#altered carbon x you

[reveluving]

"You look lonely. I can fix that."

But it's you and Takeshi.

[drabbles-mc]

Gone Soft

Takeshi Kovacs x F!Reader

For @the-slumberparty's Bingo Challenge! Bingo square: nursed back to health

Warnings: 18+, language, blood/injury, mild angst

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: I've been tossing Tak around my head like a pinball for weeks now. Eventually I will get my thoughts and feelings about him together to do some longer fics and all sorts of stuff. But this was a nice little something to start writing him 😌

Altered Carbon Taglist: @garbinge (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

He came to with a groan and a cough, which was about what you had expected. Well, for a little while there you were wondering if he was going to come to at all. But Tak wasn’t ever the type of man who stayed dead. Might go down for a year, or a decade, or a century, but he always came back around. Lucky for you, this time he didn’t really go down, and he was only out for a week.

You looked over at him from the chair you’d set up beside his bed. Your bed, but for now it was his. You watched the way his face contorted—exhaustion, confusion, pain, all in rapid succession. He shut his eyes tight for a moment before opening them up all the way. After a few long, slow blinks he finally turned his head to look around the room. The confusion faded slightly when he saw you sitting beside him.

“You’re back,” you said as you uncrossed your legs, leaning forward.

“Didn’t realize I left,” he grunted. He braced his palms against the mattress, went to try and push himself upright just enough to lean back against the headboard. He didn’t get very far before the pain shot through him again and he dropped back down flat onto the mattress. “Fuck.”

You shook your head, a small smile on your face. “Yea I’d just stay flat if I were you.”

“Thanks for the warning,” he said, still staring up at the ceiling. He brought his hands up to his face, dragging his fingers down as he wiped the last of the sleep from his eyes. “How long?”

You laughed. “Not like you were on ice, Tak.” He turned his head so that he was looking at you. Propping your elbows on your knees, you told him, “One week.”

“And it still hurts this fuckin’ bad?”

You laughed. “Imagine if you hadn’t been out.”

He groaned, letting his eyes shut again. “I’m going back to sleep.”

You chuckled, shrugging. “Sure.”

He was already awake when you came in to check on him the next morning. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. You lingered in the doorway for a moment, wondering what he was thinking about. He knew you were there—it wasn’t like you’d been quiet. And even though he’d been put through the wringer you knew that his senses were still going to be sharper than most, sharp enough to have heard you the second you got up off the couch in the living room.

Flicking on the light, you stepped in. You couldn’t help but to chuckle at the groan he let out. “Like you didn’t know that was coming.” He turned his head so that he was looking at you. Not that you needed a reason to be popping in to check on him, but this time you actually did have one. Holding up the pack in your hand, you said, “Bandage change time.”

He let out a deep breath. “Right.”

Walking over, you peeled the blanket down off of him before sitting on the edge of the bed. For the first few seconds, your lingering stare could be written off as checking to make sure that everything was healing alright, the bruises, the cuts. But it didn’t take long for that excuse to run its course. Then you were just staring because you could.

When you finally made your eyes look into his, you found him already looking at your face. Despite the exhaustion and the pain, he still had that same stupid shit-eating smirk on his face. “Is it everything you remember?”

You rolled your eyes but you couldn’t help the smile that was creeping across your face. “Shut up. Just making sure you didn’t wake up with any new injuries.”

“Yea, I can see that.”

If he wasn’t already so beat up you would’ve given him a shove or clipped him on the side of the head. That seemed a little unfair given the circumstances. Rather than dignifying it with any kind of a response, you opted to start peeling away the bandages that were secured to his side and his chest.

“Couldn’t find me a sleeve that wasn’t beat to shit?” he asked, cringing slightly at the pull against his skin.

You shrugged. “Maybe. But I actually like this sleeve.” You paused, looking up at him until he locked eyes with you. “It’s pretty enough to make me forget how annoying your stack is.”

He chuckled at that, and you could feel the movement of his muscles beneath your fingertips. Somehow you managed not to fumble at the sensation of it, managed to keep a straight face. He could still sense the shift in you, though, because of fucking course he could. Whether or not you believed in Envoy Intuition was a moot point because Tak could read you like an open book and you had faith that he would be able to do that just as easily even if he wasn’t an Envoy.

“More work than it’s worth,” he said with a shake of his head.

Your eyes were back on his wounds again. They were already much better than they were when you’d managed to get him back to your place, but he was still a ways away from being healed. You didn’t have the money or the connections to get your hands on things that would heal him instantaneously. The selfish part of you in that moment didn’t mind it too much.

“I’m always in need of a good hobby,” you answered casually. You heard him chuckle at that and you looked back over at him. “But got it—next time I’ll let them throw you back on ice.”

He shrugged, and you knew that there was part of him that really would be that flippant about the prospect of going down again. Even if he wasn’t gonna come back for another couple hundred years. “No more hobby for you, then.”

You tried your best to reciprocate the energy. “I’m sure there are plenty of other broody men out there who need patching up.” Your expression shifted and you allowed yourself a moment of honesty even if Tak wouldn’t do the same in turn. “I would’ve found you a new sleeve if I thought I had to.”

His satisfied grin made you want to take it all back.

“Don’t,” you told him with a shake of your head.

“What?” he asked and even though you weren’t looking at him anymore you could still hear the smirk in his voice.

Rather than giving him the satisfaction of saying any of it out loud, you dumped disinfectant onto the gash across his stomach that hadn’t completely closed and started to scab over yet. He pushed the air out sharp between his teeth, hands balling into fists as he clutched your bedsheets between his fingers. He wasn’t looking at your face, eyes shut tight for a moment instead. When he finally pried his lids back open, he looked at you, able to just catch from the angle you were sitting that it was your turn to have a self-satisfied grin on your face.

“Feel better?” he asked, voice still strained as he worked his way through the sting.

“Who knew you’d gotten so soft, Tak?” you taunted with a smile.

“Wouldn’t be soft if you’d grabbed me a new sleeve.”

“You’d still be soft,” you joked. You paused, taking a moment to wipe away the excess medical alcohol on his stomach. “And if you wanted someone who could just grab you a new sleeve anytime you got yourself into a goddamn shoot-out,” you locked eyes with him, “should’ve been nicer to your Meth buddies.”

“They weren’t my buddies,” he said the word like it left a physical bad taste on his tongue.

“Did you tell them that?”

“I think the shooting might’ve said it for me.”

“You assume too much of them.” You said it with a chuckle, almost like it was a joke, but you didn’t have to be looking at him to know that he heard the truth in what you were saying.

It grew quiet between you again. You were more at ease than you thought you were going to be. Up until now, swapping out his bandages had been a solitary activity since he was still unconscious. You were expecting him to try and brush you off, try and take care of it himself. It crossed your mind, you found yourself hoping, that maybe this was progress. He was still tense beneath your touch, still sidestepping almost every chance at a real conversation with a joke or a snide remark. But he was letting you help. He was sitting still and he was letting you help. That was something.

“How often you been doing that?” he asked when you were done.

“First two days it was twice a day. Once the bleeding slowed it was just once a day.”

“Why?”

“So you didn’t get blood all over my sheets.”

He huffed out a short, quiet chuckle. “No. I mean, why put in all the effort?”

“What is your problem with this sleeve?” you asked, eyebrows raised in confusion.

“Not about the sleeve.”

You paused, lips curling down into a small frown as you turned over his previous question in your mind. “Wish I could say I just didn’t want the guilty conscience.” You shook your head. “But unfortunately, I think that I care about you now.”

It got a brief, weak smile out of him. “Very unfortunate.”

“For both of us, apparently, since it means I’m gonna make sure you stay alive.”

He let his head drop and rest against the pillow. “Looks like I’m not the only one who got soft.”

[babblydrabbly]

the only man you look at tonight || takeshi kovacs x reader || oneshot

takeshi kovacs x f!reader || smut || 2.4k words || warnings - language. alcohol and drug use. kissing. frottage. mentions of past abuse.

a/n: for @that-sarcastic-writer's lovely follower celebration! I really loved this prompt. Congrats again on the followers bby! ♡♡♡ and thank you to @a-reader-and-a-writer for beta reading:)

[ I do not give permission to repost my work anywhere. ]

The two of you are on a night out when you bump into your ex.

Takeshi’s strong arms and broad chest box you against the glass-top bar possessively. He makes sure all other patrons avoid bumping you as you order two more drinks, persuading the man on the other side of the counter to make them doubles on the house. Ever since Tak lost his expense account on the Bancrofts’ dime, the two of you had to revert to more frugal ways of navigating Bay City. You didn’t mind. It was your life before Takeshi Kovacs came into it, and he seemed well adept at it too.

You had surprised the envoy. You weren’t one for the noisy, chaotic atmosphere of most clubs in the city. But you knew Takeshi had a penchant for vice dens just like this one, and you secretly didn’t like him going alone no matter how perfectly capable he was. Takeshi Kovacs was a magnet for trouble, after all.

The corner of Tak’s lips quirk as you keep your head on a subtle swivel. You had proven you could clock plenty of danger in seedy places.

In your own way, you were reminding Takeshi it was okay to let his guard down and enjoy the booze and drugs he so often sought out when he first arrived. And while it was true that was his original goal, he had grown used to you by his side. He wasn’t just saying yes to another night out.

Takeshi realized it long before you— A good partnership in crime had turned into good company. And going out together had become a pleasurable thing of its own.

You stiffen when Tak curls his tall frame against your back for a moment before relaxing. You feel his warm breath on your ear before you hear his sleeve’s deep, velvety baritone.

“What’d you score us?”

You try to shrug nonchalantly, keeping your eyes forward. “Some top shelf. With a spritz of a little something like Veuron.” You turn to look up at him. “You looked like you wanted to get a little loose on the dance floor.”

“Are we dancing tonight?” Takeshi wonders out loud teasingly. Warmth flushes your cheeks. You thank the bartender and slide the glasses toward yourself, holding one up for Tak. He grabs the glass and clinks it against yours. “Kanpai.”

“Skal.” You agree. The two of you knock the drinks back swiftly before he takes your hand and guides you out onto the frenzied dance floor.

The sensation that hits soon after lifts you. Your eyes chase the moving lights that wash over the other dancers, happy to sway lethargically to the reverberating beat. Once again, Takeshi stands tall behind you—his favorite place to be, it seems-—his broad hands on your hips as he sways behind you in sync.

“I like this one,” Takeshi murmurs into your ear. This time he doesn’t hesitate to press his lips right against your skin. You give him an absent hum of approval yourself and tilt your head to the side.

“You like any drugs you can get your hands on.” You point out. The hands on your hips give you a squeeze before traveling steadily up your sides. You had no idea how true that statement was.

You gasp when he spins you around and find yourself facing Takeshi.

You open your mouth to say more. Tak raises an eyebrow when you suddenly clamp your mouth shut instead. He notes how you stop moving to the music instantly— your eyes fixated on something else just past him. Or someone.

Tak uses the large mirror that makes up the far wall to pinpoint what’s caught your attention rather than glancing over his shoulder. By his guess, it’s got to be a man over by the lounge area.

The Meth has the audacity to wear his ridiculous white garb while down here, in a shitty nightclub of all places. He chats with a few other wealthy men and women. Though clearly none of them are as wealthy as him.

Takeshi glances back down at you. “Who’s he?”

You glance up, startled. But you’ve grown used to Takeshi playing detective. He cranes his ear down so you can easily speak to him over the loud music.

“He goes by Rex when he’s down on the ground. We… knew each other. A long time ago.” You try to explain through the noise and haze of the drug. And Tak can already tell by your hesitation what you mean. “He used to hook me up with Merge5. Then Merge5 turned into Merge9 and, well… I had to get away from him eventually. You know what I mean?”

A flare of something in Takeshi makes him clench his jaw. He scoffs.

Takeshi knew exactly what you meant. Even the idea of being in the same room as Miriam Bancroft again annoyed the envoy. He could imagine how demeaning it must have been to you with this Meth of your own.

Takeshi’s weightless mood shifts as he steps closer to you, his hands on your hips again.

“But like I said. It was a long time ago.” You reiterate. Tak watches you glance down with a hint of shame. “Way before you were last spun up, that’s for sure.”

Takeshi takes your chin and brings your face back up. Your eyes flit over his expression, trying to discern what he may be thinking. When Tak finally takes a glance over at Rex, he isn’t surprised to see the man looking back. Takeshi smirks.

His kiss is electric. Your muffled sound cuts off as Takeshi cups your face with both hands and pulls you in. His lips mixed with your spinning daze leave you breathless. Kissing Takeshi Kovacs is a high on its own.

“Tak?” You shudder when those lips break away and leave a hot trail down your jawline. Right to the spot beneath your ear that makes you melt. His eyes drift open as he presses hot kisses against your skin, pulling away long enough to lock eyes with you. He catches your dazed attention in an instant.

“Let’s get out of here.�� He offers casually. Takeshi’s concern, despite the way he wraps it up in his particular brand of attitude, reminds you just how protective he can be. He had hid it at first. In sideways glances and gentle brushes of his knuckles against yours.

But now, after everything you had been through together in this shitty town, it was the two of you. A package deal.

Your eyes flicker to his parted lips— to the way they glisten now in the neon lighting because of their contact with your skin. Then back to his blown pupils rimmed with their brilliant hazel rings. You grip the front of his shirt in response, desire suddenly blooming in your chest and down to your toes.

The spell is broken by the sound of his voice. One you never wanted to hear again but should have expected eventually. “Look who’s back in town.” He greets. Rex approaches with abandon, his cloned sleeve in pristine condition. You scoff under your breath when he elbows a few dancers out of his way.

“Here I am.” You respond. You don’t know how else to. You twist your fingers into the fabric just above Tak’s waist.

Takeshi wraps his arms around you, pulling you even closer. It’s so possessive you have to lift a foot subtly to not step on the envoy’s shoes. You blink as your cheek connects with Tak’s firm chest, a little speechless.

The Meth glances at Tak’s posture but says nothing about it. His smile is as congenial as ever.

“You must be the man I can’t quite live up to.” Tak drawls loudly over the din. His words, dripping with sarcasm, go right over the other man’s head.

“Talks about me, does she?” He grins.

Not at all, you prick. You bite your tongue before you regret it.

You don’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t Takeshi playing his version of nice. He was one of the most bullheaded creatures you’d ever met. You’d only seen him skirt his way around conflict a handful of times– when absolutely necessary. You were both survivors in that way.

But Takeshi Kovacs knew how to play the board. Behind Rex, a few of his entourage kept their eyes on the three of you, ready to clean up the mess their Meth often made in his wake. It’d be in your and Takeshi’s best interest not to escalate anything while high and outnumbered.

“Well, I’m sure she wouldn’t settle for anything less than.” Your ex humbly concedes.

Your cheeks heat up again when he finally walks away– no longer a blush of desire but of embarrassment. Shame. Why shame?

Before you can sink into the feeling further, Tak grasps your chin lightly between his fingers.

“Fifty credits says he turns back around once he gets to that bar.” The envoy murmurs. You furrow your brow in confusion at his amused little smirk.

“What do you mean?”

Tak replies with another deep kiss.

“Be a little brash for me, for once.” He nips at your bottom lip.

You roll your eyes. “You’re one to talk. I thought we were just leaving.”

Tak doesn’t need the grip of his strong, callused hands to get your hips moving. You sway with him, leaning back to lock dilated eyes with the envoy. He pins you with his hooded hazel gaze and that expression you still can’t quite figure out. You’ve always wondered just how many calculations the envoy can make about what’s in front of him in a matter of seconds.

“This meth doesn’t know what’s mine.” Tak growls in your ear. The words drop sharply down to your core, and your mouth parts with shock. He’s never said something so forward about the two of you before. And you never dared to ask him.

“Takeshi.” Your eyes flit over to Rex. Tak gives you a moment to lock eyes with him, just enough to catch the glimpse of desire in the other man’s eyes. It’s one you’re familiar with, tainted with all the things you don’t ever want again; Jealousy; Insecurity; And that acrid kind of possessiveness without an ounce of true care. He held his power over you too long. Long enough that you’d never forget why you ran away in the first place.

But Takeshi’s face is different. You gasp as his hand closes softly around your jaw and guides your line of sight back to him. His gaze is something completely new. You flush beneath his hazel stare dotted with the strobe and neon lights dancing around you both. When he kisses you again, Takeshi presses his body against yours- chest to chest and hips to hips. You let go of a whimper when his arousal presses flush to your pelvis. You clench your thighs together with want, eyes falling shut.

So you try to ease into it. Let him pin you to him as his familiar touch runs ribbons of tingling warmth up and down your sides. And soon your past problems with Rex seem far away again– the distance from where you stand and the bar growing with every heart-thudding beat of sound.

Tak’s thigh coaxes your legs apart. Through the thin fabric of your pants, his muscles press firmly to you, gliding back and forth as the two of you begin to grind. You moan lightly at the friction. It’s not just the booze or the drugs– it’s Takeshi holding onto you so fiercely that gets your hips rolling. You bury your face in the man’s chest as the first slick sign of wetness blooms between your legs. You exhale a breath across the Envoy’s chest.

“Fuck.” He groans softly under all the noise. Could his intuition really tell him just how much you were enjoying yourself?

Eager to coax more sounds out of your normally silent partner, your hand makes its way down his chest. Over every cord of rolling muscle until your fingers finally hook on his belt. You glance up cheekily at him and bite your lip.

“I might just have to carry you out of here after all.” He smirks down at you. His eyes flutter shut as you reach up with your free hand to push the soft fringes of hair out of his eyes.

You savor the sharp inhale Tak breathes in as you cup the hard length at his center. Tak’s face twists subtly with pleasure. You stroke him as he grinds you down on his thigh. The two of you stay like this, working each other’s bodies under the guise of dancing as you hide your face away in the safety of Takeshi’s collar.

Tak holds your weight when the tell-tale sign of your quaking knees leaves you gripping onto his belt. His arms wrap around you on instinct as you shutter and buck lightly against him, your head tilting back in ecstasy. Lips find the column of your throat. Takeshi mouths at your pulse as your cries are drowned out by the music. A hand cards through your sweat-damp hair as you catch your breath.

You lock eyes with Takeshi. The thought of an audience member watching the two of you is long gone from your mind. Still, you smile dazedly at Tak, knowing where you want the rest of the night to go.

“I think I know a place with free booze and a little more privacy.”

He snorts, reading your mind. His voice is a heavy rasp now that it’s drenched with desire.

“Yeah? I think I might know the proprietor. And no, he doesn’t care for privacy.”

You grin as Takeshi relents anyway, a heat flooding your chest when you catch him throwing a sly smirk back toward the bar for a split moment. You don’t care enough to look yourself.

The two of you escape the underground club and step back out into the Bay City fog, your only thoughts on the hand enveloping yours and the warm safe haven waiting for you both.

[loverhymeswith]

All You Have To Do Is Stay | Takeshi Kovacs x GN!Reader

Summary: A heatwave in Bay City leads to unexpected consequences.

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: Angst. Vague mentions of characters sleeping together. Nothing explicit.

A/N: Written for @that-sarcastic-writer 's 1300 follower celebration, using the prompt "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me". Congratulations lovely! <3

Summer in Bay City does not come without its fair share of rainfall, but this year is different. It’s been six weeks since the heavens opened, six weeks since a drop of water fell from the sky, and now the drought - combined with the cloying heat - finally seems to be causing the residents of The Raven to lose their minds. 

Takeshi Kovacs is no exception. As soon as the pink unicorn backpack made its appearance, you knew trouble was afoot. With no end to this heatwave in sight, tempers are fraught, nerves are frayed, and left right and centre, unwise decisions are being made. In your opinion, Takeshi might just be the number one culprit, having just concocted a brilliant scheme that is sure to result in his real-death – that’s if you don’t murder him first.

“If you do this, don’t expect me to be waiting around to patch you up again.”

Takeshi finally drags his attention away from cataloguing the extensive weapons cache on the counter, his intense hazel gaze landing on you instead. A thin sheen of sweat clings to every inch of tanned skin he currently has exposed. There’s some small amount of satisfaction to be taken from the fact that he’s not entirely immune to the rising temperatures.

“I mean it,” you warn him, reading the subtle amusement in his expression. He’s clearly not taking your threats seriously enough. “I’m done. I’m gone.”

He zips up the obnoxious pink backpack and levels you with a penetrating stare. “If I don’t do this, a lot of people are going to die.”

You fold your arms, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickle of heat at the back of your neck. “And what about you?

The stubborn, pig-headed envoy simply smirks. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

You used to believe it – used to believe that Takeshi Kovacs was invincible. You clearly remember the first time Vernon brought you along to The Raven to help patch up the envoy’s wounds. You had been shocked, to say the least. Fascinated, too. Not only that Takeshi was still standing after suffering such extensive injuries, but also by how quickly he had healed.  

That was nearly two years ago. For some inexplicable reason, you found yourself sticking around. Like Takeshi and the Elliots, you’ve become somewhat of a permanent fixture at the A.I. hotel.  Consequently, it has put you in the perfect position to notice the shift in Takeshi’s behaviour. Ever since Bancroft and Reileen and Ortega, it’s like he’s intent on becoming some kind of martyr.

“Can’t you at least take Vernon with you?”

“And watch him get himself killed? I don’t think so.”

Poe and the Elliots have already spent the morning bickering with Takeshi, once again throwing around words like ‘friendship’ and ‘teamwork’ as if such concepts could be enough to make him change his mind – could persuade him against this ridiculous suicide mission. But they don’t know him like you do. 

Even after all this time, Takeshi still doesn’t believe in friendship. He believes in acquaintances. Assets. People he can leverage to do his bidding. To help him get what he wants – whatever the hell that might be. No matter how hard you’ve fought to make him believe otherwise, he still refuses to accept that there are people like Vernon and Ava, like Poe, who truly care for him.

And then, there's you. It’s still unclear where you fit in when it comes to Takeshi Kovacs. Until recently, you’d suspected you were just another dispensable asset. But then everything changed. What the others don’t know is that for the last six weeks – when it’s late at night and all the fighting and the scheming has finally stopped – not only have you been sharing Takeshi’s company, you’ve also been sharing his bed.

It’d be easy to blame it on the heat. Even easier to blame it on the liquor. The first time had been little more than a drunken mistake, an ill-advised distraction after his near-miss with the Yakuza. But the following night, you had sought him out again. After that, it became a compulsion. 

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Emotions were certainly not supposed to beinvolved. But that had become harder and harder each time you found yourselves rolling beneath his sheets. Foolishly, you realise,  you’ve been starting to think that you can see through the walls he’s erected. Thinking that one day you might break them down, brick by brick. 

It’s possible you imagined it entirely, but you thought you’d seen a change in Takeshi, too. You thought that there had been a softening to his eyes as he made love to you. A half-smile that he seemed to reserve for you alone.

That smile is currently nowhere to be seen as he matches you glare for glare.

Unfazed by the six foot three wall of muscle standing before you, the spark of anger in your chest ignites. “But you expect us all to sit back and watch as you get yourself killed?”

“That’s different.”

“No,” you tell him firmly. “It’s not.” With it now increasingly apparent that he’s not going to heed your warning, you simply turn around and leave.

The streets of Bay City are eerily quiet. Nobody wants to be outside in this heat. It’s like a furnace, constant and smouldering. Leaving the relative luxury of The Raven’s air-conditioned foyer might have been another unwise decision, but you couldn’t spend another minute inside knowing that every passing second in Takeshi’s company might just be your last.

You’ve been walking for almost fifteen minutes when someone calls your name. Your hackles raise, but you continue walking, picking up the pace despite the pressing heat and the sweat forming on your brow. You're not some dog that can be called to command. No matter what might have transpired between the two of you back in the privacy of his bedroom, you’re not just going to roll over for Takeshi Kovacs. Not anymore.

A firm hand grasps your shoulder, halting you in your tracks. “Would you just stop and talk to me?” There’s a hint of desperation in Takeshi’s voice as he spins you around. It affects you far more than you care to admit.

“There’s nothing left to say,” you spit, not bothering to hide the venom in your own voice. He should know that wounded animals are prone to bite. “You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear.”

“You didn’t even give me a chance to explain.”

His fingers are still curled around your shoulder. You shrug out of his grip. “Explain what, Tak? That you’d rather go charging into danger, risking your life for a bunch of strangers than even contemplate the fact that there are people here that care about you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No. I don’t.”

Takeshi is a storm cloud. As his mood darkens, electricity fills the air. “Everyone I’ve ever loved has been taken away from me. I don’t want anyone else to have to go through that kind of pain. These are bad people. But I have the power to stop them. I have to do this.”

“And what about the people who love you, Takeshi? You don’t care that one day you’re going to be taken away from them? Do you know how many nights I’ve sat up waiting for you to return, not knowing what state you’re going to come back in. If you’re even going to come back. I can’t do this anymore.”

A flicker of understanding crosses Takeshi’s face and his expression shifts. That softness you thought you must have imagined has suddenly returned. “Is that what this is about? Your feelings for me?”

His words penetrate your skin like a knife, cutting you open and leaving you to bleed out the truth all over the sun-bleached pavements of downtown Bay City. “I don’t have feelings for you,” you assure him, slapping a bandaid over the wound. “The only thing this is about is you being a selfish prick.”

Takeshi shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s true.” He reaches out a hand to cup your jaw, tilting your head so you’re forced to meet his gaze. "Look me in the eye, sweetheart. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me."

“I-” Before you can answer, a crack of thunder shatters the silence. As one, the two of you cast your gaze to the sky, only to find that the sun has disappeared behind a huge black cloud. 

The first fat drop of water lands on Takeshi’s brow. He blinks in surprise. The next one falls on your cheek. Takeshi wipes it away with the soft brush of his thumb across your skin. As you stand there, frozen by his words, by his touch, the heavens fully – finally – open. A tiny squeak of laughter threatens to burst forth from your lips. Of course, of all the days for the drought to break, it had to be this one.

“We should go inside,” you tell Takeshi, blinking away the heavy drops of water now clinging to your lashes. 

“No,” he disagrees, his palm still curved around your cheek. “I want to know what you were going to say. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been looking at me lately. We both know these last few weeks have been more than just about the sex.”

It’s complicated. Isn’t that always the case? There’s a very real possibility that you do love him, but you’re not ready to admit that just yet. You’re not ready to open yourself up to that kind of heartache. Not if he’s still going to walk into battle with that reckless grin on his face. You can’t bear the thought of losing him, but it’s easier with a protective shell of willful ignorance around your heart.

“What does it matter if I’m going to lose you anyway?”

Takeshi dips his head lower to make himself heard over the hammering rain. “It matters.”

The force of the rainfall has plastered the lengths of Takeshi’s hair to his brow. It’s a struggle not to reach out and brush the locks from his face, but such a gesture would do little to fight your case. “Would it make a difference?” You wonder aloud, trying not to lean into the warmth of his hand against your cheek. “If I told you I love you, would it make you stay?”

Takeshi’s lashes shutter. You can sense the conflict as he works his jaw. “I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that it would make me stay. But I can promise you it would be something worth surviving for. A reason for me to make it out of this fight alive.”

Three little words aren’t going to change the outcome of this battle, but if it means he’ll try that little bit harder –  if it means he’ll have hope in his heart instead of fear – isn’t that a small price to pay? 

Balancing on your tiptoes, you close the gap to Takeshi, brushing your wet lips against his. “I love you, Takeshi. Just promise to come back home to me.”

Joel Taglist: @a-reader-and-a-writer @babblydrabbly @sociiallydiisoriiented @lacontroller1991 @ed-baldwin @fairchildflag @phoenixhalliwell @s-u-t @kirsteng42 @katjnordstrom96 @weallhaveadestiny @lavenderluna10 @mayhem24-7forever @yespolkadotkitty @bewitchedignition @heresathreebee @immyownlittlebitch @littlefreakingfangirl @xoxabs88xox @justin-hammers

[lacontroller1991]

Bionic Exile - Chapter 5 Alt Ending

Main Master List || Series Master List

Requested by @daughter-of-the-stars11 : Would you ever consider doing a one shot or a short series where reader from Bionic Exile chooses Takeshi instead of both of them... can I also add jealous Rick

Warnings: 18+ only please, implied sex, alcohol use, language, Rick may be a little ooc

Author's Note: SO I think this would fit perfectly in chapter 5, so I kept half of chapter 5 and then just rewrote the other half!! I hope you enjoy!

----------

Ever since Rick moved in with you, it had become a tradition that every Saturday night was movie night. Tonight wasn’t any different, except for the fact that you chose to sit squished up next to Takeshi on the loveseat instead of next to Rick on the couch. 

Takeshi. That dick. Who does he think he is stealing my girl like that, the thought makes Rick freeze. His own brain betrays him as he throws some popcorn in his mouth, his eyes training on the movie and trying to not look over to you cuddling up with the envoy, what does he have that I don’t? Rick grinds his teeth together as his jaw clenches, jealousy taking control of his body. It doesn’t take much to break Rick’s concentration. Just hearing you laugh at something that Takeshi has whispered into your ear is enough to make him squirm. 

Quirking an eyebrow, Rick shakes his head and forces his attention back to the movie. Your favorite movie. Not that you seem to notice, too busy fucking with Takeshi’s stupid trench coat, Rick huffs before moving to stand up, who wears a damn trench coat around the house, anyways? 

“I’m getting something to eat,” he declares, mostly to himself, excusing himself from the room and rushing to the kitchen. Setting the bowl down, Rick grips the edge of the sink and watches as your hands brush a stray strand of hair out of Takeshi’s face. Turning away, Rick opens the cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. He knows he probably shouldn’t be drinking, but there you were, the love of his life, sitting and flirting with another man. Twisting off the cap of the bottle, Rick takes 3 gulps of the brown liquor before you round the corner and enter the kitchen with eyebrows raised in speculation.

“Rick? Why are you drinking,” you ask softly, opening a bag of popcorn and placing it in the microwave while hardly taking your eyes off of him. Rick glances at you with discontent before taking another swig of the bottle, the liquid burning his throat and lighting up his stomach.

“Because I can? Not like it matters to you,” he responds with venom laced words while you purse your lips. You were absolutely sick and tired of this behavior. You knew he didn’t like Takeshi staying with you and him and you know that he doesn’t like Takeshi one bit, but you wanted to assume that despite it being well over a week at this point Rick would get over himself. Evidently not, you think as you watch the man you love take another big gulp of the shitty whiskey that he keeps solely for the purpose of getting drunk. 

“God damn it, Rick. I am so fucking sick of your fucking pity party. Get over it,” you whisper harshly, not wanting Takeshi to know what is occurring twenty feet away from him, though he can probably hear everything. Rick stalks in front of you, his jugular vein popping out of his neck while his hand clasps the bottle of Jack Daniels. Nodding his head, he shoves the bottle in your hand before leaving the kitchen area and heading for his room. 

Setting the bottle on the counter, your body shakes with anger while tears threaten to roll down your face. After taking a moment to collect your breath, you walk back into the living room and climb onto Takeshi’s lap, legs spread over onto each side of his lean hips. Looking up to you, Tak notes the way your eyes brim with unshed tears and your body shakes with anger. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was wrong. So instead, Tak waits for you to talk while your hands clench this fabric of his jacket.

“Tak, fuck me hard until I can’t walk.”

Rick stumbles out of bed before looking at the clock on his drawer. 

“2:43, fuckin’ perfect,” he mumbles in his gravely southern accent to himself as he rubs his temples. Maybe it wasn’t his brightest idea to chug down that much whiskey in that short of a time, but he wanted to forget just for a little while. Rolling his shoulders back, Rick nears the door but a repeating banging sound alerts him. Grabbing his gun, he prowls down the hall, the sound growing louder as he approaches your door. Pressing his ear up against the wooden door, his blood runs cold. 

“Fuck, Tak. You feel so fucking good. Harder,” your unmistakable voice echoes through the door as grunts and moans follow.

“You’re doing so good, pretty girl. Feel so good around my cock. Cum for me, angel,” Rick backs into the opposite wall, the shock and hurt swallowing him up as he runs back to his room, locking the door and sinking to the floor. That’s it, he got her.  

----------

The squad watches Rick throw punch after punch after punch to the bag, his muscles rippling with each swing as sweat gathers on his brow bone and his body, clinging his grey shirt to his body, unintentionally highlighting each and every toned muscle on Rick’s body.

“Damn, someone must have really pissed him off, I ain’t neva seen him like this,” Harley comments, exaggerating the word ‘really’ as she watches with lust. Nobody could really blame her though, he was a sight to see at the moment. His normally calm demeanor long gone and replaced with an animalistic urge. 

“I wonder what happened,” DuBois watches with intent, noticing the way Rick’s anger seems to spike up ten-fold when you and your new pet project happen to walk by the window leading to the floor above, neither looking down as they pass. DuBois’s attention then shifts back to Rick who’s fists continue to pound into the sandbag without a moment of reprieve until the bag flies off the hook that was keeping it up. 

Heaving, Rick feels the eyes of his squad watch him with anticipation at his next move. Not one of them daring to move or make a sound, unsure how to respond to the suddenly vicious nature of their normally collected superior coming out in such a controlled environment.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” He questions, head whipping around to face his team who just stare back at him. Suddenly, Harley takes a step forward, ignoring the way DuBois shakes his head in an attempt to tell her not to  provoke the colonel.

“Fuck’s wrong with ya, Flag?  What’s got ya panties in a twist? You need to get laid or something,” Harley doesn’t notice the way Rick marches toward her til he’s standing right in front of her. “Why don’t you shut your fucking mouth, Quinn. You don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” Harley’s eyes darken in anger as she purses her lips before shoving a finger into Flag’s chest.

“Where do you get off telling me to shut my mouth. It ain’t my fault you can’t get a girl. It most certainly ain’t my fault that you were too late to fuck (Y/N),” Rick’s eyes narrow at the woman, “yeah, don’t think we didn’t notice the way your mood progresses down the drain the closer (Y/N) and Tak get. So why don’t you take it out on somebody else, but not us,” Harley concludes before walking off, the rest of the squad following her out save for DuBois who clasps a hand on Rick’s shoulder.

“You really need to get laid, mate. It might help you,” Rick contemplates Robert’s words as the former assassin walks away, leaving Rick to his own thoughts. 

----------

You laugh as you walk through the door with Tak following closely behind before shutting your door. Placing your bag down you move to pop open a bottle of wine when a high pitch voice giggling steers your concentration to the hall.

“Yeah, I’ll see you later, Ricky,” the culprit walks out of Rick’s room and allows you to get a better look at the woman. She has a nice body, you note to yourself, sun kissed skin with an ample bosom and an hourglass waist. But what you notice the most is the hickeys that were beginning to form on her neck and the fact that she is naked. Normally, you would be seeing red. After all, you’ve spent so much time on trying to win Rick and get with him, but for some reason, seeing the naked woman doesn’t really get a reaction out of you. Maybe it’s partially because of the talk that you and Tak just had. 

Tak, on the other hand, has mixed thoughts about what’s in front of him. He was half expecting you to be throwing a fit by now but then he also can’t believe the audacity Rick has. From what Tak can tell about your relationship with Rick is that you have given your everything for Rick and Rick just continues to take advantage of it time after time. 

“Hey Sav, you forgot your-” Rick rushes out of his room, hair disheveled and pants hanging low on his hips and in his hand, a bright pair of red underwear, however, upon seeing you in the doorway with Takeshi right behind you, Rick can’t help but feel a twang of guilt. Instead of making a scene like Rick thought you would, you simply grab Tak’s hand and maneuver away from the hooker and into your bedroom without sparing Rick another glance.

“Thanks, Rick. Same time next week?” Rick struggles to look between the crack of your door while Savannah plucks her underwear out of his hands. 

“Actually, no. I don’t think I’ll be needing it.” Rick offers her a small smile as she shrugs, leaving the apartment and Rick alone. Shaking his head, Rick peers through the crack before pushing the door open, only to see you sitting on Tak’s lap while Tak mindlessly plays with your hair. “What the hell is going on here?”

You look up from your laptop to Rick in the doorway, shirt still off and various lipstick prints over his toned body. “What do you mean? I’m just trying to get some work done?” Rick resists the urge to roll his eyes at your obliviousness before he’s gesturing to you on Tak’s lap.

“That. Why are you on his lap?” You look back at Tak with a smile, his hand finding a place on your thigh and gently squeezing in support before you turn back to Rick.

“Well, actually, Tak and I were just talking and… I’m thinking about going back with him.” Rick’s heart drops and shatters into pieces but he would be damned if he let it show.

“What?” The question is quiet as he tries to wrap his brain around what you just said. “What did you say?” He looks between you and Tak in confusion. Just how could this happen?

“Once the portal is back up, she’s coming with me,” Tak comments emotionlessly. In one way, he is ecstatic that you would be willing to try a relationship out with him, but he doesn’t know just how much danger he would be putting you in by bringing you back and if something happened to you like something happened to Quell, he truly doesn’t know how he would live with himself. Of course, when he was discussing it with you about an hour ago, he could practically see the way your eyes lit up with excitement and the prospect, but Tak knows you. He knows that once you go with him, you’re going to immediately regret it and want to go back home. Back to Rick. And that part scares him. 

“No,” Rick takes a step back, heart hammering against his chest, “no, you can’t go back.” Rick’s vision starts to blur as he leans on the frame, slowly sliding down the post and you’re quick to jump up from Tak’s lap and rush to Rick’s side, looking him over in confusion.

“Rick, are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?” Rick shakes his head, pushing you away as he struggles to take deep breaths. He honestly can’t remember the last time he had a panic attack like this, and he hates it. 

“No, just leave me alone.” He rushes out the door and to his room, confusion settling in. What did he do to drive you away? What does Takeshi Kovacs have that he doesn’t? With a rather dumb idea in mind, he pulls out his phone and dials the only number he knows will help, no matter the cost.

---------

The drive to Belle Reve is longer than it typically is. Maybe it’s because of the tight tension in the car or maybe it’s a sinking gut feeling, but whatever it was, you’re anxious to get back to your project.

As Rick pulls into the parking lot, your eyes widen at the plume of smoke rising from the scientific division. “No, no, no.” You jump out of the car and ignore the calls of Rick and Tak to come back only to run toward the fire and hope that it wasn’t your life’s work.

Looking back and forth between each other, both men rush after you and into the building where it only takes minutes to find you, collapsed on the ground and in tears. 

Sinking to his knees, Tak fumes silently as he takes you into his strong arms. Despite the fire looking like an accident, Tak’s envoy intuition is telling him that it’s anything but, but he doesn’t really care about that right now. In any case he’s relieved. He’s relieved that the machine is broken and he’s relieved that you and him won’t be able to go back. Sure he’s now mortal, but he’d rather be mortal than have you die and not be able to resurrect you. “It’s alright (Y/N). We don’t have to go back.” Tak rocks you in his arms while you sob into his chest as he looks around to all the different personnel, and to the side, he can easily spot Rick talking to Waller, a devious grin plastered on the latter’s face. “That fucking bastard.”

“What?” You look up through tear soaked lashes as Tak looks down, shaking his head, trying to protect you from the truth.

“Nothing princess, how about we go and pack some bags and leave for a while.”

“It was Rick, wasn’t it.”

“I don’t think he started it, but he definitely had a part in it.” If you had any doubts about moving on from Rick, they just flew out the window. Standing up, you wearily make your way over to where Rick and Waller stand off to the side line, both watching you with curiosity.

“(Y/L/N), I am sorry to see this damage. As it is, however, we do not have the funds to rebuild it.” You scoff and turn to Rick, rage boiling beneath the surface and before you know it, you’re punching him straight across the face and Tak is quick to watch over the whole ordeal in case things go south.

“You’re a real fucking asshole, Flag. I do not want to EVER see you again.” It hurt to say, but any man who would destroy your life’s work does not need to be in your life.

“I had to do what I had to do. I love you. I didn’t want to see you prance off with that alien when you could have a whole life with me.” Despite your heart swelling at the proclamation, you can’t help but to feel that you’re making the right choice.

“You have more than enough chances, Rick. I’m sorry, but you lost me.” Turning to Waller, you hand in your badge for the prison with a look of disdain on your face. “I want a transfer out of this hell hole.” She nods before you turn back to Tak, tears threatening to spill again. “Come on Tak, let’s go home and pack.” Grabbing Tak’s wrist, you drag him out of the building and you drag yourself out of Rick’s life.

==========

General Tag List: @marvelousmermaid @himbovillain-anon @babblydrabbly @fairchildflag @infatuatedjanes @a-reader-and-a-writer

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[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

Impossible Situation

Whumptober 2022: 20. Prisoner Trade, 26. Separated Fandom: Altered Carbon, Takeshi Kovacs Word Count: 1355 TW: Angst, Mentions of Family Violence, Forced to Return to Abusive Situation, Separated Loves

Takeshi Kovacs stood at the far end of the abandoned building just as he had been instructed. His long coat swirled gently around his legs as he turned in a slow circle, silently cataloging every entrance or possible point of escape. A quick getaway wouldn’t be necessary if the handoff went as planned. But since when has anything ever gone as planned for Takeshi?

He stilled when he felt a hand softly rest on the small of his back. Glancing over, the small smile of reassurance you were giving him felt like a knife in his chest. You should not be comforting him at this moment. You should be terrified, furious, or heartbroken. But instead, you were trying to make him feel better about what was about to happen. How pathetic was he?

As if reading his thoughts, you rested your head against his shoulder and said, “It’s okay, Tak. We’ll just follow the instructions and everything will be fine.”

“How is any of this ‘fine’?” he snarled. “How did I ever agree to any of this?”

“Because you didn’t have a choice,” you whispered, rubbing your hand gently across his back. 

He sighed as he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. You were right. As much as it infuriated and terrified him, he had been unable to find another way out of the current situation. Which was why he was about to hand you over to the worst crime syndicate in Bay City. Back to your family.

The only daughter of the head of the organization where women were viewed as nothing more than bargaining chips, your life had been nothing but pain and heartbreak for as long as you could remember. When money is no obstacle, no one cares about lasting damage done to a sleeve or even sleeve death. Though you were only 86 years old, Tak had been disgusted to learn you had stopped counting sleeves after your fiftieth one almost twenty years ago. Each new skin was necessary due to the severity of damage done to your previous one. It was no wonder you finally ran away. 

But now he was willingly giving you back to them. To the people who had essentially killed you over and over again for almost a century. And when he had told you about it, you had agreed instantly.

You would be punished when they got you back home. Severely. The thought alone filled Tak with a white-hot rage that made it nearly impossible to maintain the mask of calm indifference he had adopted for the meet-up. Based on what you had told him about your past, there was a good chance you would be tortured, starved, and probably broken to the point of needing to be resleeved. But the only reason he agreed to any of this was that no matter how badly they punished you, they wouldn’t kill you. The same could not be said for Elliot. 

When your family had finally discovered where you were and who you were with, they knew they couldn’t attack directly. But word on the street was that the Last Envoy had a friend who lived in Bridgetown with his family. Ava had called him in tears a few days ago saying that some men busted into their home and dragged Elliot away. You hadn’t needed to hear any more details; you already knew what had happened. And your suspicions had proven to be correct when Poe received instructions for a prisoner exchange the next morning. 

And now here you were, waiting for your family to take you away from him. Tak had already lost so many people he loved in his life, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to live with losing you too. 

Drawing you into his arms, Tak leaned over and nuzzled his nose against your ear as he whispered, “I’ll come for you, I swear.”

But you quickly pulled away so you could turn to face him. Staring deeply into his eyes, you said, “If you love me, you won’t.”

“What? Why would I not try to save you from them?”

“Because you can try, but you won’t succeed. They’re too powerful and well-protected. And no matter what they do to me, I can endure it knowing you are safe somewhere out there. But if they kill you…. I can’t survive that. So, please Tak, let this be goodbye. Let me savor these last few months as the gift that they were and not taint my memories with your death. Please.”

Tak opened his mouth to respond, but the door at the other end of the building opened before he could. He grabbed you, spun you around, and pulled you tight against his chest, his gun suddenly pressed against the side of your neck directly in line with your stack. It was all part of the plan to make your family think Tak had captured you instead of the truth that you ran away, but he could still feel your heart beating wildly against him. Though if it was due to the fear of the gun against your skin or the presence of the men who had just walked in, he did not know. 

There were seven of them, all armed with an assortment of weapons, all deadly looking. When the one who seemed to be in charge saw you, his eyes narrowed but he mumbled something to one of his men. Seconds later, the door opened again and an eighth man entered, dragging Elliot with him. 

Tak tried not to react when he saw his friend, but it was nearly impossible. Elliot had clearly been tortured, blood soaked his clothes from the numerous cuts scattered across his body. His head had a large bloody wound that dripped down his face and he kept blinking as he attempted to keep it from dripping into his eye. And as he shuffled toward the other men, Tak noticed the way he favored his left side and winced slightly with every step. 

Despite the danger if someone noticed, you discreetly slipped your hand into his and gave it a tight squeeze. He squeezed it back as tightly as he could, as if clinging to you hard enough could keep you by his side. 

Yet, as per the instructions, you then took three steps forward, forcing Tak to release your hand for what was likely the last time. He noticed a single tear rolling down your cheek, but you didn’t move to wipe it away in the fear that it would draw attention to it. One of the men shoved Elliot forward and the two of you began walking toward the center of the space.

As you passed Elliot, Tak could just make out the sound of you whispering softly to him, “I’m so sorry. You should have never been involved with this.” But before he could respond, both of you had passed one another. 

When Elliot made it across the room, he collapsed into Tak’s arms. Tak was caught off guard but managed to grab him in time. Up close, his injuries seemed even worse than Tak had initially thought but it didn’t look like anything that wouldn’t heal given time.

Tak glanced up just in time to see you make it to the other side of the warehouse. One of the men roughly grabbed your face between his fingers and shook you violently before throwing you to the floor. Your soft cry of pain made Tak see red. He was about to drop Elliot and draw his gun when he caught your gaze. Still laying on the floor, tears welling up in your eyes, you gently shook your head. You could tell what he was about to do and you were asking him not to. 

So, he remained where he was. But as the men grabbed your arms, hauled you to your feet, and began shoving you toward the door, Tak made a silent promise to you. Despite what you had asked of him, despite your fears, he would come for you. And he would bring you back home with him. 

Taglist: @nik2blog, @dumb-fawkin-bitch, @shirley2996

[airi-of-hearts]

In another place, a different time... an alternate universe Ficlet for @andromedagarcia ♥ (@jofdiamonds)

Nighttime. The soft glow of the planetoid’s three moons illuminated her face. This face, her current mask. Airi leaned on the windowsill and let the wind play with her hair. 

The black vastness of the ocean felt oddly comforting. It had the same sound as the one back home. Or so she’d been told, she’d never been “home”, but then why did the ocean make her feel so nostalgic? Why did it make her long for a home she never knew? 

The night was cold but it didn’t bother her. For one thing, because her body had been enhanced to withstand much worse conditions than the faint sea breeze that would have made her shiver before, in some other time, some other body; for another, because she’d found him. And in finding him, she’d found herself. Nothing could vex her.

The room she’d found at The Nevermore wasn’t exactly what she would have liked. But it was fine, it would do, and the AI hotel hadn’t really asked a lot of questions. If she had the credits, she was welcome as a guest and her privacy and her business would be protected.

Airi tore her eyes from the window and stared at the reclining figure on the bed. The man was sleeping soundly.

‘Give him time to reboot.’ That was what the dealer that had helped her find a sleeve for his stack had told her.

I will find you. In every world, every universe, every timeline. Nothing will keep me away from you. A thousand years could turn into eons and I would not forget your name, your face, your heart, your love.

She recited the vows they’d made to each other. Airi intended to keep her promise. Would he recognize her? She was sure he would, but she still prayed he did.

‘We’ve been through so much,’ she whispered to him. ‘Lived entire lifetimes. And we still have many more to live.’ 

They have changed, evolved. Transhuman. More than human. 

After every modification, every enhancement, she wondered if there was still any original part of her left. It didn’t matter. As long as there was even a single atom that could call itself hers, it would know him, it would pull her to him. Equal parts love and quantum entanglement.

Airi walked to the other end of the room, to the window that looked toward the city. The neon lights called to her but at present, she had something more important to do.

She sat on the bed, slowly, carefully, and she caressed his face, she couldn’t help it. Metal, metal. Metal on metal and still so soft. The tingling in her fingers told her he must be about to wake up.

What a nice little trick, she thought. This sleeve, her current body, had a neat improvement: her fingertips could detect magnetic fields, maybe even manipulate them. Airi had heard about this particular upgrade, one of the first ones that the transhumanists had accomplished. It was said that a century ago, it would have been considered akin to magic; now, it was one of the most basic modifications anyone could have. It came in handy to tamper with all sorts of machines.

Airi caressed his face again, enjoying the sensation in her fingers. She curled a strand of his long dark hair around her index finger. Long hair would suit him so well, she’d found him a good sleeve.

She leaned closer to him, her lips not an inch away from his. As if this was a fairytale, and he was the slumbering prince.

‘Wake up, my love. Wake up, Aki.’

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

Impossible Situation

Whumptober 2022: 20. Prisoner Trade, 26. Separated Fandom: Altered Carbon, Takeshi Kovacs Word Count: 1355 TW: Angst, Mentions of Family Violence, Forced to Return to Abusive Situation, Separated Loves

Takeshi Kovacs stood at the far end of the abandoned building just as he had been instructed. His long coat swirled gently around his legs as he turned in a slow circle, silently cataloging every entrance or possible point of escape. A quick getaway wouldn’t be necessary if the handoff went as planned. But since when has anything ever gone as planned for Takeshi?

He stilled when he felt a hand softly rest on the small of his back. Glancing over, the small smile of reassurance you were giving him felt like a knife in his chest. You should not be comforting him at this moment. You should be terrified, furious, or heartbroken. But instead, you were trying to make him feel better about what was about to happen. How pathetic was he?

As if reading his thoughts, you rested your head against his shoulder and said, “It’s okay, Tak. We’ll just follow the instructions and everything will be fine.”

“How is any of this ‘fine’?” he snarled. “How did I ever agree to any of this?”

“Because you didn’t have a choice,” you whispered, rubbing your hand gently across his back. 

He sighed as he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. You were right. As much as it infuriated and terrified him, he had been unable to find another way out of the current situation. Which was why he was about to hand you over to the worst crime syndicate in Bay City. Back to your family.

The only daughter of the head of the organization where women were viewed as nothing more than bargaining chips, your life had been nothing but pain and heartbreak for as long as you could remember. When money is no obstacle, no one cares about lasting damage done to a sleeve or even sleeve death. Though you were only 86 years old, Tak had been disgusted to learn you had stopped counting sleeves after your fiftieth one almost twenty years ago. Each new skin was necessary due to the severity of damage done to your previous one. It was no wonder you finally ran away. 

But now he was willingly giving you back to them. To the people who had essentially killed you over and over again for almost a century. And when he had told you about it, you had agreed instantly.

You would be punished when they got you back home. Severely. The thought alone filled Tak with a white-hot rage that made it nearly impossible to maintain the mask of calm indifference he had adopted for the meet-up. Based on what you had told him about your past, there was a good chance you would be tortured, starved, and probably broken to the point of needing to be resleeved. But the only reason he agreed to any of this was that no matter how badly they punished you, they wouldn’t kill you. The same could not be said for Elliot. 

When your family had finally discovered where you were and who you were with, they knew they couldn’t attack directly. But word on the street was that the Last Envoy had a friend who lived in Bridgetown with his family. Ava had called him in tears a few days ago saying that some men busted into their home and dragged Elliot away. You hadn’t needed to hear any more details; you already knew what had happened. And your suspicions had proven to be correct when Poe received instructions for a prisoner exchange the next morning. 

And now here you were, waiting for your family to take you away from him. Tak had already lost so many people he loved in his life, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to live with losing you too. 

Drawing you into his arms, Tak leaned over and nuzzled his nose against your ear as he whispered, “I’ll come for you, I swear.”

But you quickly pulled away so you could turn to face him. Staring deeply into his eyes, you said, “If you love me, you won’t.”

“What? Why would I not try to save you from them?”

“Because you can try, but you won’t succeed. They’re too powerful and well-protected. And no matter what they do to me, I can endure it knowing you are safe somewhere out there. But if they kill you…. I can’t survive that. So, please Tak, let this be goodbye. Let me savor these last few months as the gift that they were and not taint my memories with your death. Please.”

Tak opened his mouth to respond, but the door at the other end of the building opened before he could. He grabbed you, spun you around, and pulled you tight against his chest, his gun suddenly pressed against the side of your neck directly in line with your stack. It was all part of the plan to make your family think Tak had captured you instead of the truth that you ran away, but he could still feel your heart beating wildly against him. Though if it was due to the fear of the gun against your skin or the presence of the men who had just walked in, he did not know. 

There were seven of them, all armed with an assortment of weapons, all deadly looking. When the one who seemed to be in charge saw you, his eyes narrowed but he mumbled something to one of his men. Seconds later, the door opened again and an eighth man entered, dragging Elliot with him. 

Tak tried not to react when he saw his friend, but it was nearly impossible. Elliot had clearly been tortured, blood soaked his clothes from the numerous cuts scattered across his body. His head had a large bloody wound that dripped down his face and he kept blinking as he attempted to keep it from dripping into his eye. And as he shuffled toward the other men, Tak noticed the way he favored his left side and winced slightly with every step. 

Despite the danger if someone noticed, you discreetly slipped your hand into his and gave it a tight squeeze. He squeezed it back as tightly as he could, as if clinging to you hard enough could keep you by his side. 

Yet, as per the instructions, you then took three steps forward, forcing Tak to release your hand for what was likely the last time. He noticed a single tear rolling down your cheek, but you didn’t move to wipe it away in the fear that it would draw attention to it. One of the men shoved Elliot forward and the two of you began walking toward the center of the space.

As you passed Elliot, Tak could just make out the sound of you whispering softly to him, “I’m so sorry. You should have never been involved with this.” But before he could respond, both of you had passed one another. 

When Elliot made it across the room, he collapsed into Tak’s arms. Tak was caught off guard but managed to grab him in time. Up close, his injuries seemed even worse than Tak had initially thought but it didn’t look like anything that wouldn’t heal given time.

Tak glanced up just in time to see you make it to the other side of the warehouse. One of the men roughly grabbed your face between his fingers and shook you violently before throwing you to the floor. Your soft cry of pain made Tak see red. He was about to drop Elliot and draw his gun when he caught your gaze. Still laying on the floor, tears welling up in your eyes, you gently shook your head. You could tell what he was about to do and you were asking him not to. 

So, he remained where he was. But as the men grabbed your arms, hauled you to your feet, and began shoving you toward the door, Tak made a silent promise to you. Despite what you had asked of him, despite your fears, he would come for you. And he would bring you back home with him. 

Tag List: @babblydrabbly, @loverhymeswith, @bewitchedignition, @lacontroller1991, @mayhem24-7forever, @11thstreetvigilante, @sociiallydiisoriiented, @merlehs, @sunshineflowerchild789, @heresathreebee, @yespolkadotkitty, @green-socks, @shanimallina87, @katjnordstrom96, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy

[violetmuses]

Mischief - Flag + Kovacs (18+ MINORS DNI)

TITLE: “Mischief” (18+ MINORS DNI) || Rick Flag ft. Takeshi Kovacs

FANDOM: “Suicide Squad” Universe ft. “Altered Carbon” (Netflix Series)

CHARACTERS: Colonel Richard “Rick” Flag ft. Modern!Takeshi Kovacs

PAIRING: Female Reader + Rick Flag ft. Takeshi Kovacs 

STORYLINE: When Rick invites Kovacs back home after the Enchantress mission and you cross their path, who knows what will happen? 

Author’s Note: Hey!  2016 Rick is here with Modern Takeshi. Feedback would greatly appreciated and thanks so much for reading my work. As a warning, this One-Shot also includes SMUT content. (18+ Minors DNI) Adult themes, strong language, etc. - V. 💜

Main Masterlist 💜

J Krew: @nerdysuperchick @a-reader-and-a-writer @babblydrabbly @lacontroller1991 @shadowkittybucky @loverhymeswith @justin-hammers @weallhaveadestiny @xoxabs88xox @katjnordstrom96   @mayhem24-7forever @fangirl0917 @skvatnavle @sociiallydiisoriiented @heresathreebee @alieninoklahoma @bewitchedignition @maddu-oliveira @reveluving @sugapapichulo @hodgepodge-of-rog @ijustthinkrickflagisprettyneat @11thstreetvigilante

__________

2016

Colonel Rick Flag kept few friends around, especially since June walked out of his life, never coming back. No matter how strong Moone and Flag both tried to act not long after the Enchantress mission took place, that everlasting trauma soon ruined their shared bond, forever shattering an otherwise beautiful connection. 

By now, weeks had passed since his breakup. Flag nearly fell within the comfort of seclusion to avoid the outside world, but one text message caught his attention out of nowhere: 

Kovacs: Flag! In town for business. Do you still celebrate Mardi Gras or do I have to bar hop through Bourbon Street alone tonight?

For the first time in quite a while, Rick sat in the living room and allowed himself to smile before answering Takeshi’s message. 

Flag: Good to hear from you, brother. Don’t worry, I’m never too busy this time of year. 

It was true. Flag had taken small steps up until this point, cleaning up the house and leaving his bed to grocery shop time and time again. There was no other choice between deployments. This small Louisiana town offered refuge in so many ways. 

And yet, the very mention of visiting Mardi Gras this year had cracked a code. Rick knew so much better than to keep sulking. Even Lieutenant Edwards, a now late comrade and friend, would’ve encouraged this man days earlier to party soon. 

Now, five years later, because Lieutenant Edwards sadly passed away during the Enchantress mission, only Rick and Takeshi remained. In truth, the least that Rick could do is to keep his spirit up, if not for Edwards, but surely for himself and Tak. 

_____

Despite his excitement for Mardi Gras coming soon, Flag didn’t echo music while picking Takeshi up from a conference center. Playing songs out loud had been reserved for Edwards and Rick honestly wouldn’t feel joy again for a while. 

“Damn, Rick. Can’t you talk to heaven before picking me up?” Tak grumbles through Louisiana heat after packing his briefcase into the truck and reaching that passenger side. The dress shirt that Kovacs has worn from a previous meeting of big-time executives has already soaked through with sweat. 

“Nice to see you too, Kovacs.” Rick allows himself to laugh before hiking up the air condition system found here in his truck. 

“Look, we texted earlier, but I didn’t come here for pleasantries, all right? When was the last time you blew off steam?” Tak probes as Rick pulls away from the curb. 

_______

It’s once again your favorite time of year here in Louisiana. 

As always, delicious aromas spark through open doors of cultured restaurants. Fun live bands seem to groove on every corner as New Orleans peaks with activity. 

By the time night owls have descended upon those cobblestone paths, you’ve already served countless drinks, smiling as patrons head out to dance with the community outside. 

Your smile returns as soon as one familiar face enters this bar. Colonel Rick Flag has arrived, out of uniform and ready for another much-needed break between deployments. 

This time around, Rick hides that military buzz-cut by sporting a dark New Orleans Saints football team cap. At the very least, he’s proudly wearing fake gold beads that clasp around his neck and wearing a black t-shirt despite the heatwave. 

Yet, you soon realize that Flag isn’t alone. 

The man walking alongside Rick definitely looks out of place, not even wearing the color scheme of attire that somehow fits this occasion. This stranger only cares about the heat, sporting one shirt that looks too small for his own strong build. 

“Brought a new friend with you, Colonel?” You say, eying Flag and prepping his usual drink of choice. 

“Hey, Darling. This is Takeshi.” Rick gestures between you and Takeshi before taking his well-deserved drink from you. Meanwhile, Takeshi notices you without giving much of a smile, clearly thinking of something else. 

“Welcome, Takeshi.” You know so much better than to ask questions about Rick’s new guest, but at least Lieutenant Edwards smiled at folks before his unfortunate passing. 

“Hello,” Takeshi nearly deadpans his voice towards you, but Rick catches him and shoots one damning glare. 

“What can I get for you?” You remain professional, waiting for Takeshi to respond before long. 

“Whiskey, please.” Takeshi clips those two words and you even notice that Rick has started cringing on your behalf. 

“Got it.” You face Takeshi. Rick wants to shake his head and walk out, feeling ashamed to nearly ruin his favorite night with someone like Tak around. 

“I’m sorry.” Rick whispers to you between sips from his own drink as you give Tak the whiskey. 

“Look, he’s not my first disgruntled customer. You know that, Rick.” You offer the truth to Flag, but continue working for other patrons here in this bar. 

“See you later?” Rick questions you while grinning minutes later, tipping you early and sliding off this barstool. 

“Keep Takeshi in check, Colonel.” You affirm this suggestion, but wink for a moment before Flag and Takeshi walk out during your shift. 

_______

“Who was that?” Tak questions Rick not long after leaving your spot. Countless people dance or crowd in the blocked off streets, still enjoying this annual holiday. 

“One of the coolest bartenders I know.” While facing Takeshi, Rick compliments you and drops his empty plastic cup into the nearest trash can. 

He’s tipsy without danger now, having picked up more drinks for himself and Tak from a stand perched out here. One brass band thunders with grooves right down this exact street, filling his mind with memories of dancing like a kid with Edwards. 

“She looks good.” Tak might’ve picked up whiskey too early because his next words prompt Rick to trade narrowed eyes again. 

“Come on. I always want to have a good time here, but you shouldn’t be rude to people.” Rick warns once more. No matter how cold he acted around Task Force X on duty, Flag knows that respect matters and Tak still isn’t kind. “Don’t think I forgot about how you treated her.” 

“Somebody sounds jealous.” Tak dares to reach the proverbial jugular with Rick and corners himself near one sidewalk to avoid that too-loud brass band. 

“I’m not jealous, Kovacs. Like I said, you’re just rude.” Rick crosses both tattooed arms after turning his cap backwards while standing on the sidewalk. 

Takeshi rolls both eyes, no longer wanting to argue with Flag. 

***

You jog out of the door almost immediately after finishing your shift at the bar. With enough free time left, you could meet up with Rick and hopefully perk up Takeshi’s mood. This brand-new stranger must be a grouch while drunk or something. 

One of many brass bands still plays out on the street tonight and you spot Rick first, waving to him across the barricaded pavement. 

“Y/N!” Rick’s fitting Southern accent calls out your name across the street, but Takeshi continues sulking with another drink cradled in his large hand. 

“Any ideas for how we’ll get Takeshi to stop pouting?” You joke with Rick, who offers this halfway as you all stand to hear music. 

“I’m just here for the alcohol.” Tak deadpans near you, still numb. 

“Whatever.“ You brush off Takeshi’s comment and palm Rick’s hand instead, already starting to have fun. 

For the first time since returning home now, Rick genuinely chuckles while enjoying time with you to these live rhythms. He’s thankful that you haven’t lost joy through many years. 

Feeling loose and tipsy enough to stop sulking, Kovacs watches in silence, quietly humored by this sight. 

A decorated but short-tempered Colonel is dancing with someone he knows, not allowing anger to dictate his every move. At least not tonight. 

______

Once transportation has been called to return home safely, you’re wearing Rick’s New Orleans Saints football cap, hiding your eyes because the hat is too big. Of course Tak sits up front with the driver, still trying to give himself extra leg room. 

By some miracle, all three of you pile into the vehicle, scheduled to reach Flag’s home soon. There’s no point in trekking to your place alone this late at night, especially considering how much spare room Rick keeps back at his own house. 

You talk near Rick while sitting in the back seat, still catching with him during this car ride. 

“Thanks for helping us out tonight.” Rick compliments you once more and offers another rare expression of joy. 

“No problem. It would be nice if your friend Tak actually smiles, though.” While speaking to Rick, you jut your chin towards the front seat, where Takeshi hasn’t heard anything. 

****

It’s still quite late at night when all three of you are safely dropped off at Rick’s home and you settle in the living room. 

“Do you want your own drink, Darling?” Rick asks, calling out to you in the kitchen after washing his hands.

“Not yet, Rick, but thank you.” You clear your throat, waiting for Flag to return to the living room. Across this space. Takeshi almost manspreads while sitting in the nearest empty chair, totally silent again. 

Rick sets down one small platter of snacks along with three more glasses onto the coffee table. He then looks up at you with another rare smile, grateful to see you once more. 

He’s missed you, but won’t admit it, especially since June broke his heart. Long before chaos of ARGUS and Task Force X overtook his military service, Rick knew  you, always keeping his emotions private. 

“Tak gets my couch and you’ll have the guest room. All right?” Rick lays down the plan for sleeping arrangements. You nod, understanding. 

“Okay. Thanks.” You tell Rick, planning to keep your distance. This property would always be his home and you so much knew better than to cross boundaries. 

“What the hell?” On the other hand, Tak furrows his brow, clearly not pleased by this change of events. 

“Don’t worry, it’s a pull-out couch, Tak.” Rick speaks up while facing Kovacs. You try not to smirk because of Flag’s comment. 

“All right. Good night, you two. Thanks, Rick.” You clear your throat once more and head towards the guest room, ready for bed. 

______

Not even twenty minutes later, both Rick and Tak can’t wait anymore. These two men stand in front of the guest room. 

Rick softly knocks first, hoping that you haven’t fallen asleep already. All it takes is mutual consent from you and tonight would go into a completely different direction. 

“Come in.” You hear knocking that almost doesn’t reach your ears, but turn on the nightstand lamp, calling out for either Rick or Tak. 

“Hey,” Rick greets you, but you notice that Tak is standing alongside Rick. Out of nowhere, your body heats up, not even feeling horrified. 

“Hi,” You answer Rick, but want them both, no matter how standoffish Tak acted in the bar earlier. “Everything okay?” 

“Can all three of us talk about something? It’s important.” Rick knows exactly what he wants, but your agreement or refusal makes all the difference tonight. 

“Yeah.” You nod, making full eye contact with Rick and Tak while sitting on the bed. 

“It’s fine if you don’t want to do anything, but I was thinking that we could have a little bit more fun tonight. Could we?” Flag keeps his words vaguely respectful, but you’re not stupid. 

“Yes.” Facing both Rick and Takeshi, you consent to this moment without fail now, sitting up against the headboard. 

________

While sitting on the bed, Rick kisses you first and you can already taste booze, not even feeling sick. His fingers gently pinch your chin as he caresses your face. 

Tak watches everything unfold and stands in the background, waiting for his turn. His own erection strains for you, pulsing over and over again at the center of his pants. 

Rick dares to kiss your neck after removing your t-shirt and unfastening that bra, but your piercing eyes stare Tak down from a crossway angle. 

Fuck. Tak thinks, not lying to himself this time. You’re gorgeous. He’s already fantasizing of how tight you’ll might feel while possibly clenching around him. 

On the bed, Rick kneads your breasts while sitting right behind you now, giving Tak a full view of what he’s missed.

 Your panties have soaked right through at this point. If you wait any longer, you’ll explode without even getting to fuck Rick or Tak this evening. 

“Who should go inside of you first, Baby? Huh?” Rick’s Southern drawl teases your ear from behind and you nearly spill because of his damn accent. 

“Shit. You, Rick. You. Your response to Flag trembles, but you can’t help giving out that truth as he dips capable fingers between your folds. You buck against his fingers, trying not to come. 

Across the room, you see Tak struggle to keep composure through lidded eyes. He’s already taken off his boxers and started jerking off, spilling precum at the tip because of you. 

__________

Rick can’t help looming over you once he wears a condom and plunges right into your core. Your legs clasp around his bare waist and you still clutch around him, out of words. All you can do for him is scream through every wall of this bedroom. 

“Come for me. Please, Darling.” His Southern accent rasps towards you again. 

“Oh my God.” You obediently spill, crying to Flag in the name of bliss. 

Meanwhile, Tak still waits his turn, but almost impatiently. He’s edged himself over and over again, nearly overwhelmed because of how good you look while clenching around Rick. 

“Hey,” Flag whispers to you, caressing your face once more leaving the bed. You’ve cooled down after Rick slides out of your core and disposes that condom, sadly feeling hollow despite an amazing orgasm. 

“More.” After settling down even further and still wanting more, you sit up, craving attention from Takeshi this time. 

“Oh?” Tak deviously smiles for a moment while facing you and takes another condom from inside the nightstand. and Rick catches that exchange. 

“She wants more?” Flag arches his brow and crosses both tattooed arms. 

“Apparently so. More out of the way, Colonel.” Tak makes a joke for the first time all night. 

But what Takeshi has planned for you next isn’t a laughing matter.  

_________

 “Look at him.” Despite clenching his teeth through words, Tak is deliciously arrogant now. 

You palm the nearest wall as Takeshi stands completely naked and bends you over. He's wearing another condom while slamming into your core from behind. By this point, he’s pulled your hair back, forcing your eye contact with Rick as you whimper. 

Your breasts shake time and time again as you look down between shadows of the bedroom, not caring about anything else. You only want to chase another orgasm because of these men.

Yet, Tak suddenly can’t keep up, spilling before he can stop himself from breaking composure. 

“Come on. Fuck me.” You feel so tight while clutching around him that his usually darkened voice now pitches much higher and tears spring towards both lidded hazel eyes. 

“Oh, God!” You shout for Tak, slamming your hand against the wall right before another incredible orgasm washes over you. 

Before your knees can finally buckle to the floor, both Tak and Rick catch you, making a point to check in with the lights on. 

“Hey, Darlin’.” Taking the lead first, Rick pinches your chin between his fingers once more and kisses you, trying to settle down your overstimulated body. 

“Hi, Rick.” You smile at him once he lays you back down on the bed. 

“Hey, Y/N.” Tak says your name and looks just as gentle, leaning inward to kiss you as well. 

“Good night, you two.” You barely speak to them, overcome by exhaustion at last. 

All three of you cradle in this bed, not leaving each other’s sides. 

[lovearne]

"I should have left you bleeding to your death." Maybe this with Tak?

Takeshi kovacs x gn reader

This is set in the 10th episode of season 1.

Warnings: angst, breakups, mention of blood

Word count: 400+

"So this is it? You're leaving?"

Tak had just gotten back from going to see Ortega, and now he came for you. He had to tell you and say goodbye. He wasn't long for this body.

"I have to find her. She's still alive somewhere." His tone was even, yet firm, he wasn't leaving any room for you to attempt talking him out of it.

"Fuck that, if she's alive out there and left you for 250 years, then she can fuck herself!" Takeshi had come back just to tell you he was leaving, that you were never going to see him again. He was going to look for Quell Falconer, the love of his life.

"You don't understand, I watched her die, I saw her explode. That ripped my heart to shreds." He was walking toward you with his hands open. "I'm sorry that I'm hurting you but, I love her more than anything, and I need her back."

"What about me?" You push him back, tossing his arms to his side. "What about me?" You can no longer hide the tears in your eyes. "I thought you loved me." The tears had started to come down. Tak's face never changed though.

"I never loved you. You just stupidly fell in love with me." You hit his chest as he tries to hug you again, pushing and Slapping at it.

"Why are you still here then!? Shouldn't you be out looking for the only person you care about?!" Tak grabs you by the waist and pulls you into his chest. "What are you doing?" He hushed you.

"I'm giving you a goodbye hug," he rubs your back, kissing the top of your head. "It's for closure." The fat tears were rolling down your face.

"I should have left you bleeding to your death" Tak knows that when you are upset you say things you don't mean. You don't understand your emotions very well, and when someone hurts you you bite back.

"Yeah," his voice stayed normal, but a tear streamed down his face too. "You probably should have." He pulls away from you, kissing your forehead and then leaving the room. It hurt to know that you'd never see him again, but it hurt more because he left you for someone he doesn't even know is still kicking.

[sailorrlino]

Rodeo | lmh (m)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader

𓆩⟡𓆪 Summary: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Word Count: 18,249

𓆩⟡𓆪 Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something

𓆩⟡𓆪 Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024

𓆩⟡𓆪 Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration

Any work is good work. 

Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building. 

Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor. 

Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.

Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down. 

“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co. 

“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.” 

“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.” 

The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.

Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers. 

He’s so goddamn sore.

Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket. 

While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.

The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.

Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows. 

At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.

Whichever comes first. 

Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward. 

He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep. 

Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes. 

The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways. 

He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy. 

Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever. 

As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes. 

He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife. 

No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.

It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.

When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery. 

A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious. 

But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over. 

The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get. 

Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it. 

A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top. 

Any work is good work. 

Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop. 

Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable. 

“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch. 

Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards. 

They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.

True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.

Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.

Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure. 

Nightcrawler.

Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood. 

And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.

Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic. 

Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.

Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat. 

“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth. 

His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”

The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?” 

“Who is to say?” 

“Just tell her I’m here.” 

“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.” 

Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars. 

When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass. 

A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.

“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”

“But you’re so pretty.”

A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.” 

The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door. 

Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top. 

The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder. 

Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand. 

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?” 

He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.

Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver. 

“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.” 

That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face. 

Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data. 

Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face. 

“When is the last time you slept?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”

“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”

“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.” 

“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.” 

His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on. 

Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow. 

Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft. 

Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns. 

Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver. 

You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches. 

Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her. 

That, and that she chose to leave him.

Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.” 

You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.” 

With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt. 

Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him. 

The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.

He’s not in danger here. 

Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in. 

He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises. 

The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

-

A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.

He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock. 

“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.

A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.

Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”

He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”

“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.” 

Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.

You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.

That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.

“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.” 

“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.” 

“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?” 

Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.

Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.

Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently. 

Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that. 

Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.

Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time. 

He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.

Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes it’s electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection. 

When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy. 

In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.

Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.

You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why. 

As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.

“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.

Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”

“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”

“My watch?”

It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.

An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.

He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal. 

Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web. 

Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.

Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.

“The needles,” he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”

“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”

“What’s the point, though?” 

You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.” 

Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is elektrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”

“And purple?”

“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.” 

“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”

Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know. 

It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.

Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of. 

Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you. 

“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.” 

You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.

“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.” 

Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces. 

The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.

Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.

Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave. 

It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood. 

So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface. 

As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop. 

Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it. 

Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now. 

The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses. 

Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go. 

Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be. 

It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring. 

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up. 

“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

“Collection accepted.” 

The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.

Any work is good work. 

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life. 

-

The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less. 

The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.

Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself. 

If the knife had been one of yours…

A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts. 

Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.

What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made. 

Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating. 

Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way. 

Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel. 

Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.

Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates. 

The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl. 

DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process. 

Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.

The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline. 

It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him. 

There was crazy, and then there was that. 

Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.

He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you. 

Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true. 

Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.

He remembers almost every one of them. 

Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team. 

Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl. 

Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.

He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch. 

-

The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling. 

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight. 

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.” 

“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.

It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history. 

Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning. 

Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing– 

Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill. 

Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection. 

Irreversible. 

Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.

Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed. 

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.

Will he or won’t he? 

Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.

He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning. 

The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit. 

What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth. 

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again. 

Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room. 

Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves. 

There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave. 

It’s clinical. 

Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.

Any work is good work. 

Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers. 

Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.

That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through you’re defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list. 

Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure. 

From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman. 

Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments. 

Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too. 

So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone? 

Maybe it’s even a combination.

Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway. 

The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.

From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.

Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him. 

The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops. 

Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible. 

Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside. 

Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair. 

It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door. 

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.” 

Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.

An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf. 

Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”

“Didn’t say you were.” 

Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers. 

“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”

“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.” 

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”

“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?” 

“You’d be surprised, Collector.” 

Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.

He’s that confident in beating me. 

United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.

“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.” 

The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd. 

Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force. 

Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking. 

Act of faith. 

Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable. 

Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires. 

Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him. 

Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes. 

“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”

“Is there a way through that door?”

“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.” 

“Does she have a way out the back?”

“No, then I would have two doors to watch.” 

A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.

They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together. 

“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”

“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.” 

“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”

Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.” 

The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.

Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s hardly less settling.”

“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”

“One is legal, for starters.” 

Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”

Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.

It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun. 

The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.

Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise. 

“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.” 

Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.

Then there’s you. 

You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun. 

“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does. 

“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.” 

No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What strange turn of events, Minho.” 

It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little. 

The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.

You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.

Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over. 

Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel. 

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert. 

“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face. 

Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face. 

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.” 

“I… don’t have an argument.” 

And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.

“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”

“They’re on the house?”

“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?” 

“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”

“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”

A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again. 

“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”

“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”

Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin. 

Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down. 

“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.” 

You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.

Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.

Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.

Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light. 

Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours. 

Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark. 

“What is this?” he asks, looking at you. 

It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”

“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?” 

“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.” 

You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not. 

Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?” 

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?” 

Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly. 

-

Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t, 

An act of faith. 

It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust. 

Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers. 

You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens. 

Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?” 

Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.” 

“Who owns that place, anyway?” 

“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.” 

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.” 

That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.” 

“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”

He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing. 

“Where are we going?” 

He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”

“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”

“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”

“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”

Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.” 

“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.” 

“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.” 

Minho bites back a grin. 

By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline. 

They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence. 

Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern. 

Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.

With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh. 

You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist. 

“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.” 

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation. 

He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive. 

“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”

Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.” 

“I’m not a child!”

“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”

You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.” 

Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?” 

“Of course. Swan likes strays.” 

“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”

Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.” 

“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.” 

You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side. 

Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.

Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something. 

Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching. 

A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.

You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide. 

Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does. 

You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean. 

The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.

For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse. 

You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding. 

It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane. 

The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.

“Minho, there’s a-”

“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”

“And you were sure that was going to work?”

“Mostly.” 

“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.” 

It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive. 

Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them. 

The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night. 

Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island. 

Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.

It is the most unprepared he has ever been. 

A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within. 

It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge. 

At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him. 

Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house. 

“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.

No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities. 

“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.” 

“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”

A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home. 

Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.

The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto. 

Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed. 

After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.

Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.

A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.

Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you. 

Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay. 

Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel. 

A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling. 

Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.

“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.” 

He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.

Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.” 

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.

You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder. 

A little braver. 

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”

“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.” 

He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look. 

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?” 

Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist. 

You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his. 

Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans. 

Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous. 

You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane. 

You. 

The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else. 

Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth. 

The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.

Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple. 

Fuck.

He’s greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too. 

Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes. 

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead. 

Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in. 

“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.” 

“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?” 

“Need it.” 

He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.

Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger. 

“Hmm. Sweet.” 

“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is. 

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward. 

Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.

One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it. 

It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth. 

He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.” 

The endearment slips from him more natural than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart. 

He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.

“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”

Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.

You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left. 

Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between you’re legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it. 

Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating. 

Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.” 

“What a stuipd man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.” 

That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together. 

You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.

It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again. 

Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.

How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen. 

No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.

But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there. 

“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”

When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.

Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you. 

Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.

His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.

Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down. 

Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in. 

“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”

“What is it with you and rodeos?” 

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.” 

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.” 

He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.” 

You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling. 

“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”

“That joke was terrible.” 

“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.” 

You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo. 

-

TAG LIST:

@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako

[reveluving]

heyy if u want can you please do some more tak fanfics < 3

hi there!! I do have one in the making actually, same AU as 'love again'! I just haven't had the time to conclude it to my liking, is all 🤧

I'm not stalling I swear...

... In the meantime, you have a good week, yeah? And take this man on your journey!

[drabbles-mc]

Small Price to Pay

Takeshi Kovacs x F!Reader

Summary: In the wake of another close call, Takeshi finds himself once again fighting the urge to pull away from you for your own sake. Not that you've ever been one to let go that easily.

Warnings: 18+, language, blood/injury, angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 2k

A/N: I've been wanting to write more for Takeshi and when I got hit with this idea I just couldn't turn my back on it. Hope you enjoy!

Altered Carbon Taglist: @garbinge @destinedtobeloved (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

Consciousness tore through you, ripping you down the middle with a gasp that faded into coughs that racked your whole body. You were sitting upright without remembering bracing yourself into that position, each ragged and failed breath sending a lash of pain across your abdomen and into your limbs. You were looking around the room before your vision had completely righted itself. Whether it was disorientation or tears that were making things fuzzy, you weren’t sure. All you knew was that nothing looked clear, nothing felt right.

Blinking your way into clearer vision, you hardly even noticed that the tears were on your cheeks now. You were finally able to take a few regular breaths between coughs, not that it helped your pain subside at all. The room you were in faded into the background as you reached up and touched your own face, feeling for something, anything familiar. All you felt was pain, bruises and open cuts—not the right type of familiarity. Holding your hands out in front of you, some of the tension that you’d so suddenly picked up dissipated. Hands and arms that you recognized. A body that was yours, well, as much as anyone’s body was really their own anymore.

When you felt a hand on your shoulder, you jerked yourself away as best you could, sending yourself into another coughing fit in the process, pain radiating all throughout your body. It was all for nothing—the hand didn’t budge. If anything, its grip tightened, fingers digging into the exposed flesh of your shoulder. It was painful but somewhere in the back of your mind you were aware of the fact that it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“Hey, hey,” he finally spoke up, voice low and rough wrapping around you to help steady you. “You’re alright.”

Clutching his hand with your own, you turned your head to look at him. Takeshi’s face was almost always neutral, feelings always buried a few layers deep under the skin of whatever sleeve he was wearing at the time. Since that was the case, the only coherent thought you could conjure up was that you must’ve looked like you were in even worse shape than you felt, his lips pulled down into a deep frown, worry swirling around his eyes. The tight pinch of his brows undermined his attempt at reassurance.

“Talk to me,” he tried to make it not sound like an order, but it didn’t really work.

“Tak?” was all you managed to get out, your voice hoarse, throat like sandpaper.

His shoulders sagged in relief at the singular word. He let out a deep breath as his hand slid from your shoulder up the side of your throat until he was cupping the side of your face. His thumb was beneath your chin, pressing into it just slightly to tilt your head to make you look up at him. No matter how light his touch was, you could feel the pressure on each bruise and cut on your face. You wanted to pull away from the pain but you couldn’t make yourself pull away from him.

He was in better shape than you, although that wasn’t saying much. There were fewer bruises on his face, and with the dark cloth of his shirt you couldn’t really see or get a good idea of the damage done on that front. You wanted to ask, but you didn’t have it in you. You leaned into the touch of his palm instead, never mind the blood you were smearing onto it.

He watched the way your eyes fluttered shut, the way that you pressed into his touch despite the way it made you wince in pain. Your breathing still hadn’t steadied, but at least you were breathing. There had been a moment when he thought that he’d lost you. Maybe not forever, because real death was hard to come by. But he thought for a moment that he’d be left to carry your stack on a chain around his neck until further notice, until he could get his hands on a new sleeve. And you always hated that, hated the turnover. He liked to chastise you, call you sentimental in a world that had no infrastructure for that anymore. Deep down though he had a certain type of respect for it—not that he’d ever tell you if e could help it. He had lost track of how long you’d been in your current sleeve. Clearly it’d been long enough for him to forget. He didn’t want to see it change either. Maybe your sentimental nature was finally becoming contagious.

“Hey,” he finally spoke up again, glad that your eyes were closed and you couldn’t see the tidal wave of emotions cascading across his face, “we’ll get you patched up, alright?”

You managed a nod, not bothering to speak as you let your head fall from his hand until your forehead was resting against the planes of muscle that ran up his side. You could feel each breath he took that way, keenly aware of every one as his hand came to rest on the back of your head, fingers splaying.

After a few long, silent minutes passed that way, you tried to clear your throat and speak again. It hurt a little less the second time around. “Split your nose open again,” you told him, eyes still closed, face still pressed against him.

He let out a short chuckle. “Split open more than just your nose.”

You wanted to laugh but you knew that it would hurt more than it was worth. You managed a low hum of amusement instead. “How bad?”

“How bad’s it feel?”

The momentary sting of leaning deeper into him was worth the payoff of being closer. “Pretty fucking bad.”

“Yeah.”

“You have to bring me back?”

He sucked in a deep breath—you could feel the impending sigh before you actually heard it. “Yeah. You can’t fuckin’ do that to me anymore.”

You couldn’t fight the laugh that time, and you paid the price for it. “It’s not like I set out with that goal in mind, you know.”

He pulled away from you, much to your disappointment. His hand was instantly coming to cup your jaw, movements gentle and firm all at once as he made you look up and into his eyes. The traces of humor that had been lingering between you were gone—you could see it in his eyes.

He shook his head slightly as he started to speak. “I can do the rest of this on my—”

“Tak,” you cut him off, the smolder of anger blooming in the pit of your stomach no match for the burning pain you were in, but you could still feel the difference.

“I’m serious.”

You wished you had the strength to yell. “So am I.”

“Look at you,” he said, helpless in a way he hardly ever was.

“I’m fine.” He scoffed and you corrected yourself. “I’ll be fine. If I gotta trade in—”

“No,” his tone was harsh, more than he had intended.

You flinched, not expecting it from him. “It’s just a sleeve,” you tried to reason.

“It’s the first thing you look for every time you come back,” he argued.

It was true. Before you cared about your surroundings, or the people with you, you looked to see if you were still the same person you were when the lights went out. Tak had worked overtime to make sure you always woke up recognizing the person in your reflection. You figured it was a professional courtesy, if nothing else something to make his life easier so that he didn’t have to hear you lament about it. This was the first time it ever sounded like he actually cared.

“Like it even matters to you,” you muttered.

“It matters to you,” he said, sincerity dripping from his words in a way you couldn’t ignore or deny.

“Know what else matters to me?” you asked, voice sounding more assured as your mind and body started to get back into sync with each other.

He already knew where it was going. “Don’t.”

There were things that you wanted to say that you wouldn’t. Things that he knew without you having to say them out loud. The look in his eyes said it all, and you were willing to settle for that for now. “We came this far. I’m not,” you lifted your chin from his hand so that you could clasp it with your own, “I’m not leaving you now. And you’re not leaving me.”

He knew even when he started the conversation that it was going to end this way. But he still had to try. Truthfully he didn’t actually want to do the rest of this without you, but that was the selfish part of him talking. That was the part of him that he tried to kill a long time ago but couldn’t ever quite manage it. So onward you two went. But every close call became a heavier and heavier weight resting on his shoulders. Each time it got a little harder to stomach. He never could make himself take off in the dead of night on you, though. You’d probably find him anyway—limp your way to him no matter how many miles or years stood between you.

You could see it in his eyes that even though he was looking at you, his mind busier with much more than just taking in how you looked. You squeezed his hand. “We can lay low here for a beat?”

He nodded. “Until you’re ready.”

It was a relief, to say the least. You sighed, letting your head drop back a little bit and ignoring the pain in your neck. You stared at him for a moment, wishing you could read his mind. Resigning yourself to the fact that you weren’t quite that adept, you kissed his knuckles and asked, “Patch me up?”

He ends of his mouth turned up just slightly, enough to erase the deep frown he’d been sporting for most of the conversation. “Yeah.” He leaned in, leaving a quick, soft kiss on top of your head before pulling away to grab his bag with all his gear. “Gonna have to do it, you know…” he trailed off and held up the thread and needle.

“Old school,” you offered with a weary chuckle.

He was shaking his head at you but you could see the way that his lips pulled up just a little bit more. You watched him as he sat down and started to lay out what precious little he would need to stitch you up and put you back together again.

The two of you had done this dance together so many times neither of you even had to think about it anymore. Your bodies were roadmaps that the other knew every inch of, even the parts that were left uncharted by everyone else. You could recite his scars from memory, find them with your eyes closed, with this sleeve and all the others. If anyone asked him, he could tell them where the two of you were for each stitch and patch job that kept your body together—on the run, in alleyways, in haunts much shadier than that of The Raven, he could recall them all like they were fables from childhood.

He started with the laceration that went across half of your forehead. You closed your eyes, not that it really made all that much of a difference. He cleaned it as best he could before setting about stitching you up. It was too familiar to both of you for him to bother giving you a warning. You winced at the initial puncture, hand darting out and gripping tightly onto his knee.

The pain didn’t lessen as he went along, when he moved from one wound to the next. It was a silent affair, a careful brand of intimacy that required no words and sparing eye contact. It was just his hands on your skin, you trusting that he was doing the right thing no matter how much it hurt. On another day the roles would be reversed and you would be doing the same for him. It would sting and burn him the same way it did you, but the pain was a small price to pay to be alive. It was a small price to pay to wake up each time with someone you trusted.

[fatkish]

Aizawa and Class 1A x Student Alchemist Reader

In this, the reader has the same tattoos as scar. The reader’s left arm deconstructs molecules and their right arm reconstructs molecules.

The reader is quirkless so they use Alchemy to even the odds and are good at combat.

The reader took the entrance exam and has similar grade to Momo. Momo and the Reader share the 1/20 place amongst their peers

The reader aced the written test and destroyed the robots by using their alchemy to disassemble them. They got 45 villain points and 45 rescue points

When the teachers were looking over the students papers, Aizawa and Nedzu were amazed and skeptical of the reader being quirkless

Aizawa didn’t believe that you were quirkless so he used his quirk on you during his quirk apprehension test. Obviously it failed and he realized your were being honest on your paperwork. Still grilled you about it

Aizawa is ever so slightly more protective and stricter on you than other students. He worries all the time so he is a little harsher on you but you know that he just wants to push you a little more

You’re currently studying both flame and medical alchemy. You tend to study with recovery girl and help her out whenever you get the chance

During All Might’s hero vs villain training you were paired with Momo (Mineta didn’t get into the hero course) against Jirou and Kaminari. You won by creating a sleeping gas and put them to sleep whilst you and Momo wore gas masks she made

Bakugou refuses to admit your strength but has a secret respect for you since you beat him by altering his sweat’s molecules so it wasn’t explosive

Izuku has so many notes on you and has asked to draw your tattoos and you even began to teach him basic alchemy, although he sucks at it

When questioning you, you told Izuku that you were quirkless which he accidentally let it slip to his friends who then let the class know

After that you explained to the class that alchemy can be performed by anyone, it just take years of study and practice to perform and understand the basic rules and applications

Some didn’t believe you so you removed your shoe to show them all your second joint in your pinky toe as proof

Some still have a hard time believing it but most of the class accepted it

Kirishima, Sero, Iida, Jirou and Uraraka think you’re (manly) incredible and ambitious for dedicating yourself to something and making yourself strong despite the odds

Ashido, Kaminari and Hagakure still don’t believe that you’re quirkless

Tokoyami and Shoji both admire your strength and perseverance in trying to become a hero despite lacking a power and having been ridiculed and criticized for your dreams

Ojiro and you train in martial arts often as a means to strengthen one another

Tsuyu and you get along just fine as you both are some of the more mature students in classs

You tend to hang out with the quiet kids like Shoji, Tokoyami and Koda

You and Momo both bond over and help each other study the molecular make up of certain items

During the USJ attack, you used your flame alchemy on the Nomu. You used your conductive gloves to create the flames and tried to roast the Nomu

You took Hatsume’s place on Midoriya’s team in the Calvary battle

You fought Iida in the first rounds and won by creating a rugged and difficult terrain to run in as a means to slow him down, then you used your alchemy to seal his engines and managed to hit him in a pressure point that immobilized him

Todoroki was amazed when you were able to beat him in the sports festival. You turned his ice into water and then changed the arrangement of the stage’s molecular structure to that of quicksand and used the ground to swallow him up, winning your match.

Bakugou was pissed off when you altered your body’s carbon to be on the outside creating a skin of diamond like armor that his explosions couldn’t beat

You got 1st place in the festival but All Might accidentally let it slip during the award ceremony that you were quirkless

You got the third most offers from pros for internships out of the class

You ended up going with Best Jeanist and had a rather good time compared to Bakugou

After the Internships were over, you had mastered your flame alchemy and used it against All Might in your practical exam

Bonus: Todoroki learned that you can’t use flame alchemy when it’s raining or if your wet and accidentally started the ‘useless when wet’ shtick.

Now Bakugou makes fun of you whenever you get your gloves wet and acts like you need protection and enjoys babying you.

[avatarloverfrfr]

Carbon Copy

Neytiri x daughetr!Reader; Jake x daughter!Reader; Sully Family x Child!Reader

Masterlist

Prologue

Back on Earth there was a saying which echoes: "A motherly bond is incomparable." This sentiment is no different to the Na'vi culture, from birth the first person you see is your mother through tsaheylu, which ignites the emotional bond forever. For the Sully children, particularly Y/n, Neytiri's second daughter, this was no exception.

From the moment Y/n emerged into the world, the was an unmistakable sign of a strong emotional connection with Neytiri, even before tsaheylu was formed. Y/n bore a striking resemblance to her mother, a reflection of their kinship. When she eventually formed tsaheylu with the Tree of Souls, her pupils widening in awe at everything and everyone around her, focusing on her three siblings who stood by their dad excitement written all over their faces. She saw everything in a new light, she saw Pandora the way the Great Mother had saw it, a blessing of innocence only provided to those newly born. She was then lifted into the air to be shown off in front of the people, eyes widening at the sight, she looked around at her people, admiringly, balling her three fingered hands into tiny fists that resembled her determination to her people even at such a vulnerable age.

As Y/n grew, the similarities between her and Neytiri flourished further. Her dedication to her people became apparent through her acts of kindness and support, whether it was the elders with weaving while singing ancient songs passed down from their elders or cheering the hunters on as they arrived from their hunts. Yet, it was Y/n's fierce protectiveness and stubbornness, traits mirrored from her mother, that truly defined her. Despite the two year age gap, Y/n took her role as big sister to Tuk seriously demonstrating protective instinctive reminiscent of her mothers, all while remaining a child, playing and having fun and being a kid, playing with the toys passed down from our siblings, a Toruk toy Neteyam had passed down through the sibling lineage. Though unlike Kiri and Lo'ak, who their father described as "Two talioang fighting for territory," Y/n and Tuk could actually share.

However, as the Sully family were forced to leave their home and seek uturu from the Metkayina sea Na'vi. Y/n was the least bit excited to leave her people and their customs just like her mother.

The passing of Neteyam not only plunged Y/n into grief but ignited a fiery rage within her young heart. Her innocence shattered alongside his departure, leaving behind a seed of hatred that altered Y/n's carefree spirit.

Next [part1]

note: i'm def doing this on how i think Tuk is gonna be in the movies to come. I’m gonna get in my feelings for this one yall, i got those sad avatar edits playing in my head🦹🏾‍♀️

taglist: @neytirismissingtoe ; @ikeyniofthetayrangi ; @fluorynn

[lacontroller1991]

Lucky to Have You (Bionic Exile Drabble)

Requested by @a-reader-and-a-writer: Can I request “ you are so smart. the world is lucky to have you." with Tak please? Thanks!

Main Master List

Writing Prompt Master List

Reassurance Starters List

Bionic Exile Master List

Warnings: polyamorous relationship

Summary: You win the Noble Prize and your boys are there to congratulate you.

==========

The mirror in your dressing room casts a reflection of your appearance. Your silk grey dress hugs your figure and your hair is perfectly placed on the top of your head. Diamond earrings, a gift from Rick, drop from your ears and a small grey pendant, a gift from Tak, hangs from your neck. You smile at your reflection in anticipation as your note cards lay flat on the table.

It's 7 o'clock in Stockholm and your nerves are flying through the roof. In just a few hours, you will be awarded one of the top awards someone can be given for their contribution to humankind.

The door softly clicks open and two silhouettes enter your dressing room, a bundle of different flowers in both of their hands. "Rick. Tak. You're not supposed to be back here."

"We snuck in," Tak muses as they set down the flowers and make their way towards you. You snort.

"I highly doubt two 6'2 large men can sneak in." Your eyes rake over their appearance, causing your knees to go weak. You had told them it was a high class award ceremony, but you hadn't expected Rick to wear his fully decorated dress blues and Tak to wear a black velvet suit that hugs him in all the right places. "You guys look fantastic."

Rick is the first to go in, easily drawing you into his arms and placing a tender kiss to your forehead. "I knew you'd win, darlin'. I'm so proud of you." He dips his head and places a soft kiss to your lips as you cling to his uniform because if you hadn't, you would have probably collapsed to your knees. Rick pulls away and steps back while Tak takes his place. You offer him a small smile.

"This wouldn't have been possible if you never went through that portal." Tak lets out a rare smile that only you and Rick ever get to see as he wraps his large hands around your waist and pulls you into his solid frame.

"And I would've never gotten to meet you, princess. You're so smart. The world is- I-we," he motions between himself and Rick, "lucky to have you." He places a soft kiss on your lips before letting go and stepping back to Rick's side.

"We have to find our seats. We'll see you on the stage," they begin to head for the door until you stop them.

"Wait, guys." They stop and turn around. "Thank you for supporting me. I love you both so much."

"We love you too, sweetheart."

"We'll see you on the stage."

With that, your two men leave you to your thoughts and you think, none of this would have been possible without them.

==========

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