thing to do. “Or maybe he just wants to f–”

Your fork clatters to the plate. You stutter out a string of nonsense as Tomme grins apologetically. It’s a viable theory, definitely. It would explain everything.

You swallow the food caught in your throat before you choke on it. “You think?”

“Maybe,” she repeats, emphasising the word.

You stare down at your plate. “I dont even think he fucks.” Tomme raises her brows in surprise, though she seems largely entertained. “He’s too… princess-y—”

“I won’t discuss a coworker’s sex life, especially over dinner,” she interrupts quickly. She quickly finishes her dinner. “Just… I don’t know. Own it. Tamsy’s cool. It’s better than Enjin pining after you.”

You try to hold in a laugh.

Tamsy’s cool.

You guess so.

She offers you a consoling pat on the back as she leaves to put her tray away and retire for the night.

You fight the blood rushing to your face, fingers trembling around your fork as you try to eat the rest of your food. It’s not great, and it does barely anything to soothe your churning stomach.

Maybe he does like you.

You don’t get it.

What’s there to like? You don’t have any special qualities that raise you above the others. There’s other people here who are smarter, tougher, and would probably give him a more entertaining reaction.

He seems largely innocent. He doesn’t flirt or anything like that. He seems too above it all.

Still, you stand up, dazed.

Your feet drag you to his room. You’ve only been here once after a mission ages ago when you served as his crutches after he’d sprained his ankle.

You’d held onto the room number like a mantra. Just in case you ever needed him. For whatever.

You check the hallway.

Nobody. It’s not that late. People are still eating.

You knock one, twice, before you contemplate booking it back toward the elevator. Because seriously, why are you here? He didn’t ask you to come here. You don’t know what you’re expecting.

There’s no answer initially. You assume maybe he’s gone out to the city for dinner. You don’t know what he does ever, really, but he seems to know a whole lot about you.

Largely because he spends his off time watching.

Not that you notice.

“Hi.”

You fell for him.

You don’t even notice he has opened the door because you’re too busy mulling over whether to make a run for it.

Tamsy hasn’t opened the door the entire way. A patient, large eye and half his face is present through the crack in the doorway.

Hook, line, and sinker.

He fights the smile curling at his lips. All the cards lay out on the table. If this unfurls according to plan perhaps he’ll have you on his bed.

You manage to pull a grin, though it’s strained, nervous, and exactly what he expects from you.

He almost laughs in your face.

“You…” You clear your throat. “You weren’t at dinner.”

Aww. You noticed. He thought you would. Of course you would. You’re easy to string around on a leash.

Tamsy leans against the door frame gently, hands curling close to the doorknob. Maybe he should slam it in your face and then play with you tomorrow like nothing ever happened. “Mm, no.”

You hesitate. He watches you swallow hard. “You’re aren’t hungry?” You didn’t bring him anything.

“No,” he repeats, softer.

You sound breathless as if you’d been murmuring to yourself all the way up to his floor. Maybe you’d taken the stairs. You look like you’ve taken the stairs. You look frazzled and worried about something.

You peer down the hallway again. Still nobody.

“So… where were you?” you stammer.

Tamsy blinks like you’re stupid. His mouth curls larger. “Here.”

Right. You laugh, though it’s strained. “Doing what?”

He shrugs casually. He’s opened the door slightly wider to see if you’d peek into what’s behind him. Surprisingly you don’t. Your eyes are glued to him.

Cute.

In a weird way. You’re really pathetic, actually. He doesn’t voice it however.

“Waiting to see if I’d get hungry.”

“Oh…” You’re not following. “Did you?”

“Ah.” Tamsy slightly recoils from the door to hide his grimace in the shadows. His heart hammers in his chest. “That depends.”

“On…?”

“On what showed up.” He opens the door wide enough to offer you a way in. He leaves it in your hands to accept or decline his silent and rather forward request.

“I–” What? You blink owlishly at him. You wonder if you’re interpreting his words correctly. You tend to misinterpret a lot of his affections—if you can even call them that.

Your heart flutters pathetically.

Tamsy snickers, out loud.

Oops.

You startle back.

He quickly corrects himself. “Cold feet?”

“No, no,” you force out. You wave your hands casually, though they tremble anyway. “No, I just–”

“Are you coming inside?” Tamsy taps idly at the frame with a fingernail like a ticking clock. He tilts his head.

You look almost hypnotised. You nod slowly. “I’ll come inside.”

You trudge past him and into his room. You haven’t been in here in a while, and you didn’t stick around long enough to really examine how little he had for decoration. A few posters, one of a fancy red sunset on some sort of sandy plain, another poster largely the same with a more purplish tint.

You don’t even realise Tamsy locks his door behind you. He watches you move closely, back to the door as if waiting for you to make a move.

You’re still shaking. Clammy and hot and flustered, like you’ve watched him spout fifteen new limbs.

Tamsy can’t imagine he’s that scary.

It smells nice in his room. Like fresh linen and soap. There’s a subtle heat wafting from the bathroom as if he’s just finished in the shower. His hair is slightly damp at the roots.

“They’re talking about me,” you tell him. “Well, us. But there’s no ‘us.’ Everyone thinks we’re a thing.”

Tamsy quietly pushes off the door and approaches from behind, one foot in front of the other, unstable, giddy.

Good.

“A ‘thing,’” he echoes lightly. “That’s why you came here?”

“I thought it’d be better if we talked about it,” you defend quickly. “Privately.”

Tamsy nods playfully. “So you came here to my bedroom to talk?”

You nod. He doesn’t look convinced. You don’t either.

He’s close now. Close enough where you can smell the soap still lathered on his skin, close enough the point out he has a light green hairclip holding back half his hair. A layer of blond has fallen from his scalp, following along his jaw softly.

Tamsy rolls his eyes. “Talk, then.”

You do the exact opposite.

Your fingers tremble, loosely following the curve of his arms beneath the light blue cotton. Tamsy waits, patient, observant as always. Your fingertips catch on the fabric, sliding up before falling around his frame.

He lets you experiment freely, hands still and waiting for anything new to spark. Something that excites him may just be felt, and his heart thuds beneath your fingers through his flesh, supple and soft.

Tamsy says nothing.

Quite the definition of ‘talking.’

Your fingers press to the scarred skin at his throat. It's different in a strange way, still soft, not so much like leather, arguably smoother than his unmarred skin. Your thumb outlines the splatter of scar on his neck.

“How’d you get these?” you ask meekly. It’s quiet, barely louder than a whisper.

You follow the line of skin across his jaw.

Tamsy grins. The skin below his eyes crinkle. “An accident.”

Your hand freezes on his cheek. You watch his face morph into a much tighter smile, one unwilling to whisper another word to you. Not if it’s any sort of truth.

“You’re not gonna tell me?”

He giggles before he leans forward, ignoring your warmth for just a moment to envelope his arms around your neck.

“No.” His pupils are huge. “I like keeping my secrets.” He squeezes enough to remind you of his presence. “You didn’t come here to talk about my scars, did you?”

That’d be boring. He snorts inwardly. You’d be wasting your time.

He knows why you’re here anyway. He deliberately planted seeds of doubt in your head. You’re here to clear them all, maybe.

Maybe you want to fuck him. Probably. He bites the inside of his cheek to restrain himself. He should take you on his tiled floor and pluck at the buttons of your shirt with his teeth.

Maybe if he strips you of your dignity he can see just how lonely you really are.

Your thumbs card over his jaw before pushing his hair behind his ears.

He’s really close.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… came to talk.”

Tamsy tilts his head. His hair pools over his shoulder. “You keep saying that.”

You almost stutter out a bunch of gibberish before you clear your throat. “Yeah.” You ignore the way your voice cracks.

Somewhere else, Tamsy is laughing at you. He’s pressed to the back of a loveseat, aching, yearning, but laughing all the same, with his hair so long it touches the floor, just the perfect length for you to tug and pull.

The smile on his face won’t budge. You’re sweating beneath his gaze. This is too easy. Loser.

“Yeah?” he repeats. Teasing, confident, a dreamy lilt in his already airy voice.

“I just…” you start nervously, “…didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

Blegh. Tamsy coos. His fingers find your hair. How pathetically adorable. It’s a miracle how you haven’t caught on yet; how you haven’t realised he’s been dragging you around on a leash this entire time. Maybe you’re blind, or just merely stupid, or both.

There’s a rotten sweetness to it, like sugary confectionery that sticks to his teeth like glue. It’s awful, leaving his teeth feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy.

A moment of weakness has his heart thudding beneath his ribs desperate for some resurgence up his throat. He’d poke his tongue out and show you the pathetic organ as a piece offering.

Tamsy hums, encouraging. “And what did you want me to do about it?”

You glance nervously at the door. You’re pretty sure he locked it.

Tamsy removes an arm around you to tap your cheek playfully. You’re here for him, you may as well keep your eyes on nothing else.

“I want you to touch me.”

He almost startles back. His fingers falter for a moment. He holds back a gag threatening his throat.

Well.

You concede rather quickly. He was expecting to continue pawing at you and your shirt until you eventually obliged and unbuttoned the stupid thing. Why would you even come fully dressed anyway? If he had it his way he would have you wearing nothing but blue rope and pretty red welts along your flesh.

Blue suits you.

But only a certain shade.

“I already am,” he whispers.

Your jaw tightens. “Keep doing it.”

“Careful,” Tamsy sings lowly, whistling casually as he reaches to prod your shoulder teasingly. “That sounds like permission.”

You’re bold.

This is exciting. Somewhat. You’re defying his hypotheses; skittish, jumpy, yes, but you’re not shying away. Not yet at least. Not so much a game of cat and mouse as he would’ve expected. Interesting.

He was sort of wrong about you.

Sort of.

You only stare expectantly.

His lips are inches from yours.

His face falls.

Then Tamsy pulls away and shoves you backwards. Hard.

You stumble onto his bed, the back of your knees causing you to bounce back on his mattress, messing up the neatly laid sheets in the process.

You watch in awe when Tamsy absentmindedly pulls the green clip from his hair and tosses it on the empty desk. It clatters uselessly onto the wood.

His hair falls over his shoulders as he flexes his fingers towards your chest, pushing you back against the bed just enough to lean over you.

He pulls a knee up around your torso and you yelp.

His fingers reach for something on his bedside table next to a ticking, small red clock.

“We can talk like this,” he decides. His hair spirals around your face. His fingers wander up your shoulders towards the buttons of your shirt.

You look five seconds away from imploding.

Tamsy hits your cheek lightly with his instrument. The string lies dormant around the distaff, but you know better. You raise your fingers to touch it, but Tamsy ends up angling your thumb just enough to pinch the pad of the finger with his teeth.

If he had it his way he’d wet all of your fingers with his mouth to see long it takes you to crack.

You retract your hand. “You didn’t want to eat first?” you try desperately.

He ignores you. He wets his lips. “You’re trembling.”

You squawk, “you’re on top of me.”

“Mhm.” His head dips around your shoulder and he presses his nose into your throat. His tongue touches the pulse point at your jaw and you freeze below him.

Your heart thumps worryingly quickly beneath the muscle. Something rough follows when he presses the flat of his tongue against your neck, following the soft ridges of your throat.

Tamsy feels every throb of anxiety deep within your bones. Every press of flesh on yours replays in his veins, coaxing, demanding, until his teeth sink into your shoulder and he forces a noise from your throat.

“I think I’m just nervous,” you admit quietly through a tight jaw.

Tamsy has you right where he wants you.

“Good,” he says out loud. He kisses the bite mark. Your shoulder relaxes when he soothes over the ache. “You wouldn’t be if I didn’t matter.”

The men’s table. Poker. Testosterone, big, buff, strong. Protectors, providers, all gruff and muscly, blah blah blah. Tamsy doesn’t really fit the part.

“But you drink?” you ask curiously.

“Not usually.” He sits beside you at the counter, holding two giant pints in his hand. “Though, I suppose a celebration is in order. It would be strange to just stand in the corner.”

Tamsy slides a pint towards you. The beer bubbles and fizzles at the rim as you wrap your hands around the giant glass.

Tamsy is a bit weird. That’s the only way you can put it. He’s a nice guy, almost too nice, sometimes. He’s quick to offer a helping hand around HQ and he seems to have eyes on the back of his head peering through the long tresses of hair he flaunts to make sure you’re doing alright. Pretty much everyone likes him, or at the very least, can admit he’s a ‘decent guy.’ Helpful out on the field, too, with his freaky rope gimmick.

But, he’s nice.

Cute, too.

You should keep your distance.

“You roofieing me?” you question, staring down at the pint.

“Of course,” he responds easily. “Out in the open, in front of all of our friends.” He points behind his shoulder to the band of Cleaners smacking at the table and tossing chips at Enjin’s head when he’s not looking. “It’s the perfect opportunity.”

Most of them are completely wasted, but you’re sure if you were to fall flat unconscious on the bench both the bartender and the group would step in.

Not that Tamsy ever would. You don’t think Tamsy’s that type of guy. Too nice. Too gentle. A bit bleak and too honest at times, but nice.

And poison is too easy. Boring, flat. Not his style.

He raises his glass to yours expectantly, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.

“I get it,” you say. “Cheers.” You raise the rim of your pint to his before you try your best not to wince as the drink goes down. The beer tastes like shit, and it’s disgustingly bitter going down. Tamsy doesn’t seem to be in any better of a state than you. He even puts his glass down before yours and holds the back of his knuckles up to his lips.

You almost gag. “What did you order?”

Tamsy tries to hold in a laugh. His eyes are watering from the burning in his throat.

“Dude.” You almost gag. “It’s like drinking piss.” Holy shit. “Oh my… that’s disgusting–” You reach over to try and smack him in the face. He’s holding his hands out in defense and snickering.

You burst out laughing in response, and your cheek ends up pressing to his shoulder through his jacket.

In some sort of drunken stupor, Tamsy raises a hand to hold you in place on the other side of your face. It’s gentle, quick, you barely even notice it.

You raise the terrible drink to your lips again.

Holding your breath, you manage to down half of it. The drink doesn’t get any better. The bar carries on with your head in his hands. You sigh, holding the glass as if it’s your lifeline. It sort of is.

The alcohol is enough to tolerate the noise.

He’s really gentle though.

Shockingly, his jacket smells nice. A sweet tang settles in the air, though it’s extremely faint. You can’t pinpoint which exact fruit it might be. You’re not too familiar with fresh, actually tasty fruit, but he smells good nonetheless.

You press your nose into his arm after swallowing down another swig of shit. The glass is almost empty now. Tamsy has barely managed to reach half way. He doesn’t seem too eager to pick his drink back up. You’re not surprised. He seems more of an ice cream sundae guy, with cherries on top.

Cherries.

That’s probably the smell. The little red berries that come in pairs. Kind of sour, mostly sweet, light on your tongue, extremely hard to come by. You’ve had them once or twice because you remember spitting the pips out directly in Enjin’s face.

Good times.

“You gonna finish that?” you ask him, removing your nose from his arm.

Tamsy gestures to his drink. “Be my guest.”

“I don't want it,” you snip. You set your empty pint down. “I’m gonna have a smoke. And maybe a crisis.” You stand, somehow, from your chair. “Come.”

Tamsy lets you pull him out from the chair. There’s some whistling and hollering from the men’s table when one of them spots you both leaving. Tamsy offers an innocent wave while you aim a bottle cap at Enjin’s nose. It misses miserably, but you don’t really care.

You drag him along like a dog.

Tamsy is undoubtedly confused, but he keeps that gentle and almost coy smile on his face. He’ll play along. He’ll be your little lapdog for the night if it makes you feel good.

He enjoys staring at you anyway, especially when you’re helpless. He’s seen you many times battered and bruised on missions.

Fanciful Team Danger, so none of the others really get an opportunity to see how you function.

Usually dispatched on your own, though very rarely does Corvus send Eager to clean up after you. Tamsy always tends to accept, and Delmon is easy to convince into anything.

You’re strong, and seeing you move is always a show he rather enjoys. However, it’s always a treat to see you tuckered out in the car. Leaning on the window, on whoever was unfortunate enough to end up next to you at the back—usually him. He’s more than happy to lend you his shoulder.

It’s fascinating watching you breathe. So jagged and spaced out. The way it evens after a while when you finally fall asleep.

So vulnerable.

And you have such a delicate throat.

“You want one?”

His face falls flat.

And you’ll tarnish it with filth.

You’re holding a box of cigarettes up towards him. You’ve seated yourself on the stone steps at the back entrance to the bar. Off to the side, away from the public, just out of the shadows and the flickering street lights. Private, secluded, perfect. The street is largely deserted. He’s sure the main entrance is busier.

Tamsy sits next to you.

Then, after a moment, he takes a fresh one from the box.

“Dude. You actually smoke?”

No. He doesn’t. Not at all. He’s more interested in how you light the butt of his cigarette against your own lit one. He’ll endure, however. He does. Barely.

Thank goodness it’s dark, because otherwise you’d notice how his lips purse in disgust when he inhales tar directly into his lungs. Then you’ll notice how he gawks at the butt of your cigar lights up with every inhale and how you tap idly with your nails at the edge of your lighter before you pocket it.

Then you pluck the cigar from his fingers. He lets you, albeit confusion swims in his veins like ice. “Actually, don’t do that.” You press the tar to the concrete before you throw it into the shadows. “You’ll ruin the smell.”

“‘The smell,’” he repeats.

“The cherry smell.” You hum. You wave your cigarette in his face. “Your perfume.”

“It’s raspberry.” His eyes narrow playfully.

Oops.

“Oh.” You clear your throat. “Same thing.”

“Not exactly,” he teases.

You don’t really care. You lean against his arm. “It’s nice, whatever it is.” Not a lot of people smell good down here. You don’t blame them, really. You can’t imagine you smell good all the time either.

You probably reek of booze and smoke right now. Tamsy doesn’t seem to mind. He takes your face lightly and studies how the shadows fold over everything delicate and easy to break. The creases beneath your eyes, the lingering tar on your lips, enlarged pupils. All precious. “Perhaps we should go back to HQ and get you cleaned up.”

“We should kiss instead,” you slur through the smoke.

Tamsy is struck for a moment. Huh?

You don’t seem to be leaning in, however.

You’re eyeing the piercing below his lip. “Do you have more of those?” You point the lit end of your cigarette dangerously close to the metal.

He pokes his tongue out at you. Sure enough, there’s a wisp of silver placed in the centre of his tongue.

“Ouch.”

“Oh, it doesn’t hurt anymore,” he assures.

“Anywhere else?” you ask. You glance oddly at him. “Do you have any piercings on y–”

“You know…” Tamsy chews on the inside of his cheek, thoughtful. Truly, he’s trying to see what would make his heart burst harder—if he were to throw his fist directly at your nose and feel your blood slicken his knuckles, or if you were to stick your ash ridden tongue down his throat. “You have a terrible mouth on you.”

“I’m just curious.” You boop him on the nose with the side of your cigarette. “We never really get to chat. I don’t know anything about you.”

“There isn’t much to know,” he concedes easily. “I’m not overtly special.” He presses his lips into a smile. “You’re much more interesting than me.”

You make a noise. “What’s your favourite colour?” You take a drag of the cigarette and try your best to blow the smoke away from his face.

Maybe red. Red looks nice on you. It would look lovely all over his hands and beneath his nails too. Hmm. “Pink.”

“Dude. Real shit?” You point to the bottom of your scalp in a gesture to his own hair. “You didn’t wanna dye your hair pink?”

“Goodness, no,” he gasps, almost looking offended like you’d slashed him with a hot iron. “That’ll never wash out.”

You ask him heaps of questions. Most are mundane: music taste, favourite food, hobbies, the usual back and forth. He entertains you and lies for half of them, not that you notice.

It gets boring quickly.

Most things get boring quickly for him. Never you, though. Maybe the idle drunken chatter and the occasional giggle that makes his stomach turn, but not you. You’ve always been relatively tolerable, and you seem to have a huge bleeding heart. So generous and willing, so strong, so vulnerable.

He has an arm looped around your shoulders.

He could, if he wanted to. He can.

“You ever gotten into kinky shit with your instrument?” You poke him in the ribs. “Y’know… all the freaky bondage shit? Girls are super into that.”

They’re also into cute guys.

And big noses.

And piercings!

Tamsy almost chokes on his own saliva. He swallows the urge to punch you square in the nose. He’ll forgive the transgressions this once. You’re clearly out of your mind, and the smoke isn’t helping clear your head. “Can’t say I have.”

Thankfully, you won't remember half of the conversation.

You don’t add anything else.

You blow smoke out of your nose.

Then, you lean back on the stairs. Your cigarette is basically finished, barely a stub left in between your fingers. Tamsy plucks it from your hand and tosses it out on the street. He remains upright, watching closely.

Vulnerable.

So easy.

It’s too easy.

And it’s too suspicious.

They saw you leave with him.

He wouldn’t do that, anyway. Not now. Not yet.

There’s something so delicate about your fragility.

He supposes he’ll allow himself to keep you for longer. As a treat.

Tamsy hums, pleased.

“What’s ‘at?” you ask. Your vision has gone bleary and your eyes redden with every blink. The limit is hitting. The high is definitely wearing off.

“Nothing,” he deflects quickly. Then, he presses a palm to the stair where your head rests. “Let’s go. I’ll take you back.”

“How nice,” you murmur. “My own chaperone.” You tap your lips. “Can I get a kiss?”

Tamsy grins. “You’re drunk.”

“A little.”

As a treat—and more importantly, to keep you silent, he tilts your head to the side and presses his lips to your cheek.

He lingers.

He lingers long enough for even you to squirm beneath him with a laugh bubbling from your throat.

Truly, he has to stay.

Beneath the smoke, that same raspberry scent remains. Maybe it’s him rubbing off on you. Maybe you use the same products. He hopes it’s both. He hopes the longer he presses his skin to yours it’ll tattoo itself and stain beneath the layers of flesh, to muscle, to bone, to soul.

It’s a twisted feeling pooling horribly in the stomach like ash in his lungs that clog every pore and pathway. He stops his hand from trembling around your skin. This is porcelain he's holding, and he must handle it with care. A fragile being, a mosaic of glass and crystal, all spun on the distaff and the accompanying spindle in his pocket.

All his to destroy.

And he will, slowly. He’ll witness the strings of your veins unfurl until you’re woven so tightly to his bones you’ll be unable to decipher his from yours.

He can turn you into a puppet of sinew and love, vengeance and fuelled desperation, like a flame to gasoline. He can do whatever you’d like. He’ll contort you to his very soul.

For now though, he’ll accept a light pat on the cheek when he pulls away.

“Thanks, dude.”

He fights to keep the smile on his lips.