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"This feels like heaven. Ugh, your smell is driving me crazy... hic! Don't ever stop petting me, please. I love you— so, so much! "

He suddenly sat up to face you with his big, glassy eyes. A begging look on his face that he gave you so often. You knew what he wanted from the way his eyes moved to your lips. His mouth opening only to sound a whimper. Your kisses took him to paradise, but it was so embarrassing for him to ask.

You couldn't be cruel to him. At least not so early in this 'relationship' that you ended up accepting. He made your heart melt— an innocent, pretty looking boy who longed nothing but to be suffocated by your love— how could you turn him away?

He'd cry so cutely every time you made out with him. Eye closed and head tilted backwards against the couch as you take it further by kissing up and down his neck. He was already panting, his uneven, shaky breathing increasing when you reached down under his clothes. Caressing and stroking his stomach.

The dried tears on his cheek washed away with new ones. He felt ecstatic. The happiest he'd ever been. Whimpers and soft gasps filled the silence while you sucked marks on his skin. He couldn't help but moan at the thought of you claiming him— the pleasured tears now stinging his poor eyes.

"Do you want me to stop?" You said sweetly, cupping his face and pulling back to look at the disheveled mess you created. "Is it too much for you, baby?"

"Mmgh... It feels amazing." He swallowed heavily, his tongue wiping the drool at the corner of his mouth. You had no idea what that nickname did to him. It made him all stupid— he just wanted to kneel down and let you control him however you wanted. "Oh, fuck. I think I'm gonna die..."

He closed his eyes, unable to look at you. A bit embarrassed at his sensitivity and the uncontrollable buldge nudging for your attention. He shifted around on your lap— was it possible to come just from making out? He felt so close already and you haven't even touched him.

You press soft kisses on his precious eyelids. Feeling his hot cheeks under your tongue. You lapped up the salty droplets, tracing a wet line over his swollen bottom lip. Reminding him of all the kisses you shared.

He couldn't hold back anymore. With a grind against your thighs, he came undone— his fingers digging into your shoulders and his head thrown back in pleasure. Moaning loudly while his back arched.

His tongue dangled out as you sucked on it, sharing a heated kiss. Whines swallowed up by your mouth. Drool spilling from the corner of his lips. He felt so dizzy, so so good. His pants all ruined, and his heart racing out of control. Almost like he was on the brink of passing out.

"You have the lewdest expressions." You teased him in a sultry voice. But instead of going all shy and covering his face, he looked at you with an uncertain gaze.

"You're... gonna keep me, right?" His breathing turned normal, voice barely a whisper. "You're not gonna leave me, right? If- If you do, I swear I'll kill myself. I can't live without you. I can't... I just can't."

Your brows furrowed. What was he going on about? He was so insecure; despite all the times you reassured him, he behaved in a way that made it seem like you secretly hated him. You barely got a moment of solitude ever since he broke into your house, but never complained about it. So where did all his sensitivity come from?

"I need you, do you understand? I need you! Life before you was..." He gulped, the grip on your shoulders tightening. "I can't go back... can't. Can't. I- I love you. I swear, you're the best thing that ever happened to me. If I never met you, I would've..."

"Hey. I'm here now, right? How about a bath? Does that sound good, baby?" You suggested, to ease his mind. Hands resting on his soft thighs. Messaging them gently. "I can wash your hair, and-"

"You don't want to see me naked..." He mumbled. His hands lowering down to yours. He looked so sad. Pleading eyes waiting for your sweet praise. Ears perked up for the words he wanted to hear.

"I'm not gonna judge you. I won't abandon you. I... I'll keep you, alright? Is that what you want to hear?" You sighed, unsure why you felt a bit agitated. It was as if he was doing this on purpose. Slowly manipulating you with guilt so he could get the reaction he wanted.

A shy blush appeared on his face, the red hue coating his skin. Loving every word of approval. "More... S-say I'm yours. Please... Ah, I want to hear it so bad! Please! Call me yours, your baby. A good boy! Your good boy. Pleasepleaseplease."

His fingers curled around yours, frustrated tears already wetting his eyelashes as he looked up at you with half-lidded eyes. Wanting nothing more than make you possessive of him. His dirty pants rubbed against you when he shifted closer. The cute pout back to make your stomach flutter. You wanted to spoil him rotten.

The wardens - also called Corrections Officers, COs, screws, or rotten, motherless bastards - were almost always training new recruits. The prison system had an unsurprisingly high turnover, which meant an almost constant stream of new faces. With time, you'd learnt to ignore the tours and walk-throughs. With one exception.

Slammer.

He was a senior CO who seemed to almost always turn your cell into the final stop on his grand introductory tour of the glorious prison system. Maybe you were just nice to look at or maybe he had a chip on his shoulder. Either way, things almost always ended with you being gawked at.

Like right now.

The 'tour group' was clustered outside your cell. Slammer was in the lead, his baton out and his little piggy eyes gleaming.

The trainees were in their new minted uniforms. Most of them uncomfortable and tugging at the scratchy, starched collars. You could have told them not to bother. That it was better for them to at least pretend they were comfortable. COs weren't your friends - every single prisoner in here would see that lack of confidence, that slight sense of unease. And they would pounce on it the first chance they got.

You hated being looked at like a zoo animal. And you especially hated the way Slammer showed you off to them like you some prize piece in his menagerie. Fellonus Homicidus perhaps.

You hated feeling their eyes on you. But you weren't going to make the mistake of showing them that. The less the COs knew about you, the better. It was like rule number three of incarceration. (Rule one being ‘never trust a warden’ and rule two being ‘don't fight the jacked inmate with prison tattoos.' Obviously).

You didn't bother to get up from your bunk to greet them. You stayed just as you had all afternoon - one arm behind your head and one leg hanging off the bed.

You pretended to keep reading your beat up paperback.

"This one is especially dangerous. Stabbed her neighbour forty eight times before the cops could get her off," Slammer told them.

"Forty six," you corrected without looking away from your book. "Coroner said it was forty six. Allegedly."

You could feel their eyes on you again.

"Right," Slammer drawled, "Because those last two stabs made all the difference."

You didn't bother to answer him.

"She really did that?" One of the trainees, a lanky guy with too large ears, asked. "She looks harmless."

You were almost offended at that. You flicked your eyes over them. They were mostly men, and most of them were looking at you in that hungry, contemplative way you knew so well. Wondering how much they could get away with once they were full fledged COs.

It should have bothered you. It didn't. Horny COs were just a part and parcel of life here. If you were smart, you could wring all sorts of goodies out of them before their supervisors caught on.

"Listen to me son. Every single prisoner in here is dangerous. They wouldn't be locked up if they were like you and me. They don’t feel guilt, not even when they steal from their poor old momma."

"You wound me, Slammer." You turned the page with a flick of your thumb. "I loved my mama. Only stole from her once or twice."

You didn't have much hope of them noticing your sarcasm. COs weren't the brightest bunch.

Slammer ignored you. "Don't ever say they're harmless. They sure as hell ain't. Two weeks here and you'll know exactly what I mean."

You could tell they didn't believe him. In the popular imagination, a women's prison was nothing like the men's. Women weren't dangerous. The trainees probably assumed you spent all day knitting scarves and talking about the lovely husband and kids you were oh so keen to get back to.

They would lose that notion pretty damn fast.

"Are you supposed to tell us the prisoners' charges?" A man's voice, neutral and respectful, but you thought you could hear a hint of reproach in his tone.

You looked back at the group and you were amazed that you didn't notice him earlier. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back like he was at parade rest. Unlike the others, he had the quiet confidence of someone who knew their job and knew it well.

His blond hair was slicked back and his uniform sat on him in a way that was a lot more natural than any of the others trainees. Ex-military or police, if you had to guess. Not that unusual. Corrections wasn't such a huge leap from those fields.

You sat up and answered him before Slammer could get a chance.

"He's not. Inmate information is confidential. But Slammer here doesn't always listen to the rules."

You shot the head CO a condescending smile. "He's a reaaal rebel."

Slammer scoffed. "The new officers have a right to know exactly how dangerous you are."

You put a hand to your chest, all faux innocence. "Little old me? Slammer, I'm a saint! A nun! I've been to chapel three times this week."

"Yeah. To sell cigarettes and buy booze."

"Just as the good Lord intended."

Slammer didn't find you funny. You could tell from the fact that a) he wasn't laughing and b) he was grinding his teeth like he was a beaver about to dig into a particularly scrumptious tree.

"Fact is, prisoners like her are the worst of the bunch. You think they're harmless, but the second you turn your back, they'll shiv you and run off with your tazer."

You grinned at the trainees as winningly as you could.

"Only did that once by the way. And the guy had it coming, swear on my mama."

Most of them were shifting around uncomfortably. Hearing Slammer keep banging on about your crimes was finally enough to get it through to them. The prisoners are not nice.

You'd assume that was obvious, but incarceration taught you that however slow you thought the wardens were, they could always get dumber.

The only one who didn't seem bothered was the blonde. He was looking at you like you were nothing more or less than a piece of furniture. You got the sense that he was analysing you, looking past your fake smile and even faker bravado.

You also got the feeling that he wasn't impressed with what he saw.

You flopped back down on your bunk and tried not to let it bother you. One more person thinking you were a delinquent. What difference did it make?

He was the last to leave. His eyes did one final scan of your cell before they landed on your paperback. He raised a brow.

"The Green Mile? Isn't that a bit depressing?"

You shrugged, uncomfortable but not entirely sure why.

"I like to think of it as aspirational."

"And why's that?"

"The wardens aren't all assholes."

That earned you a flicker of a smile before he turned on his heel and disappeared.

You forgot all about him after a week. To be fair, there were other things to occupy you. A fist fight on D Block that you somehow got dragged into. Drama in the book club. A warden getting caught with his pants down. Standard prison fare.

It was a Tuesday when you saw him again, in the middle of the cafeteria. You only had a split second to recognise him before he was dousing you in pepper spray and sweeping your legs out from under you.

That was misleading maybe. He wasn't totally unjustified in greeting you like that. You were technically in the middle of beating a CO with a lunch tray.

(He deserved it, but that's not exactly a good excuse when his nose is gushing blood all over the table).

You were still coughing on pepper spray when he hauled you to solitary, your eyes and throat burning.

"Glad...to see you got...the job Blondie," you managed to wheeze.

He sent you stumbling into the cell with a practiced push.

"Yep," he said simply, "They hired me on the spot."

Your shoulder was still a painful mess when he slammed and locked the door, leaving you in the half dark to wash the stinging out of your eyes.

You rubbed at your aching joints. "I can see why."

Pepper spray was considered the least lethal way to subdue a prisoner. Easier than a taser, less brutal than the baton. But despite its shining reputation, it was your least favourite tool in a CO’s belt. A taser was at least quick. The baton left a bruise but the pain didn't linger.

Pepper spray on the other hand? It left your eyes and throat and nose irritated for days.

You were still trying to rinse it out of your mouth when he returned, boots heavy on the linoleum and his keys rattling.

You turned to him with your white prison issued tank practically soaked. To most other guards, that would be an invitation to gawk. Not him though. His eyes never dipped below your chin.

"Sit down. I've got some cold cloths for the swelling."

You sat, more confused than anything else.

"That's not standard regulation Blondie. Usually, they just let us suffer through it."

He tossed you the cloths, still icy from a quick minute in the freezer. You pressed them to your face gratefully.

"It is standard regulation. Treating pepper spray once the prisoner is subdued."

You scoffed. "Why am I not surprised that no one ever told us that?"

He stayed quiet and you peaked at him over the edge of the fabric. He was a lot leaner than you realised, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his forearms toned with muscle.

And covered in tattoos. Damn, he had some sick tats.

You cleared your throat, not exactly sure why he bothered to do this for you.

"Thank you. It sucks to deal with. Makes everything taste awful. For days."

He raised a brow.

"I just dragged you to solitary and your main worry is that the food won't taste good?"

"The food never tastes good. This is more so a matter of bloody awful becoming hellish awful."

"It can't be that bad."

"Get back to me after you've spent five years chomping down on lukewarm hash browns and soggy peas."

"You've been in here five years already?"

You sighed, pressed the cloth against your brows so you didn't have to look at him.

"Yep. And I've still got another thirty to go."

"Why?"

That got an unexpected laugh from you.

"Didn't you hear Slammer? Homicide. Found guilty on all charges."

"Did you do it?"

"Allegedly."

What was his angle? Was this some new, interactive approach to corrections? Getting friendly with the inmates so they were less likely to riot?

"Didn't they teach you not to ask those sorts of questions?" you asked. "Not really something people in here like to talk about."

You saw that little flicker of a smile again.

"They did. But I get the feeling you don't mind it as much."

He was right. You didn't mind. At least, not with him. He had a kind of quiet confidence that, surprisingly, made you feel comfortable.

"Why did you want to work in a prison? Or more accurately, what the hell went wrong that you ended up here?"

"You think it's such a bad job?"

"I'd never do it and I live here."

He leaned against the cell wall, hands on his belt. There it was again. A veteran's stance, weapons in easy reach in case you tried something.

"It's a boring story."

"I've got nothing but time."

That earned you another raised brow.

"As we've established."

What's this? A CO actually cracking a joke? You never thought you'd see the day.

"And anyway, we're not here to talk about me. I'm here to find out why you attacked my fellow officer."

Ah, so that was why he was playing nice.

"I didn't like his face."

He narrowed his eyes and pushed himself off the wall. "Disappointing. I thought you'd have a better reason than that."

You didn't like his tone, or the way it made you feel. Ashamed. Like you'd failed his test, even though you didn't know you were supposed to be studying.

He paused at the door, like something occurred to him.

"What's her name? The girl he was picking on?”

You raised you head. "What?"

"The guard you attacked. He was causing trouble, wasn't he?"

How did he know? Did he see it? Oh God, was Ruby going to get into shit because of you?

"Listen, she had nothing to do with it. She had no idea what I was going to do. It was all me."

He shrugged. "How am I supposed to believe that's true if I don't know the full story?"

You bit your lip. You didn't like saying too much to the COs. And your instinct was telling you this one would be able to read a lot deeper than the rest.

"Guess I'll just have to ask her then."

"No!" You dug your hands into your sheets to stop yourself from bolting to your feet.

"No, Ruby has nothing to do with it I swear. She’s almost sixty. She gets enough shit as it is. Just leave her alone."

You swallowed. "Please."

He was looking at you again, much sharper this time.

"Explain."

Your grip on the sheets tightened until your knuckles were pale. Did you really have to talk about this shit out loud?

"Ruby is..." you started. "She's different. Older than most of us, keeps to herself. She's not...all there, if you know what I mean."

He turned to face you and settled back against the wall. "Go on."

"Most of the inmates don't bother her. Why would we? She's just a little old lady. Not harmless, no ones really harmless, but about as close to it as you can get. But some of the COs..."

His lips thinned. "They have a nasty streak."

"You can call it that. Usually it's just calling her names. But sometimes some of them get it into their heads that what she really needs is a hard knock. Rattle those screws around enough and maybe they'll fall back into place."

"Is that what happened today?"

You sighed, looked down at your hands and the blood dried in the crevices of your nails.

"Yep. CO was all in her face, being nasty. Grabbing her wrist. Taunting her. And she... she just stood there and took it. Old enough to be the his grandmother and he didn't care."

You closed your eyes.

 What else were you supposed to do?

He'd been at it for five minutes when you stood up with your lunch tray. By then you'd had enough. No one else was going to do anything, so it was going to be you.

The lunch trays were a hard plastic, meant to keep from breaking on impact. You'd left your half eaten bowl of chow on the table and walked up behind him, your heart beating steady and calm. Some part of you had already decided the consequences were worth it.

Some of the inmates were looking at you and every single one of them knew exactly what you intended. But none of 'em said a word.

You could still feel the smack of your tray against his head. The way he stumbled forward with the momentum.

You'd caught him by surprise and you weren't going to let him get over it. You swung the tray at his face, as hard as you could. You could feel his nose breaking. He was on his knees by then. And maybe you'd have let him up, might have ended things there.

But then you saw Ruby's wrist. A frail thing, with the warden's finger marks standing out a livid red.

"I see."

You opened your eyes. He was still watching you, his face unreadable.

You shrugged and tried to smile.

"Today was practically hum drum by our normal standards."

"How exciting," he deadpanned.

"Just wait 'til Christmas time. It gets positively festive."

He snorted and started for the door again.

"You're aren't such a hard ass after all, are you? Saving little old ladies in your spare time," he said.

"Just think how safe senior citizens will be when they let me back out."

It was only for a few seconds, but you liked it when he smiled. It softened that tough guy demeanour just enough to make you wonder about the man underneath.

When he was gone, you laid down with the cloth still pressed against your cheek. Who'd have thought it. A CO who you didn't want to punch in the teeth.

The CO you beat didn't come back to work for two weeks, and when he did, you heard that he asked for a transfer to a different block.

Ruby made you a macaroni necklace and said something about alien warships picking you out of everyone else. You figured that was her way of saying thank you.  

And maybe the most notable thing of all: Blondie was assigned to your cell block. Surprising. Yours wasn't the worst part of the prison, but you weren't a bunch of saints either. Rookies wouldn't even be considered until they'd had at least a year's experience.

It was yet another thing pointing to his past. Something, somewhere, had given him enough experience to slip ahead on the promotion queue.

You didn't much mind it. Hell, you'd almost say it was enjoyable. He wasn't rude, he didn't pick favourites and he was keen eyed enough to catch a lot of the under table business that inmates engaged in.

You didn't go out of your way to talk to him - getting too cosy with a CO wasn't a good look - but you made it a point to greet him whenever you could.

Well, you called it greeting. Most other folk saw it as a smirk and a sing song "Hey there Blondie!"

He must have had some sort of interest in you too. You'd look up from your lunch and see him watching you, head tilted just a little. Like he was trying to puzzle you out. You took to winking at him whenever you caught him.

It would usually be enough to make him look away, but never for long. His eyes would always find you again.

You should have been annoyed at it, or unnerved. But honestly, the way he looked at you was borderline sweet compared to the other COs. You'd occasionally catch some of them watching you too. Usually with their hands on their belts.

There wasn't much to do in prison besides read, sleep and exercise. But around the third week after his arrival, you started getting letters.

Not totally uncommon. Plenty of folk wrote to prisoners. But to you? That was a different story. You put the letters you received into two categories: perverts and the pervertedly curious.

The perverts were exactly what you'd expect. People who thought your mugshot was the hottest thing since Megan Fox taking a swim. Their letters were particularly uncomfortable to read. And often sticky. You never wrote back.

The pervertedly curious were a whole ‘nother class. They probably ran across your case on a true crime podcast or on a documentary. And their first thought at hearing the story was to wonder exactly what it felt like. They'd write and ask you what was going through your mind. What did the knife feel like sinking into his flesh? What did the blood smell like?

A fun bunch of freaks. You'd write back sometimes, more for your own amusement than anything else. Your answers were never even remotely true. I was mostly thinking about how late my taxes were and what a bastard it would be clean up. Stabbing him felt like cutting a steak except more scream-y. The blood smelt like a stack of pennies on a warm summer day, but mostly it just smelt like blood.

You'd always end your sentences with your trademark allegedly.

These new letters were nothing like those at all. The paper was crisp and clean and most importantly, not sticky. The folded lines were sharp, like the writer pressed them down with their thumb nail.

The writer didn't ask about the murder. They didn't ask about your bra size. They were almost...sweet.

You must be lonely in prison. You must get bored. I hope you're safe.

You read it again and again before you wrote a reply. Silly really. They seemed much too nice to be writing to someone like you. Maybe someone trying to do a good deed.

You should scare them off. Writing to a prisoner is sweet and all, but most folk in here would use it as just another way to wring someone dry. You were no different. Your anonymous pen pal would be better off working at the animal shelter if they wanted to help a stray.

I've got a whole host of buddies. We discuss the best ways to get blood out of our socks and pillow cases. I'm not bored at all. We've got a badminton league. Obviously the best way to spend federal cash. I'm as safe as a lamb in the hay. Only got stabbed twice last week.

There. That would get rid of them.

You mailed it out on cheap exam pad paper with a stamp you lifted off your neighbour. You didn't expect a reply.

When the mail got delivered the next week, you were more than a little surprised to find a new letter waiting for you.

The same crisp paper, the same neat, slanting hand.

You can't scare me off. I know you're only prickly and sarcastic because deep down you're scared. Scared a lot. Scared all the time.

I looked you up. You were barely out of high-school when it happened. Well behaved, normal family, no record of misdemeanours. Prison must have been an awful adjustment.

You had to put the letter down and take a deep breath. The kid clocked you. Less than two letters in and they'd read you better than anyone had in years. Better than anyone ever had maybe.

What were those first few years like, I wonder. How did you survive? Please write me back. I like checking in on you.

You considered not replying. What were they hoping to achieve, getting all familiar with a killer?

The letter sat on your shelf for half a week before you gave in and wrote a reply.

I survived by being mean and cruel and evil. Stop writing me kid. I'll bite your head off and drink your blood.

The next letter came almost instantly. If anything, the writer seemed amused more than anything else.

Scary. Did they put you in for homicide or suspected vampirism? You want to get rid of me, but I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to reply, but I know you must need a friend. They aren't easy to come by behind bars. Any alliances you form will always have the expectation of reciprocation. It must be exhausting.

Did I tell you I bought a new car last week? A Camaro. I know. How stereotypical of a Marine to buy a car like that, right? But it's gorgeous. I'd like to take you for a drive someday. Nothing but the open road. I think you'll like that.

You didn't even wait a full day before you wrote back. Because they were right. You really did need a friend. Someone to just shoot the breeze with, without any subtext of a favour being repaid later on.

You didn't know anything about your mysterious pen pal. Not their age or their gender or even the colour of their eyes. They signed all their letters with a simple from B.

They mostly asked you questions. Not obtrusive or gross ones either. They wanted to know which foods you missed the most, which tv series and movies you wanted to catch up on, which actors you thought were getting Grammys this year.

When Grammy and Oscar season rolled around, you choked out a fellow inmate to get the TV remote. You left them sitting up on the couch, passed out and looking like they were just asleep. Blondie almost caught you. He walked past the door and paused to stare at your victim.

You gave him your most charming grin.

"She said the opening ceremony was too long and to wake her up when the red carpet is over," you explained.

He scoffed and moved on.

When you wrote your next letter, you packed it full of award show details.

B wrote to you for the better part of a year. But you only learnt a handful of things about them. They were in the Marines, they now worked some kind of federal job, they had tattoos, they liked Nicole Richie, and they hated fried chicken. Like really hated it. With a passion.

I promise to never cook you fried chicken, you wrote, only fried calamari, fried onion rings, fried mushrooms, fried liver, fried green beans, fried -

Can you even cook? they wrote back. Or are you just running your mouth?

For a while, you were happy. They'd occasionally send you new books in the mail, burnt CDs to listen to on your busted radio, packets of sweets.

Prison was hell, but it was a structured, expected sort of hell. You could deal with it.

But then she arrived.

You didn't bother to learn her name. She was tall and lean, green eyes like pond scum, and teeth chipped from fighting. You didn't like her from the first, but you had no reason to quarrel and so avoided her as much as you could.

Blondie didn't like her much either, and that's where the trouble started.

She'd deliberately bump into Blondie whenever she could. Hard enough that you could almost feel the impact.

"Oops... Didn't see you there."

If it was anyone else, they'd probably get thrown in solitary. But Blondie was a stickler for the rules. He'd brush his uniform off like just touching an inmate was enough to cause a plague. And then he'd settle his blue eyes on her, cool and detached.

"Watch where you're going next time."

That was how it went on. Weeks of passive aggression, slowly getting more and more physical.

You didn't want to intervene. Blondie could protect himself. Still, you kept your eye on him as much as you could.

There was another thing about the new girl you didn't like.

She had a way with people.

Could convince even the most stubborn inmate to do something, even if it was against their own best interest.

She got an inmate who was almost out on probation to attack and almost blind a CO. She got innocent old Ruby to start selling cigarettes. She almost got you to pick a fight with someone for damn near no reason at all.

She was dangerous, in a way no one before her had been. You could feel it in the harsh whispers after lights out. Got to make those dirty screws pay. Fucking COs have had it too good for too long. Who the fuck do they think they are anyway?

A riot was brewing. You started staying in your cell a lot more. Managed to pull some metal out of your mattress and spent every night sharpening it to a point.

Some of the COs were smart enough to notice the tension and your outside time got shortened to half an hour, lunch got pulled back to fifteen minutes. Their solution was to keep you locked in your cells for as much of the day as possible.

Not a good move.

Prisoners with no distractions tend to amuse themselves by planning all sorts of nasty things. How to grab a CO from behind and get their keys before anyone noticed. How to choke out the one bastard who kept throwing them in solitary. How to pay back all those times a CO groped them in the middle of a search.

You could feel it heightening to a point. Could feel it in the dirty, oily stickiness of the air.

When Blondie came past on patrol, you stopped him. You'd been hoping to catch him for a few days and you weren't going to miss your chance.

"Yes?"

Those blue eyes were staring straight through you, cool as a winter without a radiator.

You remembered the pepper spray, the cool cloth pressed against your burning skin.

"Listen, I think you should call in sick for the next week."

Oh no, it came out sounding like a threat.

You cleared your throat, tried to smile.

"I owe you one, okay? So just trust me on this and don't show up for a while."

He narrowed his eyes.

"There's going to be a riot,” he said.

"Seems like it."

"When?"

"I don't know. It's not exactly a scheduled thing. But it's going to be bad."

He looked away from you, scanning the long row of cells across from you. You could hear the ambient shuffling and coughing and laughing of a hundred people living together.

"Can it be stopped?"

You sighed. You'd seen it play out a few times already. Wardens had all sorts of ways to handle riots, but once the fever was brewing, it was near impossible to break. It was in the atmosphere, in the tense glances between prisoners. It was bigger than all of you.

He must have seen the answer in your face.

He shook his head, stubborn to the last.

"I've got a job to do. If I got scared every time the prisoners got rowdy I'd be out of work real quick."

You sighed and pulled away from the bars.

"Your funeral Blondie."

You really hoped it wouldn't be.

The thing that started the riot was so small that on a normal day you'd call it borderline routine.

A CO was watching the cafeteria line, hustling people along when they paused longer than he liked. When he came to one of the girls a few spots ahead of you, he got impatient and shoved her forward. Not hard. Barely enough to make her stumble.

You cringed. For a second or two, you imagined you could feel it on your skin. A static crackling like lightning about to strike.

She punched the CO in the throat.

He stumbled backwards, holding his neck and gasping.

Other prisoners  were already moving forward. Three of them grabbed his arms and bunch of the others ripped off his gear. Taser and baton and pepper spray now in the hands of a pissed and petty prison populace.

The other officers were already coming forward, batons out. Usually that would be enough to break things up, but they had just about everyone against them. Numbers always won.

 The veneer cracked and the riot finally started. It took less than a minute.

The yelling was enough to make your head throb. Bouncing off the cafeteria walls and ringing ringing ringing in your ears.

You ducked out of the way as much as possible, always on your guard. Riots weren't just dangerous for the wardens. Inmates saw them as a way to settle old scores without ending up in solitary or back in court. And lord knew,  you'd accumulated a hell of a lot of grudges over the years.

A prisoner rushed you. She was clutching a shiv made out of a ballpoint pen and a piece of wire coat hanger.

You dodged, sticking your foot between her legs and making her stumble. Your adrenaline was pumping, your vision dark at the corners.

You grabbed her hair before she could recover, and slammed her head against the edge of a metal cafeteria table.

She dropped like a rock.

You stepped away before any of her friends noticed you, your heart so far up your throat you could almost taste it.

That's when you saw her. That green eyed bitch, slipping out a side door with two of her cronies behind her.

You could feel your neck prickling.

There was only one score she had to settle and you knew exactly who it was aimed at.

You followed as quickly as you could. The backup had arrived and two tear gas canisters were belching thick white smoke into the room.

Despite your best efforts, by the time you made it out your eyes were stinging and she was long gone.

You swore and sprinted down the corridor, thinking fast.

If she managed to corner Blondie, she’d want to take her time with him. That's how scores were settled when you had a mean streak. Slow. Painful.

That meant she’d want privacy. Somewhere the riot officers wouldn't immediately find her when things calmed down.

You grabbed the corner of a wall and used it to shoot down the main hall, prison issued sneakers pounding the linoleum.

The showers. That's exactly where you'd go if you were her.

She didn't have time to block the doors. You banged through them shoulder first, the same way a cop would. The room was still thick with steam from earlier and Blondie's blood was running in thin streams toward the drain.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" she barked.

Green eyes, the one who instigated this whole mess.

She was standing with her sleeves rolled up and a razor blade between her fingers. The small, rectangular kind that goes in a straight razor.

Her two cronies were holding Blondie by the arms, stretching him out like he was on a cross.

Blondie clearly hadn't made it easy for them. Green eyes had a nasty bruise blooming on her cheek and both her cronies were sporting ugly nose bleeds. His baton was laying abandoned on the shower floor, rolled up against a bench.

Even a man as strong and well trained as he was couldn't go up against three armed felons and win.

You must have been just in time. The worst they'd done to him was cut his cheek, all the way from his temple to the bridge of his nose. It was bleeding bad, but didn't look too deep.

You straightened up and smiled at them, big and broad like you'd never had a better reunion.

"Having some fun without inviting me?"

Green eyes scoffed. "Why do you care? This shit is personal. Find something else to do."

You tilted your head, still smiling.

"You're right. It is personal. As in I owe Blondie over there a personal favour. As in I don't want you fucking with what's mine."

Blondie was watching you with those sharp eyes. If he took issue with being called yours, he didn't show it.

"Let him go." You didn't scream. You didn't demand. You simply said it. That's what made them nervous.

"Listen bitch - I don't care that everyone is scared of you. What you did on the outside doesn't matter one fucking bit."

You kept smiling, but your fingers were buzzing. The same why they had the night you stabbed a man forty six times.

You flicked your wrist and the shiv fell into your palm.

It was as long as your hand and sharpened into a wickedly pointed tip. It could slide between someone's ribs and kill them in less than five heart beats.

"They aren't scared of me because of what I did outside."

The two cronies were looking at each all worried-like. You vaguely recognised them, but it was clear that they recognised you no problem.

The boss turned to face you fully, light and easy on her toes like a boxer.

"You really gonna make a big deal over a fucking screw? A CO?"

"Since he's the only CO I've met who isn't a total piece of shit, I've got a vested interest in keeping him around."

She rolled his shoulders like a fighter would. You bit back a sigh. This was going to really hurt.

She didn't come at you right away. She ran her eyes over your body - your posture, your build, everything that might give you an advantage.

Then she charged.

Fast, even on the still slippery tiles. There wasn't enough time to duck or dodge.

You blocked her first punch with your arms, her fist smacking against your skin and spiking a sharp pain all the way down to your bones.

You stepped backward and kicked at her knee, but she saw it coming and turned her leg at the last second, took it on her thigh instead.

She’d dropped the razor blade - without a handle it was just as dangerous to her as it was to you - which meant she had full use of her fists.

She kept pummelling at you, catching you on the ribs and then on the sternum. You slammed back against the lockers, winded.

She pushed her advantage, going straight for your throat. You dropped down at the last second and her fist slammed full force into the metal.

She screamed and then screamed again as you slammed your shiv into her thigh.

You grabbed her throat and shoved her away from you, breathing hard.

She was clutching her thigh with one hand, blood welling up between her fingers. Dark red, but not enough to be fatal. You hadn't hit any arteries.

You slammed the heel of your hand into her nose, aiming upwards. You felt cartridge crunching.

She screamed again and scrambled away as quickly as she could with her injured leg.

Blood was running into her mouth, and when she snarled at you, her teeth were red.

You smiled again, as cheerful as a choir girl.

"Had enough?"

She spat blood at your feet.

You waited, half your attention on the other two. They hadn't yet moved to help her. You weren't sure if it was out of fear of letting Blondie go, or just a strong self preservation instinct.

Green eyes finally gave in. Or more accurately, her leg did. She buckled and fell, knees smacking hard on the tile. You winced.

She looked pale, in the about to pass out sort of way.

You sighed and jerked your head at her.

"Get her to the second floor nurses office. Wrap something around her leg. Tight. She’ll live but it's going to hurt a whole lot more if you aren't quick about it."

The other two were looking between you and her, eyes wide.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, still holding the bloody shiv.

That seemed to decide them. They let go of Blondie all at once and grabbed their boss under the arms. Between the two of them, they were able to drag her out.

She left a trail of bright red behind.

When they were gone, you sat on the closest bench, holding your ribs. Hopefully they weren’t cracked - it hurt to breathe. You'd have to visit the infirmary as soon as things died down.

"She’s going to get even with you," Blondie said.

He was watching you. He hadn't moved. Blood was still running in thin streams down his cheek, like he was crying red.

"Yep. She's got a lot of friends too. It's not going to be fun."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act so light hearted about everything. I can see your hands shaking."

You balled them into fists and avoided looking at him. The silence stretched.

Finally, "Why did you really kill your neighbour?"

"I didn't like his face."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. The court already made up its mind."

He finally moved. Picked up his baton and slipped it into his belt. Grabbed a towel and balled it up, then pressed it against his face. The white started spotting red almost immediately. You watched him from the corner of your eye.

"Give me the knife."

"It's called a shiv. You should know that."

You rubbed the handle against your pants, getting rid of any fingerprints. Redundant, given there were three witnesses who saw you stab another inmate. Old habits don't really die, you supposed.

You handed it to him without looking at his face.

He wrapped it in a smaller towel and stuck it in his belt.

You could hear faint sirens from beyond the door, and his radio was crackling with orders. The wardens seemed to be getting things under control.

"I'm throwing you in solitary. And then I'm requesting a transfer to another block."

"Aww shucks, I'll really miss you Blondie."

"Not a transfer for me, you idiot. A transfer for you. It won't stop her entirely. There's always a little bit of communication between the blocks, no matter how hard we try and prevent it. But it should give you some time to make friends of your own."

"I've never been very good at that."

"Maybe try being less sarcastic."

He grabbed your upper arm and pulled you to your feet. His grip was light, a formality more than anything.

"Why did you really save me?"

You couldn't look at him. You shrugged.

"It's like I said. You're the least terrible warden in here. Not a very high bar to be fair, but still."

He started towards the door and you followed.

There were officers coming down the corridor in full riot gear. He waved them down and thrust you towards one.

"Solitary. Protective custody."

"Why?"

Blondie didn't even hesitate. "Because she saved my life."

Solitary wasn't so bad when the other option was tossing and turning on your bunk, just waiting for a knife to your ribs.

You'd almost call it relaxing. Your ribs were bandaged tight and the painkiller the doc gave you left you floating on a cloud of dope.

When you heard the footsteps pause outside your door, you didn't bother to get up.

Blondie didn't say anything for a long while. When he finally spoke, it was so soft that you had to strain to hear it.

"I still don't believe you. I don't think you're a cold blooded killer. I think that whatever happened between you and that man wasn't really brought before the court."

You sighed.

"Drop it Blondie."

"No."

Maybe it was the medicine or maybe it was the confession booth feeling of the half dark. Either way, you ended up giving away more than you intended.

"It doesn't matter. If the whole thing was public, it would only hurt people who've already been through enough."

"You had a reason for killing him."

"Yes."

"What?"

"I won't tell you. Won't tell anyone, ever. It's not my story to tell”

 “You're in jail because of it. Who else could possibly have more to lose?"

"You'd be surprised."

It was his turn to sigh.

"I'm going to find out eventually, y'know."

"Have fun with that. Don't give yourself a headache."

He sighed and walked away.

You didn't see him again for half a year.

They kept you in solitary a whole week. Long enough for your ribs to stop hurting and for the bruises to lighten. Long enough for green eyes to be processed and transferred further up-state. That was unusual, even if she was the one who instigated the riot. You had a feeling someone pulled some strings behind the scenes. And you had an even stronger feeling about who it must have been.

When you were finally out, you were assigned to a new block. Your stuff was already waiting for you in your new cell, your books and CDs and a new letter from B.

Won't be able to write for a while. I've got something important to work on. Hopefully I'll be back soon.

You couldn't ignore the way that stung. Without meaning to, you'd come to rely on their letters. A little reprieve from the life you were stuck with.

The new block wasn't too bad. You took Blondie's advice and made some friends. Tried to avoid fights as much as possible. If green eyes ever managed to convince someone to get even for her, they didn't go through with it.

Life was, if not good, then at least bearable. You tried ignoring the little nagging part of you that constantly wondered about both Blondie and B. Without either of them, you felt...emptier somehow. Lonely.

When a warden came to tell you that you had a visitor, your heart lurched. Your family didn't visit you much anymore. And you cut off your friends the day you got convicted - no need to draw them into your mess. Secretly, you hoped it was B. You had no clue what they looked like, but after six months without hearing from them, you were almost desperate.

You smoothed down your uniform before you stepped into the visitors' centre, your eyes sweeping the room for familiar faces.

You noticed him almost immediately. Blondie, his hair shaggy when it wasn’t gelled back and his usual uniform replaced by a flannel shirt and jeans. A man was sitting next to him, his pinstripe suit still neat and pressed despite it being late afternoon.

He didn't even give you time to say hello.

"This is Mark Lawrence. Your lawyer."

You squinted at the man, confused. He was clearly a cut or two above the overworked district attorney who'd handled your case.

"No he isn't. I haven't seen him before in my life."

He sighed, irritated. "Mark is the lawyer I hired to represent you when we go to court next month."

"...Why am I going to court next month?"

"To challenge the original ruling."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because I've found another witness to your case, one that didn't testify last time."

You felt like were slammed face first into a bucket of icy water. With rusted nails in it.

"Who?"

"The victim's daughter."

"No."

"Yes."

Your handcuffs rattled as your balled your hands into fists.

"She's just a kid. What she needs is to put the past behind her, not re-live every minute of it up on the witness stand. No. We're not doing this."

You glared at him and he met you straight on. The tension cracked.

The lawyer finally interjected.

"Knowing the full details of the case changes things dramatically. Your charge goes from first degree murder to manslaughter. We might be able to cut your sentence down to fifteen years or less, with time served contributing."

"No. I'm not putting that little girl up on the stand."

Blondie practically snarled. "Yes. You. Are."

"No. I'm. Not."

"She's so much older now! Practically a teenager. She can handle it. And besides, she said she's happy to do it."

"You spoke to her?!"

Could this day get any worse? Why the hell did he have to go and drag up old memories? It must have been just as unpleasant for the kid as it was for you.

"Yes. Myself and the original detective both."

"Why? Is this what you've been doing the past six months? Trying to overturn my sentence?"

He looked away from you for the first time, his ears turning red.

"Yes."

You leaned back in your chair, conflicted and confused more than anything else. You hated to admit it, but a part of really wanted this. Even if the chance was slim, even if it meant another round of dockets and cross questioning. You were tired of prison. You wanted your life back.

You watched the late afternoon sun reflecting off the ceiling.

"I want to talk to her first. And then...maybe."

"Deal." Blondie sounded immensely satisfied.

You kept watching the sun and half listening to the conversations around you.

"Why are you doing this for me Blondie?"

Your voice was awfully soft.

"I'm returning a favour."

Your eyes slid to the lawyer.

"Pretty damn expensive way to do it."

He smirked. "I prefer my method to yours. Requires a whole lot less stabbing."

The kid came to visit you the next day. Blondie was right. She was almost a teenager. Did time really go by so fast?

You grinned at her.

"Hey kid. Sorry to drag you out to this place, but they don't let me out much."

"I bet."

She’d lost a lot of the baby fat from her cheeks and her dark eyes didn't have the haunted look you remembered so well.

"How's life with your aunt?"

"Great actually. The school is nice and we've got this Great Dane. And she isn't like... well, she isn't like my dad."

That made you happy. The kid deserved something good after everything she’d been through.

She broke in before you could keep asking questions.

"I want to do it. I want to testify against my father."

You paused, your smile fading. You could still hear her voice from that night, high and tinny and begging her dad to stop.

He hadn't stopped. He hadn't stopped beating his little girl until the moment you sunk a knife into his chest.

You swallowed, your mouth tasting like metal.

"Are you sure? It's not going to be easy."

She met your eyes. "I don't care. You saved me. I'm not going to let you rot in a place like this."

When she left, you couldn't help thinking about her eyes. The last time you saw her, she wouldn't even look at your face. Wouldn't say more than three words at a time.

The kid might never outrun her past, but she’d done a damn good job so far.

You tried not to be too hopeful. Homicide was almost impossible to overturn.

You tried not to be too hopeful, but the lawyer Blondie hired clearly knew his stuff. He laid it all out in front the judge.

How you used to babysit the kid when her dad wasn't around. How the man used to get violent when he was drunk, but never hit the kid until that night.

How you heard the screaming and banged at his door for fifteen minutes.  How you broke in through a back window when it wouldn't stop.

How you found the girl half dead with her father standing over her. Still going at it.

How you grabbed a knife, just to try and threaten him, maybe bring him back to his senses.

How he attacked you. How you stabbed him and then kept stabbing him until he stopped moving. 

How you bundled the kid off to her aunt and then called the cops on yourself.

The whole story this time. No pleading guilty and then sitting back down without another word. No half hearted defence by a state lawyer already over worked and underpaid. No half truths.

It took three weeks of court dates to get through the whole story, with witnesses and cross examination. By the time it was done, you wanted to wash your hands of the whole mess. Innocent or guilty, you just wanted to stop reliving that night.

The judge was a hard faced man who'd seen a thousand criminals come and go. You didn't have much hope for yourself when the bailiff told you to rise for the verdict.

"In the case of the state versus the accused, in regards to the appeal and additional information provided to the court, the court hereby considers this appeal to be..."

You felt your heart stutter. The last time you were in court listening to a verdict the outcome was a forgone conclusion.

"Granted."

You almost sat back down, your knees weak. There's no way. After all this time, were you really about to have your freedom back?

The judge continued, "The accused's sentence has been adjusted to account for time served. The original sentence of life imprisonment with the chance of parole after thirty years has been changed to immediate parole on strict assessment."

The judge looked at you, eyes maybe a little softer than they were before.

"This court will never condone murder, not even in defence of a child. But I think it's clear, young lady, that you've spent more than enough time behind bars."

Your lips felt numb. Your whole future changed in one sentence. In one afternoon. It was staggering.

"Thank you, your honour."

The bailiff read out a list of regulations to follow. Weekly check ins with both a parole officer and a state psychiatrist. No furthers run ins with the law, not even misdemeanours. If even one person close to you felt you were a threat, they could report it to the police and have you sent back to jail almost immediately. You were on house arrest until further notice. It was one of the strictest parole agreements you'd ever heard.

You didn't care if they told you to do a hundred push ups morning and evening. You were free again. You were going to behave like a damn saint for the rest of your days.

The only hiccup was when he mentioned the address that you were registered to stay at. You raised a brow at your lawyer but he avoided your eyes.

When court was finally dismissed, the first thing you did as a free woman was give Blondie a hug.

He was much taller than you, though you'd never realised it before.

"How much do I owe you? When I get a job, we can work out some kind repayment plan."

He waved you away and lead you from the courthouse. You tried to ask your lawyer about the house arrest, but he managed to slip away before you could.

His car was waiting for you. A new Camaro barely a year months old.

You let out a low whistle.

"She’s a beauty."

When you climbed into the passenger seat, you were sure to buckle your seat belt. No tickets for you, not ever.

The car started up with a thrumming purr.

It ate away at the road, even in the dense city centre. It wasn't long before you were almost at the city limits and cruising.

"By the way, do you know where I'll be staying? I didn't recognise the address."

You couldn't be sure, but it seemed like his hands tightened on the steering wheel just a tad.

"Mm-hmm. You're staying with me."

What? You couldn't possibly do that to him.

"Thank you. But don't you feel a little awkward having a felon in your home? I've still got my savings from before. I can rent my own place for a little."

"You're staying with me. Do you know how hard it is to get a good apartment with a criminal record?"

"I guessed as much. But Blondie, I already owe you. I can't possibly intrude on your life. Maybe you think you still owe me from that day. You don't. We're square."

He was quiet for a bit, but finally managed to force a smile into his voice.

"No. I'm not doing this because I feel indebted to you."

He kept his eyes on the road, his hand loose and confident on the wheel. His sleeves were rolled up again and you got your first good look at his tattoos. They were a collection of really well done pieces, each small tattoo blending with the others. Mostly fine line work, simple and clean.

"Why are you doing it then?"

He didn't answer.

When you arrived, his house was ranch style three bedroom with a huge, rolling yard and a neat wraparound porch.

You let out another low whistle.

"How do you afford this on a correction officer's salary?"

"I don't. It's paid off already. I was in the USMC for a long time. The money was good."

"I knew you weren't a normal civvie."

He grinned. "What gave it away?"

"The muscles."

He laughed and pulled your duffel bag from the trunk.

You'd told your parents to donate all your clothes when you were first sentenced. You didn't think you'd ever be free again so why hoard? Someone out there was probably making good use of your Doc Martens and distressed denim. Whatever normal clothes you currently had were what you were locked up with. The outfit on your back and little else.

The suitcase was instead filled with your meagre prison possessions, the stuff you didn't want to leave behind. Your collection of books. Some postcards. The CDs that B sent you.

Blondie carried it across the lawn like it weighed nothing at all.

Stepping into his house was a surreal experience. You hadn't been inside someone else's home since the night of your crime. Your last few years were exclusive to the grimy and outdated rooms of state buildings.

It was like stepping back in time. Or more accurately, like stepping into a future you thought was lost to you.

Clean, without the tang of cheap, industrial grade bleach. The walls painted and wallpapered instead of just whitewashed. The feeling of finally being somewhere you could relax. Not an in-between place.

Home.

He showed you to your room, a neat guest bedroom across from his, with a double bed and wide windows.

You didn't sit down on the bed or on the neat desk chair. You didn't feel clean enough. You still felt the stink and grime of prison clinging to you.

He raised a brow but showed you where the bathroom was.

It was another taste of freedom. Showers in prison were monitored and timed affairs. No standing under the water and just enjoying the heat, no taking the time to scrub and exfoliate. In and out and done as quick as possible.

You stood under the hot water for a long time, your face wet not just from the spray.

When you finally climbed out, you felt clean for the first time in years.

Blondie was gone when you got downstairs, a hasty note scrawled on the fridge about grabbing you some new clothes. You tilted your head at the handwriting. You could swear it looked so familiar... But no, it couldn't be. That was ridiculous.

You brewed yourself a hot drink, fully intending to sit on the porch and enjoy it. Like a little old woman.

The backdoor was locked.

You frowned. Okay, not that uncommon. Folk kept their doors locked all the time. He probably intended you to use the front door instead.

But that one was locked too.

So were all the downstairs windows. Closed shut with little hatches you hadn't noticed earlier.

You tried not to panic. He was probably just looking out for you. Being careful. You were still a felon. How did he know you weren't going to make a break for it the second you could, his tv and laptop in tow?

It was fine. You were fine. You could just drink at the table and wait for him to get home. You kept telling yourself that, even as you searched through the kitchen drawers for a spare key.

Nothing.

You didn't want to panic. You'd spent years locked away. Wasn't this much nicer than a cell?

No. Because at least in a cell you had no illusions about your freedom.

You ended up in his bedroom without knowing when you'd gotten there. You didn't dig through his drawers. He'd know instantly. But you did open them all, one by one, as if you'd find the key right on top of his neatly folded shirts.

You found the letters in the last drawer. The one right next to his bed, like he read them every night.

It took you a while to recognise them, even though you were looking at your own handwriting.

Your letters to B. Every single one of them. The envelopes neatly cut open and the letters themselves stacked in chronological order. The most recent one was at the very top and you picked it up with numb hands.

Hey B! Guess who's going back to court. Guess they missed seeing me strutting down the aisle.

Don't worry. I haven't down anything bad (at least not this time). Someone who thinks they owe me a favour has gotten it into their head that the best way to repay me is to get me out of jail.

The legal way, that is. No midnight tunnels or disguises. (Boo. How boring. What happened to romance?)

I don't have much hope, but at least it means a break in the monotony. And nicer chow.

You'd better write me soon. Can't believe I'm admitting this out loud, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart whenever I get a new letter from you. I think it must be acid reflux.

-your favourite felon.

B did, in fact, write back quickly. For the last time - no return address on the letter. In that, and in so many other ways, it was clear it was the final letter you were getting.

You're the most complicated person I've ever met. Caring and kind but somehow wrapped up in the most sarcastic personality. I've fallen in love with you. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. But it's true.

I love you.

-B

You'd sat in your cell with your eyes almost bugging out of your skull. Wondering what B did to have the misfortune of falling for a girl like you. Wondering if you could have loved them back, if given the chance. Wondering who they really were.

Well, here was your answer. B, the person who wrote you sarcastic poetry and hunted down your favourite books, was Blondie, the warden who owed you his life.

And he was in love with you.

You sat down, knees replaced by lunch time jelly cups.

No wonder he did what he did. No wonder he paid for an attorney and got your house arrest registered at his house. No wonder he kept the doors and windows locked.

There was a light step behind you and you flew to your feet, the letter still clutched in your fist.

He was standing in the doorway, watching you with cool blue eyes.

"So. You found them."

You couldn't answer.

He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving yours. He'd taken off his shirt and stood in only his tank top and jeans, his arms lean with muscle. You'd spent years fighting and you knew in one glance that you could never take him. He was stronger. Had years of Marine and police training. It had taken three prisoners and a razor blade to finally hold him. What chance did you have?

"The world isn't built for prisoners. Rehabilitation is hard. What were the stats again? Eight out of every ten end up back in jail before ten years is up?"

He continued towards you, as calm as ever.

"You're safer here. With me. You said you'd be a great housewife remember?"

"I was joking," you managed. "Just kidding around."

He reached you and gently took the letter from your unresisting fingers.

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to. But you're not leaving me. You're not leaving this house."

"Why?"

He smiled, that half smile that gave you a glimpse past his tough guy shell. This time, you didn't like what you saw.

"You know why."

"I'm a terrible person to love. I'm prickly and sarcastic and I suck at doing the dishes."

"I've got a dishwasher."

"All I know how to cook is fried chicken."

He wrinkled his nose. "We'll work on it."

"I snore all night."

"You don't. I've watched you sleep."

"Really?"

"Really. I'd stop outside your cell and just watch you sometimes. I couldn't help it. You're so much calmer when you sleep. It's like seeing another version of you."

He tilted his head and closed the last bit of distance between you, until you could smell his cologne and see the flecks of green in his eyes. You'd never noticed them before.

"There are worse cells than this, aren't there? All you have to do is stay with me. Be happy. Let me love you."

"Do I have a choice?"

He smiled that secret smile again.

"Nope. It's either me or straight back to prison."

It was true. He was a model citizen – a veteran with a clean record as a corrections officer. Even if you did talk to your mandated psychologist or parole officer, they wouldn’t believe you. You’d be the ungrateful prisoner trying to manipulate her way out of house arrest.

You knew it from the start. Rule one - never trust a warden. They never have your best interests at heart. All they want is to cover their own skin and get theirs.

“I really appreciate you Dana…” I say sleepily, my body engulfed in the soft blanket Dana prepared for me as she sits by my side.

“You do my lady?”, I nod.

“I don’t have many people I’m close with, but you’ve been so nice to me for the past 3 months…”

“I’m your handmaid, my lady. That much is to be expected.”

“But you’re so much more attentive than any of my other maids. It has barely been 3 months but I don’t know what I would do without you…”

“…I’m glad to hear that my lady.” She stops for a second as if to think. “Don’t worry I will always be by your side…” Dana answers me gently. My tired eyes fail to read her face in the dimly moonlit room, but I go to sleep with a smile on my face, imagining her doing the same.

.

.

.

.

I look down at her, watching her slowly breathe in and out with that foolishly innocent expression on her face. The suffocating uniform I had to wear to hide my adam’s apple and chest is unbuttoned to let me breathe. A sharp knife shines in my hand, reflecting the moonlight decorating her fancy room.

516 times. I’ve tried to kill this woman exactly 516 times. I raise my knife. “This time I will do it” I think to myself. You shift in your sleep, probably deep in your happy dreams. You don’t sense anything, unaware of the danger I hold.

“I will do it… I will…” I repeat in my head yet my hand won’t stop shaking.

“Damn it…”

.

.

.

.

“She has so many openings, does she have no survival instinct? It feels like she could die if she fell down tad too hard” I think to myself as I pick up her dinner. A small bottle of poison I’ve failed to use so far and my knife are tucked deep in my apron. There are a few servants around chatting but no one seems to suspect anything from the lady’s personal handmaid.

“Hey did you see what Lady y/n was wearing today? Haha is she trying to catch someone’s attention going out like that?”

“Right? If she bent down a bit we could even see her cleavage!”

Huh?

Those two… are they new recruits? I did hear that despicable man hired a new batch. What do they think they are doing spouting such nonsense?

“She already looks so naive, I bet she wouldn’t be able to do anything if I just cornered her right?”

…

“Dana, did you get some of the tomato sauce on your sleeve?” you ask innocently, happily enjoying your lavish dinner.

“It seems so my lady. I will clean it tonight don’t worry.” I quickly answer with my usual smile.

“Haha don’t tell me you wanted to try some! You could’ve just asked me, here.”

“I-I couldn’t possibly my lady-“

“My arm will get tired if you don’t take it~”

I sigh and lean down to eat the bite you so graciously offered, it doesn’t have poison anyway…

It truly is delicious, enough to drive a commoner to tears, but this quality is just the norm for you.

.

.

.

.

I once again stand above you. “This time… this time for sure…” repeats in my head as I raise my knife. This is the 520th attempt.

You sleep peacefully under me as I clench my teeth, my hand refusing to go down.

It’s always the same thing. I stay by your side until you fall asleep, I get up and raise my knife, I watch you sleep without a worry in the world and go back to my room after another failure.

I sigh and prepare to get up, I’ve despised you for longer than you know for making me feel this way.

“Dana…?”

“!?” You’re awake? Why are you awake!? You never wake up at this hour!

…What are you looking at?

My eyes follow your gaze and land on the knife I’m holding up.

“W-what are you doing Dana!? N-no someone help-!”

My free hand quickly covers your mouth as I whisper yell “Be quiet!”. You continue flailing your arms and legs, trying to push me off. Since my other hand is still up I can’t hold you down properly.

“Stop fighting me! You don’t have the right to-!”

You manage to push my hand off your mouth but your nails catch my open collar, accidentally ripping a button. For a second your eyes widen and before I can register what’s going on you grab my clothes.

“!!”

In a moment of panic I throw the knife and pull away to cover myself.

“D-Don’t look!”

If you do they’ll take you away from me.

“Y-you are a man?” You ask while sitting up, clearly on guard but you make no motion to run away. Maybe seeing my panicked state made you feel less scared.

I don’t answer and just stare at you. I wonder what my expression looks like? My panic and anger must reflect on my eyes as I cover my chest. My knife… is at the other side of the room, tsk.

“B-But why…? A-and that knife… were you trying to…? I… D-did I do something to offend you…?”

Your voice is shaking as you ask questions after questions, tears slowly spilling out. I’m sure you must feel so scared and betrayed. Good, that’s what I wanted.

Yes, what I wanted…

What I wanted?

Anger boils inside me. A part of me feels satisfied for making you experience such betrayal, but the other half feels anger. A privileged person like you who lives life without a single worry doesn’t deserve to cry like a victim.

“Stop crying!” I lunge forward to grab your neck and push you down. You look up to me, clearly scared but my hand doesn’t squeeze your neck.

“You don’t know anything!” I bite my lip, wanting to scream but also not. I hate this, once again my body refuses to listen to me.

“You don’t know anything about me! You don’t know what your family has done! You don’t know what you have done to me!!”

My hand presses down harder.

“I already had nothing but you ruined me beyond repair!” I try to keep my voice low to not alert the other servants yet I can’t prevent it from shaking as I let my anger out.

“You don’t know anything…”

.

.

.

.

“Dana”

A name unfit for a boy, and this disgustingly beautiful face that resembles hers were the only things that wench left behind with me.

I didn’t know anything about her. All I knew was that she treated me like the girl she always wanted to give birth to and that I must never leave the wooden box she called “home”.

She hated me, it was only obvious. Even when I was barely able to speak it wasn’t hard to understand she actually wished for a girl. Although, maybe thanks to this face of mine, she enjoyed putting me in dresses and forcing me into the life she dreamed of.

“Dana, mommy has to deal with some surprise visitors so stay in this closet and don’t make a noise just like how I taught you before alright?”

Those were the last words she uttered before kissing my forehead and closing the rusty closet doors. Then it was arguing, screams, red and silence.

The fact that she used to work in your estate because she was in debt to your father, that she ran away pregnant without actually paying it back and was being hunted down were things I only got to know later in life.

It seems they were unaware she was even pregnant and didn’t notice the child she so hurriedly tucked inside the old compact closet.

Such sad excuse of a life, at the end she wasn’t able to accomplish anything. All she had was a son who believed she hated him and thus hated her back. A son who didn’t even care about the effort she put into keeping him hidden and safe.

A son who returned to the estate she once escaped from.

It wasn’t too hard to get registered as a maid with such face and height. My plan originally was to slowly go up in ranks until I reached that filthy man and stab his chest the same way his henchmen stabbed that wench’s.

But then I met you.

The precious young lady of the estate, loved by all the workers and her parents. A lovely person who was sailing through life with no hardships, a being sure to be missed if lost.

I thought if I killed you the same way they killed that wench, that filthy man would experience so much pain he wouldn’t be able to forget about it for an entire lifetime.

So I started working to be your handmaid instead, and you quickly inflicted another type of anger into me.

I hated that you were oblivious to the pain others felt, I hated that all you knew was comfort and love, I hated that you never experienced what a broken heart felt like.

I hated how you smiled at me like you couldn’t do without me, I hated how your hair felt so soft in my hands as I brushed it, I hated how you happily ate the sweets I secretly took from the kitchen just so you could have some more, I hated how good you smelt right after I washed you, I hated how soft your skin felt against my fingertips as I helped you dress up-

“UGH!”

I gasp, sitting on the bathroom floor. Looking at the toilet seat filled with my insides and wiping my mouth with a shaky hand before flushing it down.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this…

.

.

.

.

You look up to me with shaky eyes, body barely moving.

“I-I’m sorry-“

“Don’t pity me! I’m not someone who needs your pity!”

You flinch as I raise my voice. I feel so disgusted, my voice shaking with anger.

“At least I still had control over myself when all I had was hate… At least I was somewhat “normal”…”

My eyes never leave yours, your gaze only making me feel more agitated.

“I wasn’t supposed to feel like this… why did you have to wake up now…”

A tear threatens to fall from my eye.

“If only you just continued sleeping… then I could’ve continued staying next to you… I could’ve continued being good for you…”

“Dana I’m sorry-“

“I said I don’t want to hear it!”

I lower my head, not wanting to see the face you’re making.

Then an idea comes to my mind.

“Are you really sorry? Do you want to make up for it?”

I grab your face before you can answer.

“!?”

I slowly pull away to speak, your taste lingering in my lips.

“Then don’t report what happened today and let me continue staying by your side.

I lean in closer and look into your eyes.

You gulp, holding the little gi- the baby monster tighter.

"I ask you, my Lord, to accept my babies to remain here." You speak louder, but your voice still trembles.

"So they are 'your' babies now?" He mocks, grinning with his fangs.

"I, uh… They are, yes!" You try to appear joyful like a woman who finally discovered her motherly instinct at the contact of cute babies, "They are my most precious and I want… No, I need them with me!"

You are internally gagging. You want nothing to do with those hybrids, but if taking care of them allows you to survive, then… So be it. You'll just have to grit your teeth through it. Just the time to find a way to flee…

Hael contemplates you silently, his claws tapping his arm-throne deeply in thought. You almost jump out of your skin when Captain Breezeler's hand gently grabs your shoulder, a nod of encouragement as he holds one of the other baby monsters.

You forgot he was here for a second, he is always so quiet, it is disturbing for someone his size.

"Isn't it cute? You suddenly discover your maternal streak at an excellent timing, isn't it? You must be overjoyed, Captain."

"I am relieved and satisfied our Princess came to her senses, and opened her heart to our children. I will not lie." The red Naga declares assuredly, straightening his posture.

"Indeed." You had hurriedly.

"'Our Princess'?" Hael raises an eyebrow, "I do not remember rising her up in ranks or sharing her ownership with you?"

"I simply assumed, since she shares your nest, my Lord." Breezeler responds visibly surprised by the logic, "Forgive my presumptions."

"She is not a Princess and even less 'ours'. She is my toy to play with, I merely allow you to enjoy her. This right can get revoked at any moment." Hael tells him coldly, rising from his throne to slowly slither down the slope, hands behind his back.

"You made a promise, my Lord. You promise me I could spend time with her and have children with her."

"And? What are you holding if not your own baby? My promise is fulfilled. I could cut you off." The lords flicks a speck of dust of his shoulder, uninterested.

"Have you ever seen a Naga satisfied with 3 children?" Breezeler retorts, a voice slightly tense, the thinnest hint of irritation.

"No indeed. So you would do great to stay in your place if you want more of my pet and your little snakelets."

They look at each other with death stares. Breezeler ever so slightly tilts his bust away from his Lord to protect his daughter. The young servant holding his son behind you both tenses up as you gulp.

"Right. Now, Pet, is that your wish? For them to stay with you?"

"Yes." You manage to keep your composure.

"Will you protect them? Feed them? Mend them? Dote on them like any mother?"

You gulp quickly.

"Yes."

He leans forward to be at eye level with you, grinning.

"Would you kill your kin to protect them?"

Hell no.

"…Yes, my Lord."

"Would you die to protect them?"

Also no.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Now… Would you live for them?"

… What?

"I… beg your pardon?"

"Would you endure life to ensure their survival? Endure hardships to make sure their bellies are full? Survive for their sake?" He asks, dragging his 's'.

"I…"

What kind of question is that?

"Yes?"

The blue Naga slightly squints, grinning meanly like he could see right through you.

"Alright. I can grant you this wish." He finally chuckles, straightening his back. "The babies can stay."

It seems to you Breezeler exhales a breath of relief, but you cannot be sure, his expression is stern and still.

"May you bless them and welcome them in our family?" He asks.

"Captain, captain, captain… I told you if I did that, I will have them send away to be taught and protected like true members of my crown, don't you remember?"

The carmine Naga's nostril flair, but he doesn't totter.

"But! I can make exceptions for them in exchange of something from you."

"Yes, my Lord. Whatever you wish, I will do it." He slithers forward at the end of the slope, closer to the throne where Hael sits back on.

"I want you to stop sharing the nest of my pet until my own children are born. That is all."

Breezeler seems to freeze.

"…May I ask why, my Lord?" he asks.

"Because I order so. I do not have to answer to you what I do with my doll, do I, Captain?"

"Her menses did not even come back yet."

You crease your nose. How does he even know that?

"It is up to you, Breezeler. Your pleasure or your children?" Hael lays it plainly to his soldier.

Breezeler's throat muscles tense up, but he bow down his head slightly out of respect.

"If I must, my Lord, I will do it."

"Good. Pet, I expect you to come to me as soon as your cycle resumes." Hael nods approvingly, before hardening his gaze on you, "And do not try to hide it from me."

Your mouth is as dry as a desert, your tongue can barely move.

"Yes, my Lord…" You shortly bow down.

"Come back to me tonight, pet, there is things I'd like to discuss with you."

"My Lord?" You inquire, worry peaking its ugly head.

"Fret not, little doll. I simply wish to discuss with you." He sniggers, smirking, "Now out of my sight, you three." He waves you off like a fly was bothering him.

______________

You sigh, laying the little monster in its nest where it curls up immediately, yawning deeply. You wince. It could have gone worse, but also better, and on top of that your bosoms are swollen and heavy and not in a nice way. It is quite uncomfortable and it pierces your back at the same time. You grouse as your make your neck roll in hope to make it pop and release a bit of the discomfort, but it is no use.

Again, you almost jump when you feel the large red hands of Breezeler on your shoulders as he starts massaging you, like he knew.

"You are uncomfortable, Princess." He just states, "The pregnancy and delivery were hard on your body. I am sorry."

This is not a question, but an astute observation. No use trying to contradict him.

"Yes…" You admit. "They were."

"I expected you to lay egg like She-Nagas, but when the smell of blood started seeping in the entire Lair… I was on high alert."

Does he mean he was worried for you? Ha!

"Were you, now?" You let out another sigh, but this time of relief as his fingers find the knots in your shoulders and back.

Why is he so good at this?

"Yes. It came as a surprise to me that you would give birth and not lay."

"You did not know about human deliveries? You?" You raise an eyebrow, letting him work his magic.

"I was aware of it, of course. I studied the human anatomy to know where to strike. But maybe, naively, I expected your experience with hybrids would have been closer to a Naga one."

"I can't change my body to mimic Nagas. I can not lay eggs, no human women can. I couldn't even believe mixing was possible…" You reveal.

In your mind, you hoped it wasn't so they would grow bored of you and release you, either in the wild, or by slicing your throat.

Free at last…

"The Lord knew. He studied hybrids in the ancient scrolls and books."

You turn to him.

"He knew? It already happened before?"

They have… Scrolls? They can read and write?

"I am not allowed to read those archives, but the Lord talked to me about it." He releases your shoulders.

They have archives?

What?

Do the human kingdoms know about that?

"Really? I knew not you had such archives."

"They date back to the start of the Naga civilization, the World's history is recorded in them, since the first Nagas to the first humans to our days."

Hold on!

"The human were not created after the Nagas!" You protest, "We were here first! The Goddess created us as her first craft after the earth."

He looks at you in quiet… Surprise.

"I remember this theory in humans' artworks, indeed." He tilts his head with interest, "You are a young species, it is natural to overblown your own importance in this conditions."

"To…?!" You feel ready to explode at his face.

But you don't.

"Never mind." You sigh, facing the little monsters in their nests, turning your back to him.

Who cares if they are wrong in the end? You will leave them all behind and tell everything you know to the nearest human Kingdom. And it will be the end of them.

Of them all.

Again, you tense when you feel his powerful arms wrapping around your waist for him to press himself to your back.

"Thank you…" He whispers

"For what?" You are almost afraid to ask.

"For everything. For giving us children, for enduring our Lord. For being alive and being you…" He explains lowly, "I suppose I am simply happy to have met my other half."

Crazy.

He is just crazy.

Completely insane… How can he speak about love like that?

How dare he?

He presses his nose in the crook of your neck to pepper kisses, rising up to your jaw, his hands leaving their spots on your stomach to rise up to your breast that he gropes by the handful.

"The…! The Lord forbid you to bed me!" You almost shout in panic.

You almost dig your nails in his hands to force him to let go, but that would just anger him.

"I know. I do not intend to bed you. Simply to gorge myself of you…" He growls lowly, "He said nothing about kissing and caresses."

He spins your head toward him and capturing your mouth before you can say a single more thing. You yelp in the kiss, quickly silenced by his growl as he enters your mouth with his long tongue. He greets and hugs yours tight, exploring your mouth like he could not wait any second longer. He robs you of your breath, claiming it for himself, your legs starting to tremble.

He forces you to back down, pressing your back to the wall to cage you with his tall body. You feel his claws digging at the fabric of your dress, trying to lift your skirt up to grab a handful of your naked thighs.

You nose is filled of his musk.

Rain, black cedar and blood, making you weak in the knees.

You whine, trying to push him off, but it is no use. He is too strong and his grip too tight. Once he wants something from you, he just has to take it without your opinion.

Such is the Law in this world.

Be strong or be dead.

But isn't there a way for a woman to be strong too? To not rely on body strength but on something intrinsically feminine to survive the world? Did you learn nothing from your mother? From your sisters and cousins? From the neighbor girls?

You bite down his tongue hard. He seems to chuckle in response, so you bit harder, tasting blood in your mouth.

And this time, he lets go.

He parts from you with surprise and a hint of pain, a drop of blood pearling at the corner of his lips. You look at each other, both in stupor, flabbergasted by your attitude. He incredulously wipes the blood on his thumb and looks at it, baffled. He snaps his gaze back at you with a growl.

Oh… Oh fuck!

Before you can do anything, he swoops in on you and…!

You re-open your eyes, panting, to discover him embracing you tightly but softly, purring loudly in your ear.

"Stay strong. For us." He orders.

But he also pleads.

He parts from you to kiss your forehead tenderly, before looking at you amorously, like a sicko, cupping your cheek softly.

"My Princess. My Queen."

"I am… None of the sort." You laugh bitterly.

"No. Not yet, at least. But soon, assuredly."

"Wha-" But you are cut by a long and strong baby wail.

In their nest, his son starts crying out loud, waking up his sisters.

"They are hungry. Let me tend to them, Princess. Go rest while you can." And Breezeler gently pushes you out the nursery, closing the door on you.

You stay here, arms dangling, fixating the door, stunned.

What the…?

"Human!" A nasally voice resonates in the corridor, "Where are you? Ah! There you are!" Your superior arrives at the corner of the corridor before looking daggers at you, "What is that get-up, human?! "

You turn your gaze to a piece of mirror decorating the corridor and discover yourself completely disheveled, dress creased and straps down.

"You look like a whore after a shift. Put your clothes back on immediately, the Lord asks for you!"

You'll never make it out alive with those two on your back.

You can't catch a break.

_________

"Approach, pet. I do not intend to bite you. At least not right now…" Hael muses, smirking at you though his mirror as he brushes his long, black, wavish mane with a shell comb.

You gingerly approaches, fidgeting your fingers. He hands you the comb in a silent order, and you obey. You grab the heavy mass of hair, and starts combing it gently as he reclines against the chair back with a pleased sighs.

"You wanted to speak to me, my Lord?" You dare talk before being invited to.

"Indeed… Keep working your magic, Pet." He hums.

Slowly, his own scent rises to your nose too. It is different than Breezeler's warrior scent, it is more delicate and venomous.

Hints of incense, tea leaves and liquor.

You hate to admit that they both smell pretty good. Cleaner than most of the men you got to meet in your life. Even their teeth are better kept than them, and… What the fuck are you thinking about, (Y/n)? Shake yourself up! If you had your blade right now, you could have slit this monster's throat and jumps through the opening on the wall.

Alas… You disposed of it.

"Are you done with your punishment?" He asks.

"No, my Lord. There is plenty of armor to clean and…. Bowels to scrap off." You internally gag.

"Mmmhmmm. And I also imagine it is an easy escape from all of us, while you are downstairs scrubbing, no one comes bothering you." He drops, eyes closed, appreciating the care to his hair.

"I, huh…"

Can those monsters read minds?

"Forget it. How did you end up in a the ditch, pet?"

"Who…?"

"You reeked of garbage and mud, Pet. It was not hard to guess. But how?"

"…I slipped."

You do not tell him. Do not tell him that she-Nagas pushed you into the ditch. You want to. To see if he would do something about it, but on the rare chance that he might do something against those maids… You want to keep that card close to your chest for a better opportunity.

"Did you, now?"

"Yes, my Lord. My buckets were heavy and the grass dewy. I lost balance."

He remains silent, opening his golden eyes to fixate the ceiling.

"How convenient." He just responds, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension in them.

You keep silent. He guesses too much on his own, no need to hand him your hand of cards too.

"Are you sure about the babies?" He asks after a moment of silence.

You're so surprised, you freeze mid-movement.

"My Lord?"

"You wanted nothing to do with those babies, and now you shout for everyone to hear that you want to keep them. Allow me to doubt."

"I… Want to make their father happy." You try.

The Lord explodes laughing.

"Not to me, Pet, not to me. Be serious, why embarrass yourself with these burdens when you could throw them onto someone else's lap?"

You gulp.

"I did not know my opinion held so much weight, my Lord."

"Mmmhmm. Why? You do not really want them in your life. You want to get rid of them. And I feel quite… Generous this evening."

Could you ask? Ask him to send those little monsters away?

Those… Abominations?

Maybe…

"In fact, my Lord, I…."

You words die in your throat, realizing his golden gaze was fixating you from his spot. A stare clear of all emotions or warmth, and it hits you like a ton of rocks.

It's a test.

"Yes, Pet?"

"In fact… I grew attached to them."

"Tell me about it."

"They grew in my womb for months and months, I can't ignore that reality. And when I finally decided to see them, they were so small and frail, so fragile. My heart felt pity for those little beings, and a new sentiment grew in me. As you said, I discovered my maternal streak at a good timing, as their mother, I'll take better care of them than any strangers."

"Will you?"

"Yes, my Lord…. When I felt my daughter's heartbeat against mine, I… Something clicked in inside of me. It suddenly became clear and limpid to me. I am their mother, and it is my duty to love and protect them."

He contemplates you in silence, squinting suspiciously.

You hate those slimy snakelets, but you realize you need them to survive that Lair, and they could even give you protection and… Excuses.

"You are free not to believe me, my Lord. I know you despise those babies, but if you come between them and me, I will be forced to act against your best interest." You manage to control your voice to stay calm, but inwardly you are trembling in fear.

He just has to jump from his chair and bite your throat, and it is the end for you. Yet… Yet you want to try living a bit more.

He contemplates you, mute, his golden eyes sounding your soul.

"… You speak like just like her."

You blink.

"Just like… Who?"

A shadow of sadness seems to float on his gaze before dissipating in an instant. He straightens his position and escapes your hand and comb to rise up. He makes his spine pop with a relieved sigh and slithers away, grabbing brooches to put his mane in a bun, leaving you without any response.

"My Lord?" You insist.

He turns to you, under the arch leading to another room with a lopsided grin.

"I'm just getting a bath, Pet. Care to join me?"

Your grip tenses around the comb. You slightly bow down.

"Sorry, my Lord. I have tasks to attend to."

"Evidently" He mocks. "Be careful, your bosoms are leaking." And he abandon you there.

You lower your gaze and your mouth drops. Two wet spots on your dress right at your breasts.

Oh… Damn.

Why now?

____________

Breezeler keeps bobbing his daughter up and down, trying to calm her down.

But once more, to no avail.

He grabs another skinned mouse and chews on it. That taste on his tongue brings him back foggy memories of his mother and father doing the same, feeding him as a small snakelet, frail and vulnerable.

Although they did not skin the mice beforehand.

They didn't had the time for that. Too many things to do to ensure the family's subsistence, so their son would eat the fur with it. He was none the wiser at the time. He ate it all the same.

The metallic taste spreads in his mouth as the bones crack under his teeth. He chews long and well to make sure not bit could puncture his child's throat. Now it is his time to ensure the survival of his offsprings.

His pearls.

His hopes given lives.

He presses his lips to his daughter's to pass the food and once again, she spits it out, crying harder.

He huffs out a breath, cradling her.

"Why don't you eat anymore, ma merc'h?" He asks lowly, "You all refuse to feed yourself."

He caresses her cheek in a desperate way to soothe her.

"How are they?" A healer enters.

"They all refused the mice. What have we not tried yet?" He inquires.

"Pork?"

"They used to eat it, now they refuse it too."

"We could try the kids in the pen?"

"Those are my Princess' sheep."

"And those are your children's lives. What do you prefer? Lose them or offend her for a time?" She retorts.

His nostrils flare, but he only sighs, his gaze returning on his baby. She grabbed his finger and nurses it, like she was trying to chew it to eat at last.

"Did you ask her? Surely she knows how to feed a baby human, maybe this is what they need: a human diet?" She proposes.

"She already went through so much… She almost died giving birth to our prizes and joy. She should not have to suffer more. I have to take up on some of the charges and prove to her I am worthy. I will ask the Lord." He finally decides, "He studied hybrids. He will know."

"Captain, I… I do not know if the Lord will answer your pleas. He… Doesn't seem really pleased with your offsprings being born before his." She reminds him, gulping.

He turns to face her, stern and decided.

"This is his own doing. He trapped me for his benefit. He built his nest, now he has to lay in it." He hands her his daughter carefully, leaving a kiss on her forehead tenderly before slithering away.

She looks down at the three babies with a tired expression.

They are losing weight rapidly. They first thought of colic and stomach pains and they went light on the feeding, but now the little ones are refusing any types of food.

She contemplates the door where the young Captain went through.

Whatever happens between the two He-Nagas, she hopes it won't be at the detriment of those small lives…

The inhumane working conditions, the pressure and the scrutiny that come with being in the spotlight, the expectations — always in sight but never within reach... There is only so much ‘he’s cute, but the other members look much better’ that he can take before it starts chipping away at his soul, y’know?

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who is thinking of quitting altogether. His contract is ending soon, and it’s not like anyone would miss him if he was gone, so...

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who is performing on stage when he sees you for the first time. Whilst sweeping his gaze over the audience casually, he locks eyes with you.

In the future, he will mull over this moment for days and weeks and months. In the future, he will swear up and down that it was fate. For now, he is simply caught off guard.

You are staring at him. With sparkling eyes and awe in the slight part of your lips — you are completely and utterly enraptured. By him.

Your smile widens, and the grin that blooms across your face takes his breath away. He nearly stumbles, and makes a mistake in the choreography for the first time since his trainee days. A small one, barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but a mistake nonetheless.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose gaze can’t stop wandering back to you. Throughout the entirety of the concert, he keeps on stealing second glances, making sure that you’re still looking his way.

He can’t find it in himself to care when everyone else is screaming the other members’ names.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who suddenly feels reinvigorated. That spark he thought he would never feel again — it returns. It begins in one tiny corner, nestled deep into his heart, then spreads, surging through his veins, until his entire body is set aflame.

It shows in the sharp elegance of his motion, in the power of his voice. He executes each step with impeccable precision, with a vigor he hasn’t felt in years. That ambition — to perform, and to captivate.

Look at me.

(Are you looking at him?)

Look at me.

(He wants you to keep looking at him.)

Look at me.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who pulls all the strings he has just to find you after that concert ends. It takes a while to sift through so many people, even after he narrowed the search down to the ones in your category, but he finally succeeds. He finds you.

He absorbs every single thing he can find about you online. He stalks all your social media accounts. All of them. Even the cringey ones you made as a teen and have long since forgotten about.

He screenshots everything. All of your posts, your selfies, even the random keyboard smashes you put in the tags of a tumblr reblog. His gallery is overflowing with pictures of you now, and he sets one of them as his phone’s wallpaper.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who kicks his feet and giggles like a schoolgirl on his bed as he reads through all the comments you’ve posted about him online. Every compliment has his heart fluttering, and the more he scrolls, the more he believes that the both of you are meant to be. You fell first but he fell harder — you like that trope, don’t you?

In his head, he already considers you his lover. Nevermind the fact that you don’t even know he’s your boyfriend. It’s just... long distance!

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who starts going online more often. He posts more stuff outside of the livestreams he’s contractually obligated to do, and generally improves his social media presence.

Whenever he posts something, he literally won’t stop checking to make sure that you’ve seen it. He won’t be able to sleep if you don’t like or comment on the post, his brain working overtime wondering which part of it you didn’t like, and planning on how he’d improve on the next one.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who trains and practices harder than he has ever done before. He used to strive for perfection, but for you, perfection isn’t enough. He pushes himself past all his limits, surpassing his role as the ‘all rounder’. At the rate he is improving, he will soon become the best not just within his group, but in the whole industry.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose popularity actually increases because of all of this. The change in his demeanor, though subtle, draws many fans in, and he sees multiple posts about how his stage presence has improved recently.

In the past, he would’ve been overjoyed with that. However, now, all he cares about is impressing you.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who performs because of you. He sings, dances, and smiles all for you. It wouldn’t even be a stretch to say that he lives and breathes solely because of you.